#anyway I stand by and live carson and if you blame him in any way for Thomas suicide I’ll personally kill you
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The Journey of Living at Downton
Chapter 9: April 1917
Masterlist
A/N: Warning: Description and discussion of suicide.
——
The war changes in April 1917 with America joining the war though Emma knows they'll only be in the war for like 5 minutes and will be bringing over the Spanish Flu.
By this point, Sybil and Emma had finished their training in York and had begun working at Downton Hospital. Both of them at the end of a long shift back to Downton where, while Emma is no longer working there as a servant, she's allowed to stay in her old room with Gemma. The long and exhausting hours is something she's somewhat used to so that bit isn't the hardest part of it all. Sybil and Emma have also grown closer over this shared experience; particularly bezzies now.
It's weird how Emma is hardly in the house anymore but Gemma and Anna tell her what she is missing when they can.
There's Mr Lang the new Valet though he seems like a shaken rabbit caught in the headlights but he has been to war though so can't fault him there. William has been called up and is going for his medical and it seems there's something going on with him and Daisy.
Gemma tells Mr Molesley is hovering around Anna and discussing books with her. While Emma finds that sweet, she knows that Anna won't be over Mr Bates any time soon. Also, apparently, Mr Carson looks ready to pop a vein with the stress of maintaining everything to pre-war levels despite losing staff and that no one really cares except him.
One bit of news they don't have to tell Emma about is Thomas getting injured in his hand and being sent back home. He can't come to Downton Hospital though as it's only for officers. He's not going back to the front but Miss O'Brien tells her that she'll work on getting him back to Downton with Lady Grantham.
Nothing has really happened between her and Mr Branson (Emma felts and feels uncomfortable calling him 'Tom' yet after being so used to not being supposed to plus it sounds a bit personal, maybe intimate) since her letter other than him writing back. In the letter, he said he still doesn't want to retract his proposal as he says she's still the same girl but needs time to digest – to get used to the idea, not that she blames him. Now it wasn't just him waiting.
When Emma returns to Downton, they didn't, and still don't have much time to talk as Emma is more elsewhere now, so they didn't have much time to talk though she's glad as it was awkward. He had asked her more. Emma reluctantly tells him when the war ends, who wins, the Treaty of Versailles and the Russian revolution though she holds back from telling him about the next world war considering it's too far away to prove what she's saying is true and she felt she was giving too much away anyway. Being a history nerd helps with proving her credentials.
This calms him down a bit as well as making it more real for him. He hasn't asked anything about Irish independence thankfully considering she doesn't know much about it, which is what you get going to an English school.
——
Emma catches Lady Grantham with Major Clarkson outside the Hospital at one point.
"I'd love to help, but it's not within my power to hook men from hither and thither as I please." She hears Clarkson say. She decides to linger, curious about what they're saying. Lieutenant Courtenay's pills can wait.
"It's not at all what I was asking." Her Ladyship replies.
"Forgive me, but I thought you were saying that you wanted Corporal Barrow to come and work here when he's fully recovered." Okay, now she's definitely listening. It'd be great to see Thom- she means Corporal Barrow -again.
"I think it a credit to him that he wants to continue to serve in this way. After he's been wounded." Lady Grantham argues.
"Well, that it may be, but it's not for me to decide what happens next." With that, the Countess nods disappointedly and leaves.
Clarkson turns and sees Emma standing there. "Don't you start." He says before Emma can say anything.
"I wasn't going to say anything Major." She says, he relaxes. "But it would be nice for Corporal Barrow to return." She grins at him.
He sighs irritably and walks back inside.
——
"Oh, I like a bit of life in a house," Anna says as she trails into the Kitchen with Emma behind her. Anna had been explaining to her how Lady Rosamund and Lady Mary's new beau, Sir Richard, are going to be invited for a weekend.
"But won't Mr Carson spontaneously combust? I might not be here as often but I have noticed he's extra stressed." Emma says to her. They stop next to Mrs Patmore.
"Erm, I had a letter yesterday." Mrs Patmore says, going over to her little desk.
"Yes?" Anna encourages as she and Emma follow.
"It's my sister's boy. He's-he's with the Lancashire Fusiliers, only he's gone missing." She puts on her glasses and pulls out the note. "Erm, "missing presumed dead" they call it."
"Jesus. How did that happen?" Emma questions.
"Well, that's just it. They can't find out how it happened, why it happened, whether we can be sure it did happen or he isn't lying prisoner somewhere." Mrs Patmore says in a panicked ramble.
"Why not ask His Lordship?" Anna suggests. "He'll have friends in the war office. They can dig something up."
"Oh, well n- I don't like to bother him." Mrs Patmore says.
"Why not? He's got broad shoulders." Anna argues.
"Mmmh." Mrs Patmore sighs.
"Can't hurt," Emma adds. "Better to know than wondering." Mrs Patmore nods mutely, her mind clearly still focused on her nephew; she doesn't blame her.
——
Emma heading off for a shift at the Hospital and is going out through the servants' entrance though technically she's not one anymore. Mr Carson will still have a stink if she goes out through the front entrance and since he looks like he's ready to keel over the stress, Emma decides to go with it.
Emma enters the Courtyard through the door when she spots Thomas. "Thomas!" Emma cries, throwing herself at him. He laughs as he catches her. Miss O'Brien rolls her eyes at the sight but Emma thinks she sees a very slight quirk at the edge of her lips.
Emma pulls back and holds his shoulders to look at him. "So, it seems Miss O'Brien's scheming has actually done some good."
"The cheek." O'Brien huffs.
Thomas lets out a snort. "Yes, I'm now working under Major Clarkson. So are you apparently."
Emma shrugs. "Well..." Her eyes flicker down to see his hand. It's covered by a fingerless glove thing.
Miss O'Brien seems to be on the same wavelength. "What about your blighty?" She nods to his hand. He pulls off the glove, showing how it was maimed by the bullet, Emma cringes at the sight of it - though, of all of the injuries she has seen, it isn't the worst. "My god."
"It's not so bad. And it lived up to its name and got me home." Thomas says.
"Go inside, say hello to everyone," Emma tells him. "I've got to head off." She leaves the Courtyard.
——
Mr Branson, later on, turns up at the Hospital to inform Sybil that her mother expects her back for tea and Sybil is not happy.
"I can't possibly come! Really, Mama is incorrigible!"
"It's not poor Branson's fault." Mrs Crawley says.
"But what is the point of Mama's soirees? What are they for?" Sybil argues.
"Well, I'm going out for dinner tonight and I'm glad. Is that wrong?"
"Lady Grantham has also invited Nurse Byrne as well." Mr Branson adds. "She felt Lady Sybil might more likely come if she does."
Emma spins around from where she had been making a bed and stares at him in shock. "What?!" she exclaims in a squeaky voice.
"Well, that's nice, it'll be fun." Mrs Crawley says.
"Will it?" Emma questions in the same squeaky voice. Not only is it the Downton house and Village Crawleys, including newly appointed Captain Crawley who is in the country to help recruitment, but she knows that Lady Rosamund and Sir Richard, Lady Mary's new 'friend', are coming as well. Help.
"Well, if I'm going, you are too Emma," Sybil says.
"But what am I going to wear?" Emma questions.
"We'll find you something."
She looks over to see Mr Branson amused by her reaction.
Thomas walks in with some blankets and Mrs Crawley turns to him. "Thomas, you can cover for Nurse Crawley and Nurse Byrne, can't you?"
"I can." Thomas starts making up a bed and Mr Branson approaches him, they talk briefly.
Emma goes over to them with a bottle of pills in her hand. "Can you give Lieutenant Courtenay his pills?"
"Of course, I can. I'd be glad to." Thomas replies. Mr Branson and Emma share a lingering look as she walks away.
——
Emma shifts uncomfortably in her new clothes that she had borrowed from Sybil as it seemed they aren't too dissimilar in size. She scans everyone from her spot next to Sybil waiting for Mrs Crawley to arrive as Emma knows she'll treat her normally. She also takes in the world of socialising before dinner as it's something she'd never seen. The greeting between Emma and the Earl and Countess was incredibly awkward but they were kind even if slightly uncomfortable with the idea of their ex-servant joining them for dinner; don't know why really considering it's their fault she's going to be sitting at the table with them. Emma nervously eyes Sir Richard, who is by Lady May; something about him unnerves her.
"Mrs Crawley, Captain Crawley, and Miss Swire." Mr Carson announces. Oh, thank God.
Mr Carson steps aside for them to enter.
Lord Grantham goes over to greet them. "Ah. Isobel." Mrs Crawley smiles and walks past him to Lady Grantham and Captain Crawley steps forward. "Well, now. Still in one piece. Thank God."
They shake hands. "Touch wood."
"I never stop touching it."
Lady Mary drags Sir Richard over to them. "Do you know Sir Richard Carlisle? My cousin, Captain Crawley."
"How do you do?" Sir Richard greets. Sybil, her aunt and Emma watch from the other side of the room.
"And his fiancé, Miss Swire." Lord Grantham adds.
"I know Miss Swire. Her uncle and I are old friends." Sir Richard says.
"Well, old acquaintances, anyway." Miss Swire says. Well, that's interesting.
Sybil turns to her aunt. "What do you think Mary sees in him?"
"Besides the money, you mean?" Lady Rosamund replies.
"It must be more than that," Emma speaks. Sybil nods in agreement.
Lady Rosamund raises an eyebrow at Emma in surprise. "For you two. Not necessarily for her."
Mrs Crawley wanders over to them. "You look lovely Emma."
Emma blushes. "Oh, thank you, Mrs Crawley. I had some help though." She glances at Captain Crawley again. "You must be glad to see your son again."
Her smile dims a bit, likely thinking then of how she could easily lose him in this war. "Yes, I am."
"Have you met Mary's new suitor?" Lady Rosamund butts in pointedly. Emma wonders what she's trying here.
"Um... no I have not." Mrs Crawley replies.
"Well, he seems like a good match for Mary." Lady Rosamund says.
"Is he?" Emma blurts out before she can stop herself causing the three women she's standing with turn to stare at her with varying degrees of annoyance and amusement. Sybil giggles. It's not Emma's fault she's getting a bad vibe from him!
——
Lord and Lady Grantham sit opposite each other in the middle of the table. From Lady Grantham's right, it's Sir Richard, Lady Mary, Mrs Crawley, Lady Edith and Lady Rosamund until Lord Grantham and on his right, it's his mother then Captain Crawley, Miss Swire, Emma and Sybil.
Emma is quite happy with her seat as she knows Sybil and Miss Swire is very kind and non-judgmental; Emma likes her even if she prefers Captain Crawley to be with someone else. Someone Emma notices him glancing over to at some point during dinner.
"So, you are a nurse now?" Miss Swire kindly asks Emma.
She startles at being spoken to. "Uh... yes. I er used to be a maid here but I wanted to train as a nurse, to challenge myself I suppose and well do something with my life if that doesn't sound too selfish."
Miss Swire smiles. "Not at all. It is commendable."
Emma looks at Mr Lang concerned as he enters, the man looks terrified. The Dowager refuses the sauce Mr Lang offers after Mr Carson has served her. Emma hears her talking to her son about Thomas though the man doesn't sound happy about the idea that Thomas is back and working in the Hospital.
Mr Lang walks around Mr Carson, past Lord Grantham, who Mr Carson is serving, to serve Lady Rosamund. Mr Carson angrily hisses at him to get behind him and he and Mr Lang switch places and Mr Lang serves Lord Grantham the sauce. Mr Lang continues down the table to Lady Rosamund despite having already served her.
"Thank you, but I already have some." She says politely.
"No, no. Give that to me." Mr Lang tries to hand Mr Carson the sauce, but Mr Carson drops it and it spills all over Lady Edith, who stands up in shock. "I-I do apologise, my lady. I- Mr Lang, get a c—" Mr Carson seizes up.
Mrs Crawley immediately stands. The entire table stands up to help Mr Carson, well everyone except the Dowager.
"Carson? Carson, what's the matter?" Lady Grantham exclaims.
Lady Mary stands behind Mrs Crawley's chair as said woman sits him down. "Carson, it's all right. Everything will be fine."
As they all, that is if you don't count the Dowager and Sir Richard, crowd around him, Lord Grantham loosening Mr Carson's collar, Mrs Crawley turns to Lady Edith, "Edith, go with Branson and fetch Major Clarkson. I'll telephone and explain what's happened."
"What about my dress?" Lady Edith complains. Emma sends her an irritated look; this was really not the time!
"Edith! We'll get you a coat! Come." Lady Grantham says dragging her middle child out of the room. Sybil and Emma step forward to help due to their training.
"Sybil and Emma will know what to do until the doctor comes." Lady Mary says to Mrs Crawley.
"You'll find there's never a dull moment in this house." The Dowager remarks to Sir Richard as Mrs Hughes walks into the room. Emma then sees Ethel, Anna, Daisy, Miss O'Brien and Gemma at the end of the room watching.
"Lady Sybil and I will take him upstairs. Nurse Byrne will show us the way, please." Captain Crawley decides as he and Sybil grab Mr Carson's arms.
"Of course," Emma says. She watches Mr Carson's face closely, trying to gather anything else about what is going on with him.
"I can help." Lady Mary says.
"No, let me. I know what I'm doing." Sybil says to her sister.
Still rather incapacitated, Mr Carson still protests. "I'm sure that's not necessary, my lady."
"It's not milady now, Carson. It's Nurse Crawley." Captain Crawley, Sybil and Emma guide Mr Carson out of the room.
——
It turns out that Mr Carson is not having a heart attack and just simply needs to relax and rest. It seems Mrs Hughes is going through a trial to keep him in bed.
Time continues and Emma can't seem to find the time to talk to Mr Branson since his proposal though she's secretly grateful as she's not sure what to say to him if she did have a chance considering how awkward she feels around him now.
One day Emma sees Thomas and Lieutenant Courtenay getting closer when she spots Thomas reading Lieutenant Courtenay's post to him. As Emma watches them, she sees Lieutenant Courtenay pat Thomas's knee and Thomas grasps his hand back. She smiles sadly at the sight, thinking how, due to the time period, Thomas can't be truly open with who he is. She decides to leave them alone.
Emma is in the Exercise Yard with Thomas helping Lieutenant Courtenay learn to walk on his own with a cane without being able to see. They have set up a few chairs so he can figure out how to judge the space in front of him when walking. It reminds Emma of her life in the future when she would see this man and his wife taking walks and the wife always had a stick out in front of her to judge the surface.
Thomas walks in front of him. "That's it. That's right, sir. If you move the stick fast enough, you don't have to slacken your pace."
Emma walks behind. "And check the width of the space as well as any possible obstruction."
"Lieutenant Courtenay!" Major Clarkson approaches. "Well done. You're making good progress."
"Thanks to my saviours," Courtenay says. Emma smiles and Thomas salutes the major.
"So, you'll be pleased to hear that we're all agreed that it's time for you to continue treatment elsewhere," Clarkson says. What?
Courtenay voices this, "What?"
"At Farley Hall." Clarkson continues unfazed. "You're not ill anymore. All you need is time to adjust to your condition, and the staff at Farley can help with that."
"But, sir, these two are helping me here."
"Nurse Byrne and Corporal Barrow are not trained in specialist care." Clarkson dismisses. Emma frowns at that. They're trying their best!
"Please. Don't send me away. Not yet." Courtenay begs.
"Sir, surely we—" Clarkson shoots Thomas a look.
"Lieutenant, you must know that every one of our beds is needed for the injured and dying from Arras. Mm?" Clarkson pats Courtenay on the arm. "Corporal, I'll see you in my office."
——
Sybil and Emma stand outside the office that Major Clarkson and Thomas are in but they can only hear muffled voices and it's only when Major Clarkson picks up his voice, do they hear what is being said. Sybil had found her standing worriedly outside the door and she explained what had happened and now Sybil has joined her in her worry.
"I will not leave wounded soldiers freezing or sweating under canvas because one junior officer is depressed!" Clarkson yells and Sybil takes this opportunity to knock on the door. "Yes!"
Sybil enters with Emma right behind her. "I thought you may want to know what I think."
"Why should I?" Clarkson spits. "Nurse Crawley, I may not be your social superior in a Mayfair ballroom, but in this Hospital, I have the deciding voice. Please help him prepare his belongings. He leaves first thing in the morning."
Emma pushes in then. "But won't this cause him distress?" Clarkson's sharp eyes turn to her but she continues. "You heard him; he's made attachments here."
"I've made my decision."
——
It's horrible when Emma learns that she was right about it causing him distress. She discovers, during one of her rounds, Lieutenant Courtenay with cut wrists, lying completely still with a pool of blood gathered on the floor. She rushes out of the Ward to sound the alarm about what has happened.
It is later on once the news has spread that Emma goes to find Thomas who is crying in one of the corridors. She sits next to him and gathers him in her arms so that his head is in between her head and shoulder. She simply holds him as he sobs, not saying a word.
"He must've smuggled a razor into his bed. There was nothing to be done." Major Clarkson notes as they gather in the Exercise Yard.
"It's because we ordered him to go," Sybil says.
"We don't know that." Mrs Crawley argues.
"Yes, we do." Emma counters.
"This is a tragedy; I don't deny it. But I cannot see what other course was open to me. We have no room for men to convalesce here and Farley is the nearest house I can send them to." Clarkson explains what they already know.
"There is a solution and it's staring us in the face..." Mrs Crawley says.
"Downton Abbey..." Emma realises.
Clarkson scoffs. "Would they ever allow it?" A revelation occurs to Sybil and Clarkson. "Or even consider it?"
"I think they would. After this, I think they can be made to." Sybil declares.
"It's worth a try," Emma says, agreeing with her.
——
It is a busy day when the wounded arrive in the Hospital trucks. Everyone is working hard to direct and settle them.
Emma is inside guiding a wounded man to his bed when she notices Mr Branson standing next to her. She feels herself blush slightly at how close he is.
"Don't worry I'm not here to talk." He speaks.
She almost feels bad for the relief that he hasn't come to talk about anything else but she tries to deny it. "Oh, n-no I..."
He smiles at her almost fondly. "It's all right." He lifts up a basket in one of his hands that she hadn't noticed before. "Her Ladyship had Mrs Patmore made this up for Lady Sybil so she could eat something during the day. But I can't find her, do you know where she is?" He speaks.
"Oh, I dunno, somewhere. Anyway, I won't have time to find her. Though I doubt she'll eat it, she'll be too busy." Emma turns back to settling the wounded officer.
Captain Crawley enters and approaches his mother who is directing and placing wounded, some on stretchers, along with Major Clarkson. Captain Crawley then seems to wander aimlessly among the beds in shock.
Mr Branson snaps her out of her observations. "Is it what you thought it would be? "
"No. No, it's more horrible and crueller than I could've imagined, but I feel like I am actually making more of an impact for the first time in my life, and that must be a good thing." Emma says to him without looking directly at him for too long. "Captain Crawley," she calls to the lost man, "are you busy?"
Captain Crawley snaps out of his daze, "No, of course not." He helps a man into bed by lifting his legs onto it.
"So, you wouldn't go back to the safety bubble? To your life before the war? Being in service?" Mr Branson asks her.
Emma can't look directly at him as she speaks, "No. No, I can never go back to that world again. Not back to being a servant." She goes about her work, leaving him behind her.
——
Bad news reaches them as it turns out that Mrs Patmore's nephew has been killed. It seems every man of the young generation is being killed. The woman is inconsolable for a while, it makes Emma wonder if there is more to it.
"Turns out he's been hovering around as he hoped to see more of him, but I've had to turn him away," Anna explains as they talk about Mr Mosely in the Servants' Hall.
"Well, it's only fair to him, isn't it. You don't like him." Gemma says, inadvertently hinting to he who shall not be named.
"Mmmh," Emma replies, "in other news can I tell you I'm so glad not to be eating with them upstairs tonight," Emma says diverting the conversation before Anna gets upset with the thought of Mr Bates. She's also glad not to be there as Sybil and Mrs Crawley are pitching the Convalescent home idea to the family and Emma doesn't want to be there for the argument.
"Why?" Ethel interrupts. "Seemed quite entertaining last time."
"Yes, Mr Carson overworking himself and then collapsing is the height of entertainment." Emma snaps. Ethel rolls her eyes and picks up her magazine and walks out of the room.
Anna and Gemma then stand to clean the Dining room as William then walks in, dressed in full uniform.
"William?" Anna says when she spots him. "What a treat to see you. And how smart you look. Welcome."
"Thanks." He speaks. Emma sends him a kind smile despite the dread she feels seeing him in the uniform.
"Supper won't be long. We're just going up to clear the Dining room." Gemma says.
"I would help but like you, I've got a new job now." Emma jokes. Anna and Gemma smile at him and leave.
"So, still full of the joys of warfare?" Mr Lang questions from where he has been sitting, reading.
"I'm not sorry to be part of it, Mr Lang, and I can't pretend I am." Emma couldn't help but feel like he shouldn't be but she doesn't say anything cause she knows it won't do anything.
"Oh, yes, you're part of it. Like a metal cog is part of a factory, or a grain of sand is part of the beach." Mr Lang says.
"It's all right, Mr Lang. I understand." Do you? "And I'm not saying I'm important, or ought like that. But I believe in this war. I believe in what we're fighting for and I want to do my bit." William says determinedly.
"Then God help you."
——
Emma soon learns that William has got a lot to say.
""If you had taken another minute to make up your mind, sir, we'd all have marched over the cliff."" The servants laugh at William's tale while Emma just watches him sadly, this young boy has no idea what is coming.
Emma decides to walk away at this point. Away from this hoe and positivity. She heard William talking behind her. "And I'll tell you something else as well—"
——
The next day Sybil tells Emma it has worked and her parents have given the okay for Downton to become a Convalescent home. It is now clear that Downton Abbey has not escaped the war and will now be able to do its bit.
——
A/N: Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.
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Season 8, Episode 10: Old Love, New Love, Is This True Love
All right, so...like I said, work has picked up and my eyes feel like old marbles from staring at numbers (the woes of working in accounting I guess) so I want to get this written up and tossed into the nether before I lose steam and motivation to do it. The interesting thing about these little write-ups is that as the week goes on they just get harder and harder to write...
I do apologize in advance to those who like the long-winded write-ups. I’m just not up to it at the moment. Still feeling kind of bleh from the episode.
Let’s go back to an old format, shall we?
The Good
We might as well start out with the things about this episode that I enjoyed!
Gossip Hour with the Men was one of the best openers they’ve had on the show in a while. It was genuinely funny without being meanspirited. Nobody looked like the bad guy. Everyone just calmly talked about it alike it was a normal thing to maybe call off the wedding. Bill calling out Carson for giving marriage advice was pretty funny, Mike was a delight. I don’t know what to say. I’d watch a whole episode of The Boys just hanging around spending time together.
--
Florence’s worry that she’s ugly was...not a terrible idea for a storyline, but the actress is too good-looking to pretend to be ugly (I saw her in this pretty yellow dress on Instagram a couple years ago and she was smashing)? Also, it’s not like Ned is a handsomely aged gentleman (like Henry lol) so it makes even less sense for the characters. I think they should have gone with Florence feeling she’s “plain” and that dressing up Super Nice makes her feel uncomfortable because she just doesn’t feel like Herself and worries maybe it’s projecting a false sense of Who She Is or something? I guess overall I still liked that an attempt was made to add some depth to Florence and her difficulties in choosing a dress/hairstyle, so...it goes here.
--
Ned asking Henry to be his best man was nice, too. I can forgive the shoddy pacing and weird placement of this request (like I do with almost everything in the show) but only because the scene was just...so incredibly wholesome.
I like how Henry just casually is like, “Well maybe today’s just not the day.” I think it eased Ned’s mind just a little that he CAN back out if he really wants to.
I think it’s worth thinking about the fact that Ned and Henry would have always worked very closely, since the mercantile would have been a company store before the mine closed down... I like Henry and Ned as pals.
--
I’m glad the “investment” thing with Jesse and Clara’s savings was brought up in a way that...makes sense. And also, glad it wasn’t forgotten.
--
I really liked Molly and Florence in this episode. I’m a little sad Florence married Ned because I AM SORRY BUT I WANTED TO KEEP SHIPPING MOLLY AND FLORENCE TOGETHER UGHGHGHH
But their relationship is so good and maYBE Elizabeth will learn something from them.
Hey Elizabeth...you see that?
YOU SEE THAT?
Just saying.
And then later...
“You are the sister I never had, the mother I forever wanted, the friend I have always needed. From the depths of those dark and terrifying coal mines you’ve walked beside me, picking me up whenever I’ve stumbled along the way.”
AAAAAAAAA IT GOT ME.
--
I’m...really liking Fiona and Mike’s relationship, whatever it is. I kind of think they’re not headed toward anything romantic. Everyone thinks Mike is really into Fiona but at the end of the episode we realize he likes talking to her about business; it’s almost like they have this shared passion for numbers/ideas and he likes infodumping to her (and vice-versa).
I think they’re going to end up being “just friends” and Fiona will end up paired off with the man Elizabeth doesn’t choose. They hinted at Nathan briefly in this episode (with Allie’s hair), but who knows? I’m over trying to speculate on where the triangle is going at this point, but I actually like Fiona’s relationship with Mike so much that I’ll be disappointed if she fades into the background with Nathan or Lucas. Mike deserves more screentime.
--
Ned and Florence sharing their fIRST KISS. My husband got emotional over this. And I admit, it was starting to get to me, too. I can’t NOT root for them.
--
I said it before and I’ll say it again: I WOULD DIE FOR THE CANFIELDS.
--
The wedding was nice. I liked that Bill and Joseph officiated it together; it gives Joseph a li’l trial run of pastoring and finally Bill gets to use some of that power of his to officiate a wedding.
“Please, if you’d like” is such a Bill way to say that they may kiss LOL.
--
Also, I have to admit that I did enjoy Lucas calling Nathan out about Allie. She wouldn’t be caught in the middle if he’d leave Elizabeth alone AND HE IS RIGHT LMAO.
The last good thing: Elizabeth telling Nathan she doesn’t blame him for Jack’s death. Nice. Good. Thank you. He probably needed to hear that.
--
...THE BAD
Carson and Faith. UGH. UGHHHHHHHHHH. BREAK UP ALREADY I HATE YOU BOTH.
I appreciated that Carson had the ring ages ago, and I did like his conversation with Minnie—or more accurately, her advice to him. I felt like she was nudging him toward, “Remember why you became a surgeon in the first place.” If he became a surgeon to help people, then there’s no reason he can’t help people where he is. Sure, he might not be doing state of the art procedures but with Faith working alongside him, he can afford time to learn new things and go to doctor conventions or even take a specialized class now and then. No other doctor could get away for very long but he has that chance!
And he’ll arguably be doing more good in the middle of nowhere than in the city. All the doctors want to live in the city. Nobody wants to barely get paid for their time in the countryside.
We had a whole episode that made it clear that Faith and Carson don’t make a lot of money and do a lot of charity work. They also work for trade goods (mostly food). So it’s like...a pretty big difference in lifestyle?
Half the reason I can’t get invested in these characters is because I really can’t stand Paul Greene. He just...annoys me on every single level imaginable. But he’s a decent actor and I can’t help but feel that his character was a massive waste of space for the past few seasons through no fault of the man himself. Imagine introducing a character like Carson and then leaving him to rot before you try to make him interesting with a romance plot that nobody asked for.
Yes, some people really like Faith and Carson, but as a whole I think the fandom didn’t buy into them as a ship due to the lack of chemistry.
It really is a shame. This episode didn’t do a thing to endear me to either character. Please, Carson. I am begging you to leave town.
--
This one particular line of dialogue almost enraged me.
WE KNOW WE KNOW WE KNOW WE KNOW WE CAN SEE THAT FOR OURSELVES. WHY DID THEY HAVE ROSEMARY SAY THIS LIKE IT’S AN EPISODE OF A CHILD’S TV SHOW?
--
Elizabeth.........
How could Katie have...looked up to her? She was never in her class? That was? Never part of anything? It was just something they threw in here to force Elizabeth to make 1% more sense in the role she’s in but IT STILL DOESN’T WORK.
I felt like I was back in Season 5 again with Lori and Elizabeth putting their nose in everyone’s business except it’s just Elizabeth!! The whole plot, which was boring and contrived anyway, should have gone to Molly, since she’s Florence’s best friend and another woman from town that Katie would have known as a child.
AND ALSO, MOLLY WOULD HAVE KNOWN KATIE’S MOTHER AND WOULD REMEMBER THE GRIEF THAT NED STRUGGLED WITH.
I know they wanted to make Elizabeth give advice so that she’d Realize that she needs to, I don’t know, make better choices or something, but it was too on the nose for me and I hated it.
GinithePooh on Reddit made a good comparison to Elizabeth in this episode by saying she reminded them of Clippy from Microsoft Word, always popping up and offering to help when nobody really needs or wants advice.
To honor their incredible idea, I opened Photoshop and created this gem, which I will also be posting separately so that people can reblog it if they wish to.
I also don’t think I need to say also filed under The Bad is the fact that Elizabeth didn’t even apologize for being awful to Rosemary and then gave her unsolicited advice to other people for two days straight. I can’t believe they wrote that?
All I can say is that her apology to Rosemary, when it comes, better be good.
--
And I didn’t like this either:
I wish it had been followed up by literally anything: Nathan saying he’s sorry he didn’t tell her sooner or something to make the hand-holding actually be a little more innocent.
As it is, it just seems so deliberate?
Maybe the next episode starts off right in this scene and we’ll get that? If so, this might actually end up being fine. I just don’t think it is if it doesn’t get a little more direct attention.
--
& THE UGLY
I debated on putting anything in here, because I’m not ready to talk about my feelings on this matter, at least not fully. But I’ve been pretty quiet all season so far, and...eh, why not just mention things in advance? What will it hurt?
Let me preface this section by saying I’m biased and I doubt hardly anyone on this site will agree with me, so feel free to just ignore this part if that’s the case.
There are two things that I really didn’t like in this episode.
I hate the slanting toward Bill/Molly.
I like Molly just fine but I don’t like her with Bill. I’m biased as all getout and also worried about the future/potential Season 9 with regards to this. I don’t want to see it. Like at all. Why, you ask? You should know why if you follow me. I’m super transparent.
It’s because I like AJ AND I WANT HER BACK LOL.
John Tinker rewatched the series so we know he wouldn’t have missed that hanging plot thread—especially since he didn’t forget any of the other things that were brought up this season! So why didn’t she appear this season? The love triangle absolutely needed to be a focus or it would have never ended, so that’s part of it, but I’m also pretty sure Josie Bissett wasn’t interested in doing any filming last year during Covid. My only “proof” is that Wedding March 6 wasn’t filmed last year even though it was scheduled to be filmed, but it makes sense. Last year was chaos.
THAT SAID, Jack Wagner posted on his Instagram the other day that they are actually filming Wedding March 6 now, so... I guess AJ’s re-appearance in Season 9 wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise if they wanted to write it.
You’d think I’d be hyped about that, and I kind of am? But it doesn’t come without its share of worries, too. We just had the worst love triangle in the history of love triangles and I really don’t want another one, especially if it makes any of the characters in question look stupid or mean.
I fully admit a well-written love triangle could be a LOT of fun for them* (low stakes because they’re not front and center characters), but I saw how Nathan was written so far this season and I really, REALLY do not want to see that happen to Molly, Bill, or AJ.
Anyway, not a fan of the Molly/Bill stuff. No chemistry. I don’t want it.
*I would totally write a fanfic like this lmao.
--
And finally...the part that everyone will hate me for:
I DO NOT WANT TO SEE ABIGAIL COME BACK. And I specifically do not want her to come back ‘cause I do not wanna see Henry/Abigail happen.
I fully recognize that a lot of you like it and ship the heck out of it, and that’s...good. I’m glad you enjoy it. I loathe it, though, and I worry that all these hints (more like...mentions) are leaning toward...something. Like, either they’re:
1) Sending Abigail off/tying up that loose end with Henry (since nothing was ever clarified either way), or
2) Warming up the audience to receive Abigail back on the show.
I’m pretty into the idea of one-sided Henry/Abigail. Hindsight is 20/20, regrets, that’s all some juicy stuff to give a character like Henry. Some things can’t ever be made right again. He had too direct of a connection to the death of her husband and son for me to ever want to see them together. Forgiveness? Yes. A careful but meaningful friendship? Yes. Romantic relationship? Uh...no thanks.
I liked the Abigail mentions at first because I felt like...the character still mattered (as she should) but I’m at a point where I feel like they’re trying really hard to steer the fandom’s view a certain way and not knowing where it’s going is extremely unsettling to me.
--
I’ll probably talk more about the things that bother me when the season ends, because I’m hoping to have a better idea of where things are going to be headed, but for now just...know that I feel very apprehensive.
And keep in mind that I primarily watch this show for Bill these days, since all my previous faves (AJ, Frank, the old Abigail, Dottie) have exited, stage left. I also always really liked seeing Henry. So as you can imagine, seeing plotlines I hate for the only two characters I’m invested in? Is making me consider dropping the series next year.
My husband told me I should hate-watch it, but I don’t know if my heart can take it. I’ve been following this series for so long...it just...kind of hurts to feel let down like this?
But sometimes an ongoing series ends up going where you...didn’t want it to, and it becomes something that’s no longer right for you. I hope that doesn’t happen, but last night’s episode makes me feel like...it might be happening for real this time.
I guess if that holds true it’ll be back to fanfiction for me. Will that novelization I planned ages ago end up getting written? Will I write the best love triangle fanfic known to man? WHO KNOWS.
For now, we’ll all have to wait and see! Two more episodes left. I’m really curious to see how they resolve some of the open plots right now. :>
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body language will do the trick
OK, so I know this is going to be fully AU in about five seconds when The Falcon and the Winter Soldier airs, but those couples counseling scenes in the trailer got me WAY TOO EXCITED and I really couldn't help myself.
Title: body language will do the trick
Rating: Explicit
Category: M/M
Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes (background Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)
Additional tags: frenemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, couples counseling, because sam and bucky can’t stop flirting at work, post-avengers endgame, but it’s au because, steve rogers isn’t old, and natasha romanoff lives, captain america sam wilson, shield agent bucky barnes, past steve rogers/bucky barnes, but it’s minor, bucky and sam fall in love, but COMPETITIVELY, oral sex, anal sex, tender railing, idiots in love, praise kink
Words: 12,598
Link to AO3: here
Summary:
“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”
Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”
Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”
Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.
“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.
Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.
Bucky Barnes is pretty sure that these counseling sessions—supposedly for Bucky and Sam’s “interpersonal issues”—are Director Fury’s revenge for that whole fake assassination situation. Which, to be fair to Fury, came about as the result of Bucky’s very real assassination attempt, even if the subsequent “assassination” was fake, so Bucky can’t exactly blame Fury there. What Bucky doesn’t understand is why their possibly-fake counselor—is she a real counselor, or just another one of Fury’s spies?—chooses to conduct her “therapy” sessions in the unlikely and frankly suspicious location of an underground bunker.
Dr. Carson’s therapy bunker is probably just a temporary location, since usable office facilities with running water and electricity are still pretty limited after the Blip, but Bucky was definitely under the impression that modern American therapists’ offices were supposed to be more soothing than this. He’d expected a bland but tasteful space filled with a cushy sofa and watercolor paintings and the calming sounds of nature recordings. Instead, Bucky and Sam are sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a dim room with bare cement walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. Is Fury even trying to sell this fake counseling op?
Bucky and Sam’s counselor/interrogator is most definitely hostile. Although Dr. Carson looks lovely in her delicate green silk blouse and expensive silk scarf, her expression is stern and sour. She’s styled her glossy dark hair neatly, in gentle waves that summon a distant memory of the way women used to wear their hair in the 1940s, and Bucky wonders if this is Dr. Carson’s authentic style or if it’s just part of another SHIELD spy game, meant to trick or manipulate Bucky into confiding in Dr. Carson because she looks familiar and nonthreatening.
Bucky considers it an insult to the memory of Peggy Carter if Fury thinks he could’ve worked with Carter for two years in the SSR and still underestimate a woman just because she has nice hair and a pretty outfit.
Also, if Dr. Carson’s trying to lull Bucky into a false sense of security, why is she doing it in this weird basement?
Honestly this whole counseling thing really does seem like it’s secretly just a poorly planned interrogation.
Like right now. Dr. Carson asks, “Are you having a staring contest?” and Bucky isn’t going to disclose valuable intel by admitting that while Sam is definitely having a staring contest with him, Bucky is just using this as an excuse to look into Sam’s eyes, which are warm and brown and make Bucky feel all sorts of confusing things. Bucky is trained to resist interrogation, and that piece of information definitely falls under the category of “unexpected and alarming potential weaknesses.”
Also Bucky’s still sort of figuring out how he feels about Sam’s whole eye and face and shoulder situation, so the staring contest is actually a pretty great cover for whatever the fuck is really going on with him. Half of successfully surviving an interrogation is letting your captors fill in the blanks themselves and then pretending like their waterboarding is the worst thing you’ve ever endured.
Unfortunately, while Bucky is congratulating himself on successfully maintaining operations security—and winning their staring contest, no reason he can’t do both at once—Dr. Carson seems to reach her limit for the amount of shit she’s willing to endure from them today.
“You’re not taking this seriously.” Dr. Carson shoots them with a hard glare. “I’m giving you a five minute break, and if you’re not ready to open up and work on your communication and compatibility issues, I’m going to have to advise Fury to put you both on leave.”
Bucky’s fine with being put on leave, and he’s fully prepared to wait out SHIELD, Fury, and Dr. Carson. It took HYDRA fifteen years to break him down enough to send him out on missions, and no matter how much they tortured him Bucky didn’t shed so much as a single tear until they showed him newspaper headlines about what a bad pilot Steve turned out to be.
Also, Bucky’s not entirely sure that he’s not actually immortal, so he figures his patience will probably far outlast Fury’s determination to punish him for shooting him a few times when he didn’t even die. Actually, now that Bucky thinks about it, Fury’s probably less mad about the whole fake assassination thing than he is about Steve forcing him to offer Bucky a job and then grit out the most begrudging apology Bucky has ever heard in his life for SHIELDRA holding Bucky hostage as a brainwashed assassin while Fury was the Director of SHIELD. Right in front of Captain Marvel, too, Fury’s favorite Avenger, who had looked very disappointed in him. Apparently Danvers had her own history as a superpowered amnesiac brainwashed into working for the bad guys? Bucky’s unclear on the details, but when Danvers’s mouth tightened and her head shook in dismay, Nick Fury’s shoulders had slumped like a chastened schoolboy.
God, Steve is such a dick sometimes. Bucky loves him so much.
Dr. Carson’s high heels make clipped little clicking noises that speak volumes about her frustration with them as she strides purposefully out of the room. As soon as she closes the door, so firmly that Bucky can just tell that she had to have put conscious, controlled effort into not slamming it behind her, Bucky turns to Sam with a satisfied grin.
“Well, I think we’re doing great,” Bucky says. “SHIELD’s going to have to work a lot harder to get any real intel out of us, and I was definitely promised that they wouldn’t be using any drugs or brainwashing techniques this time so I think we’re going to nail this whole interrogation.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “This is therapy, man, not an interrogation. We’re supposed to be, like, opening up and becoming a better team.”
“Yeah, well, if this is real therapy then where are the goats?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow toward the most likely location of the nearest camera as if to say gotcha, Fury, your goatless fake therapy interrogation tactic isn’t fooling me.
“I’m sorry, goats? Why would there be goats?”
Bucky leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying, in Wakanda I always got to hang out with animals when I did therapy. And look how great that turned out! I hardly ever kill anyone anymore, and when I do it’s on purpose because I decided to. Anyway, I really feel like this is all just a plot by SHIELD to find out why we—”
Bucky and Sam bicker for a while about whether or not this is real therapy until they’re interrupted by Dr. Carson’s return, her face looking a little damp now, like maybe she spent her time away from them splashing water on it and doing some deep breathing exercises in the bathroom.
“OK,” says Dr. Carson, visibly relaxing her spine. “We’re going to take a new approach. Have you heard of the five love languages?”
Sam’s eyes widen in horror. “No, we are not doing the five love languages.”
Bucky hasn’t heard of the five love languages, but he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that they definitely don’t want to do this, and Bucky’s pretty good at improvising when he needs to. “Oh, you know, I think HYDRA already implanted the five love languages in my brain when they were doing the rest of the Romance languages. So we can just skip those, I already know them.”
Bucky offers Dr. Carson his blandest and most innocent smile, the same one that sometimes worked on Sister Mary Angela back at old St. Charles Borromeo, but Dr. Carson’s face remains as stony and unmoved as the church itself, still standing in Brooklyn Heights in the year of our Lord 2023. Instead she says, “I think we need to take a couples therapy approach.”
“Couples therapy,” Sam repeats, sinking lower in his chair. Bucky winces as Sam’s knee starts to crush his balls.
“According to this file,” Dr. Carson says, opening it up to read aloud, “the two of you are here because your colleagues have complained about your, quote, romantically-charged bickering, your constant flirting, and your unnecessarily sexual sparring.”
Dr. Carson punctuates these damning statements with some truly savage air quotes.
“Listen, when I slap Sam’s bare ass in the locker room after a good sparring session it’s with purely collegial respect for a worthy opponent,” Bucky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I only ever treat Sam with the same level of professional respect I give Steve and Natasha.”
Sam nods in support. “Steve and Natasha never have a problem getting sweaty and physical with us, and I’ve personally witnessed Steve and Natasha slap Bucky’s ass dozens of times.”
Dr. Carson raises a single judgmental eyebrow. “Don’t you think there might be a reason why Fury’s banned the four of you from using the gym at the same time?”
“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “The other SHIELD agents get intimidated by Sam’s shredded abs and Steve’s and my super strength. Plus everyone’s scared of Natasha.”
Dr. Carson closes her eyes and visibly counts to ten. Bucky can see her mouth forming the words.
“All right, we’re just going to move on here, because I’m really only able to deal with just the one dysfunctional relationship at a time.” Dr. Carson passes them some worksheets and pencils. “I want you to fill these out, honestly, and then hand them back to me when you’re done.”
Bucky reads over the worksheets, which are filled with questions like, “Do you like it more when your partner reacts positively to something you’ve accomplished or when they do something for you that you know they don’t particularly enjoy?” There are a lot of questions about hugging, and holding hands, and Bucky gets distracted trying to picture holding hands with Sam, who has big hands, strong and capable and—
“Stop trying to copy my answers,” Sam says, when he notices Bucky glancing over at the way Sam grips his pen as he fills out his worksheet. Sam shoves his knee harder into Bucky’s crotch and Bucky stifles a gasp.
“I’m not!”
“Bucky, stop cheating.” Dr. Carson presses her lips together in a severe frown.
Bucky scowls and scooches his chair back several inches. It makes a loud scraping sound as it drags against the cement floor. But before going back to filling out his form, Bucky gives Sam’s ankle a sharp kick for getting him in trouble with Dr. Carson, and the two of them engage in a brief but brutal silent kicking war below the front of the desk where Dr. Carson can’t see.
When Bucky and Sam finish their kicking war and their quizzes, they hand their worksheets back to Dr. Carson for grading and rub their shins as they wait.
“Bucky, your primary love language is words of affirmation, and your secondary love language is physical touch,” Dr. Carson announces. “And Sam, your primary love language is acts of service, while your secondary love language is quality time.”
Bucky frowns. On the one hand, he feels like he’s received some pretty valuable intel about Sam that he could use to his benefit. But on the other hand, he’s probably given up some valuable intel of his own. He wishes there hadn’t been so many questions that made him think about hugging and touching Sam—somehow those made him so distracted that he forgot to respond with lies.
Bucky’s stomach knots up a bit at the thought of Sam learning his potential weaknesses, but really, how much of a psyop could Sam possibly launch with the results from a couples counseling questionnaire? (Natasha could probably execute a successful psyop based on the information from a Buzzfeed quiz meant to reveal your “celebrity mom,” so Bucky really hopes Sam doesn’t talk to Natasha about this.)
“Your homework is to try to learn to speak each other’s language.” Dr. Carson stands up and walks around the desk to touch Bucky’s shoulder. “Good job today, Bucky.”
Bucky smiles, and the knot in his stomach releases a bit. He is so nailing this therapy thing, he knew he’d be better at it than Sam.
Dr. Carson helps Sam back into his coat as she ushers them toward the door, and Bucky’s pretty sure she’s meant to be modeling an act of service except that mostly it seems like she’s just trying to rush them out of the office.
“See you next week.” Dr. Carson smiles stiffly, like she is not at all looking forward to seeing them next week. Her expression is full of determined professionalism right up until the click of the door latch, and then Bucky hears a dull thudding noise that is pretty unmistakably the sound of Dr. Carson hitting her head against the doorframe.
“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”
Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”
Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”
Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.
“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.
Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.
***
They’re on a mission together the next day, battling some Doombots in New Jersey, and wow is Sam committed to this whole words of affirmation thing.
When Bucky deflects a punch aimed straight for Sam’s head with his vibranium arm, Sam whistles and says, “Nice save, man, you’re killing it today.” Warmth rises up in Bucky’s chest at Sam’s praise, and Bucky is filled with panic and dismay when he realizes that the fight to squash it back down is honestly more taxing than their battle against Doombots. There’s absolutely no reason Bucky should be having such a physical reaction to basic battle camaraderie.
When Bucky stretches his leg up above his head to nail one of the bots with a vicious kick, Sam smirks and gives him a distinct how-you-doing sort of nod. “That was—seriously hot, man. Have you been doing yoga or something?”
So apparently Sam is choosing to interpret words of affirmation as “wild flirtation,” and Bucky’s cheeks are choosing to betray him by radiating at Sam’s attention. Bucky knows there’s a flush spreading down his neck, and he’s hoping Sam will attribute it to exertion from the fight, because there’s no way Bucky can let Sam know that Sam’s sort of winning at their therapy homework—not when Bucky’s entire mental health journey and, like, the honor of the Wakandan animal-assisted therapy program is at stake.
But after they board the Quinjet and set the autopilot on a course back to New York, Sam gives Bucky a slow up-and-down perusal with his eyes, and Bucky feels Sam’s gaze like a physical touch. “You look really good after a fight, Buck. That messed up hair and pretty pink blush are giving me all kinds of ideas.”
Bucky’s cock twitches at that, and huh. Bucky blinks and looks down at his crotch.
So that’s working again.
A dirty smirk spreads across Sam’s face, like maybe Sam knows exactly what just happened inside Bucky’s pants, and fuck, this whole situation is spiraling rapidly out of Bucky’s control. Like, yeah, Bucky kept Sam from getting a pretty gnarly concussion, and that was probably an act of service, right? But it’s pretty clear, to both of them, that Sam is winning this competition, and Bucky is not about to go down without a fight.
Which is—an idea.
Bucky drops to his knees in front of Sam and bites his lip in a way that he knows, instinctively, will make him look hot. Sam inhales sharply in response, and Bucky reaches up to grasp Sam by the hips before he can take a step backwards. The material of Sam’s uniform bunches up and shifts under Bucky’s hands, and fuck, Bucky’s cock is aching now, throbbing and filling up in his tight uniform pants. Bucky forgot he could feel so good.
“What are you doing,” Sam protests in a half-assed sort of way.
“Servicing you,” Bucky replies with a wicked grin, sliding Sam’s zipper down slowly over his thickening cock. Bucky can’t remember if he’s done this before, but the way his mouth waters and his throat aches in anticipation makes him feel pretty fucking confident about how this is going to go down.
But before Bucky can pull Sam’s cock out of his briefs, Sam slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tips his head gently backward, using his other hand to tilt Bucky’s chin up to look into Sam’s face. Sam’s pretty brown eyes are already darkening with arousal, but his expression is serious.
“You don’t have to suck my dick for therapy, man.”
Bucky huffs. “Sam, this is the first time my dick’s been hard since 1945. Do you know how many times Steve’s let me watch him jerk off trying to heIp me get hard again? I am definitely not doing this only to win at therapy, pal.”
Sam’s hands freeze in Bucky’s hair and his cock swells visibly in his briefs. “I’m sorry, Steve let you do what now? Dude, I thought Steve was straight.”
“Oh, he’s definitely, like, straight-ish,” Bucky assures Sam, with a little so-so wave of his hand that hopefully conveys the correct amount of ambiguity there. “He’s mostly just a really great friend.”
Sam’s eyes close for a long moment, and then Bucky’s scalp stings when Sam clenches his fist in Bucky’s hair and pulls. “Jesus,” mutters Sam, his voice gruff and husky. “Yeah, OK, baby. Go ahead and suck my dick.”
Bucky’s heart pounds as he pulls Sam’s cock out of his briefs and licks a wet stripe up the length of it, groaning at the feel of Sam’s skin under his tongue. Sam tastes salty with sweat, and his scent is musky and thick after their fight with the Doombots. Bucky teases him for a while, the way he’s seen people do in porn, trailing wet kisses along the shaft and mouthing at the head, and Sam lets out a ragged moan when Bucky’s mouth finally engulfs him. Bucky’s feeling pretty cocky about this, loves the rush of power he feels as Sam’s hips twitch and jerk to keep from thrusting into Bucky’s mouth—but then Sam fucking escalates shit, because Sam is an asshole.
“Christ, you feel good,” Sam murmurs, reaching down to rub his thumb against Bucky’s mouth, stretched wide around Sam’s cock. “You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth.”
And then Bucky’s the one moaning, eyelids fluttering shut and heat coursing down his spine at the sound of Sam’s husky voice. Bucky should have expected Sam to counter his act of service with more words of affirmation, but somehow he wasn’t prepared for the unbearable ache he’d feel at Sam’s dirty talk. Bucky feels inexperienced, outclassed at this sort of sexual warfare, and the only way he can retaliate is by sinking as far down on Sam’s cock as his throat will allow him. He reaches up to grab Sam’s hips, urging him to fuck his mouth, and then he hums a little inside his head to try to tune out the sound of Sam’s praise.
“Fuck,” says Sam. “God, that’s it, baby. You take it so well, Buck. So fucking good for me.”
Bucky whines, his jaw aching, eyes filling with tears as Sam’s cock stretches his mouth open. Sam keeps offering him filthy praise as he slides his mouth up and down Sam’s thick cock, and Bucky doesn’t know why this is doing it for him when all of Steve’s pale skin and strong thighs and big dick couldn’t, but maybe seventy years of torture and captivity have left Bucky with a few new kinks. Or maybe Bucky’s just healing or whatever. Bucky honestly doesn’t care, as long as Sam keeps letting him fill his throat with Sam’s dick.
Sam’s voice is rough when he says, “God, you fucking love it, don’t you,” and Bucky pulls off Sam’s cock just long enough to nod eagerly and gasp for air before diving back in. “Take your dick out, baby. I want you to come sucking my cock.”
Bucky’s rhythm stutters at that, his hand reaching down to pull his cock out of his uniform pants. He wants to be so fucking good for Sam, wants to come just how Sam says, wants Sam to keep telling him how good he looks, how much he loves fucking Bucky’s mouth, how much he likes giving it to him.
Sam’s praise grows hotter and filthier as he gets closer, and Bucky whimpers as he feels his own orgasm approaching. God, he hasn’t come in so long, hasn’t felt that hot rush and that familiar ache in his balls in forever and he wants it, wants to come, he just needs—
“Come on, baby, come for me, I know you can do it, just keep sucking my cock, God, you look so good, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
And Bucky spirals over the edge, cock pulsing and spilling over his fist. He lets out a choked moan around Sam’s dick before his mouth is flooded with bitter, salty fluid. And then Bucky feels so fucking full, like he could drown happily in Sam’s smell and his taste and his fucking words of affirmation.
Fuck.
Bucky definitely did not win that round.
***
The whole blow job thing was an outstanding idea, really, one of Bucky’s best. But fuck, he did not anticipate Sam using that as an opportunity to completely turn the tables and affirm the shit out of him. Bucky can’t help but privately acknowledge to himself that Sam is completely winning at love languages so far.
They’re in counseling the next week, still in Dr. Carson’s depressing therapy bunker, and honestly, Bucky can’t imagine that this setting is good for, like, anybody’s mental health. His therapy in Wakanda always took place outdoors, under the warm African sun, surrounded by the wild, earthy smells of mud and animals and Lake Turkana. It made him feel open and free and connected to nature or whatever. It was peaceful.
Therapy at SHIELD is not very peaceful, especially because Dr. Carson clearly hates them, and she isn’t at all impressed by what Bucky considers some very impressive progress by them. Bucky and Sam are getting along.
“So,” Dr. Carson begins, apparently deciding to just start right off with more hurtful accusations from their colleagues, “according to Carl from the gun range, the two of you have been subjecting your coworkers to your, quote, uncomfortable bickering-slash-foreplay, and Maria Hill reports that you’re still, quote, cluttering up comms during missions with the most embarrassing flirting I have ever heard, I hate it so much.”
Dr. Carson’s air quotes are fucking vicious.
Despite the fact that they’ve only just started their session, Dr. Carson looks tense and aggravated already. She’s wearing another pretty silk blouse today, but her earrings don’t seem to match and it looks like she didn’t bother to curl her hair today. Maybe she just realized that Bucky wasn’t fooled by those forties waves?
Also, even though it’s Friday, Dr. Carson’s giving off a very Monday sort of vibe.
“Sam and I are working on it, OK?” Bucky says, with a mulish set to his jaw. “Obviously I’m doing my best here, but it’s hard to do therapy in a cement basement that gives me flashbacks to 1970s HYDRA facilities where I was tortured. And there aren’t even any pets at all to comfort me. Didn’t you receive the note from my Wakandan therapist stating that I require animals during therapy?”
A blood vessel in Dr. Carson’s forehead throbs, and she raises her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see if I can get us a room upstairs for our next session, but I’m telling you for the last time that we don’t have any therapy goats.”
“Well, I don’t have any issues doing therapy without goats,” Sam says, like the worst sort of teacher’s pet. God, Sam’s teachers probably loved his charming smile and his quick wit and his stupid handsome face. “Maybe Bucky is using the goats as an emotional crutch.”
“Listen, goat therapy works, OK?” Bucky counts out on his fingers as he lists the many examples of real progress he’s made since his time as a goat farmer in Wakanda. “I started off as an amnesiac brainwashed assassin, and now I have a steady job, a haircut, an apartment leased under my own shell companies, and I only kill people when I want to kill people now. And I wash my hair regularly. And if I don’t wash my hair, I use dry shampoo. And I don’t turn into a mindless killing machine when people speak Russian at me.”
“Dude,” Sam says.
“Anyway, it’s fine if you’re not as good at therapy as me.”
“Not as—not as good at therapy as you? Man, I am a certified peer specialist. I was so good at my own therapy that they let me give other people therapy,” Sam says, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Yeah, in America, where they’re not even familiar with things like advanced goat therapy.” Bucky clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Did you even keep up with your continuing education requirements while you were fugitives with Steve?”
Sam sinks lower in his seat and frowns. “No. But speaking of Steve,” Sam says, perking up a bit as he follows a new thread of argument. “Whose PTSD recovery was so complete and inspirational that Steve Rogers trusted them with the responsibility of carrying the Captain America shield, hm?”
“Listen, Steve is reckless as shit and he’s so irresponsible with that shield that he’s constantly losing it in rivers and getting it broken by alien supervillains,” Bucky points out. “I’m so recovered that the king of an entire country, a man so responsible that they put him in charge of running literally everything in the most advanced nation on the planet, trusted me with a prosthetic arm powerful enough to crush the skull of an ordinary man with a single blow. Probably even his skull, and he’s been enhanced by some weird plant that makes him even stronger than Steve.”
“Yeah, well, I’m so recovered that—”
Dr. Carson interrupts them here, pinching the bridge of her nose. “OK, listen, I think there’s actually something pretty interesting here in how you each relate your recovery to your ability to wield weapons. Why don’t we stop bickering and discuss that a little further?”
“Yeah, OK,” Bucky mumbles.
Sam sighs heavily. “Fine.”
***
So the blow job thing is working perfectly—like, so perfectly, God, Sam’s dick is amazing—except for the fact that Sam is able to talk the entire time. Words of affirmation spill from Sam’s pretty lips every time Bucky swallows his cock, and Bucky is still fucking losing the love languages competition.
It’s time to create a Pinterest strategy board to figure this thing out.
Bucky is a visual planner, and he believes in tactical flexibility. He might not remember a lot about sex, but there’s tons of porn on the Internet. He just needs to find a couple of ways to service Sam while Sam’s mouth is otherwise occupied. How hard could that be?
After a lot of research and the creation of several Pinterest mood boards, Bucky calls Steve down the hall to his apartment to help him out. They all live in the same building since it has the best security in the city—and Bucky and Natasha are very particular about security—and it makes sense for the four of them to basically live together when they already spend all their time together. When Steve arrives, they head right to Bucky’s bedroom, get undressed, and survey the porn board on Bucky’s laptop.
“OK, so what about sixty-nine,” Steve suggests. “Let’s try that.”
They get themselves into position, mouths hovering over each other’s flaccid dicks like totally normal best friends.
“See, I feel like this works, but is it really servicing Sam if he’s, like, servicing me at the same time?” Bucky flops over onto his back in frustration and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.
Steve nods and tilts his head in thought. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Depending on the grading rubric, the two acts might cancel each other out. How about rimming?”
“I feel like rimming is a great idea, and I definitely want to do that, but how do I shut him up while I do it?”
Steve frowns. “Can you reach up and cover his mouth with your hand? Hold on, let me bend over and we’ll see.” Steve gets on his hands and knees, tilting his ass up for Bucky to simulate a rim job.
“You know, your ass really is kind of amazing.” Bucky takes a moment to admire the jewel of Howard Stark’s empire. “I mean, it was cute as hell when you were little too, but Scott Lang definitely wasn’t wrong in that podcast episode about which superhero has America’s ass. Don’t tell Sam I said that, by the way.”
“Thanks, pal,” Steve says, flashing Bucky a quick grin. “Your ass is great too, Sam’s a lucky guy. Now bend over and pretend to rim me.”
Bucky leans down and uses his hand to cover Steve’s exposed hole, then presses his mouth against the back of his hand to simulate a rim job. He reaches forward with his other arm to see if he can put his vibranium hand over Steve’s mouth. He could—maybe? If he releases the catch on his shoulder?
“I don’t think this is going to work,” Bucky says with a frown. “Here, maybe try getting on your back and holding onto your legs?”
“Like this?” Steve asks, shifting gamely into position. Bucky folds him over and pretends to rim him while covering Steve’s mouth, which—works, actually. And this is probably the most erotic scene Bucky’s ever been a part of—Steve really does look incredible like this—so it’s kind of a shame that it does absolutely nothing whatsoever for Bucky’s dick.
Except then Bucky pictures Sam in Steve’s position, bent over and whining under Bucky’s vibranium hand, and Bucky’s cock gives a little twitch. Fuck.
Bucky sighs and releases Steve with a short nod. “Not bad, pal. I think this one’s gonna work. Let’s write it down.”
They test out a few more positions, taking careful notes on the comfort and degree of mouth coverage of each one. Bucky finds a few more pictures to add to his Pinterest board, and they sort through every image and assign them to the correct position number. Then Bucky and Steve print off their pictures and tape them to Bucky’s wall for inspiration, mapping out a sequence of actions that will lead to orgasms for both Sam and Bucky with a minimum amount of talking on Sam’s part.
Which is a shame, really. Sam’s dirty talk really does it for Bucky.
Still nude, Bucky and Steve stand in front of the vision board and assess the plan.
“I think position two is really going to work,” Steve says, stroking his chin, and Bucky’s brain flashes back to an image of Steve in pretty much this exact pose, assessing a map of HYDRA facilities in Western Europe with no less gravity and passion. God, Steve Rogers is a great fucking friend. “And if you really want to service the guy, I mean, you’ve already got him all loose and open. You might as well give him your dick too, right?”
Bucky nods in agreement. “Yeah, I mean, as long as I keep kissing him, he won’t be able to affirm me too much. I think this really is the winning scenario.”
“Great teamwork, pal,” Steve says, slapping Bucky’s bare ass. “This was fun! Just like the old days.”
Bucky smiles wistfully. “Yeah, there’s nothing like planning an op with The Man With the Plan. Hey, you want to grab dinner after this?”
“Nah,” Steve says, too-casually, angling his pelvis away from Bucky as he pulls his pants back on. “I think I’m gonna go see if Natasha’s busy.”
Bucky grins. “Give her my best.”
“Will do. Love you, pal,” Steve says, giving Bucky a quick kiss before he leaves.
Steve doesn’t bother putting a shirt on before he goes, and Bucky can hear him whistling cheerfully all the way down to Nat’s apartment.
***
Steve and Bucky’s plan was great, so naturally it goes to shit as soon as Sam gets involved.
Bucky’s sucking Sam’s dick, which OK, yeah, wasn’t technically in the plan, but God, Sam’s got such a great dick. How far behind can Bucky really fall in the standings from just one blow job?
“Your mouth feels so fucking good, baby,” Sam says, sliding his long fingers through Bucky’s hair—which Bucky washed before he came over, because he is killing it as a recovered assassin and also because this afternoon Sam grabbed his hips and leaned in, breath hot against Bucky’s ear, and murmured how much he wants to smell Bucky’s shampoo on his pillows tomorrow morning.
Which was both smooth as hell and very convincing. Bucky immediately bought like three more bottles of that shit and accepted Sam’s invitation over to his apartment that night.
So now they’re in Sam’s apartment, and Bucky’s sliding his mouth along Sam’s cock, and Sam’s telling him how much he loves the way Bucky sucks him, loves the way Bucky’s pretty face looks with Sam’s cock in his mouth, lips slick with spit and tears leaking out of his eyes. And then Sam says—
“Are you gonna let me fuck you tonight, baby? Gonna let me see how well you take it?”
And before Bucky knows it, he’s moaning around Sam’s cock and nodding his head, and Sam’s pulling a condom and lube out of the side drawer, and then Bucky’s face down on Sam’s bed, gasping and clenching around Sam’s long fingers.
When Sam finally turns him over and pushes inside him, Bucky feels his brain just—fully vacate his skull. Pleasure buzzes up and down Bucky’s spine like an electric current, and he’s only barely conscious of the wet-sounding gasp that comes out of his mouth when Sam finally slides all the way home.
Sam gives it to him slow and sweet, fucking into him at a dreamy, leisurely pace as Bucky grabs fistfuls of Sam’s sheets and scrabbles at any leverage he can get to try and push back against Sam’s cock. Bucky wants Sam to grab his hips and pound him hard, overwhelm him with stimulation and keep him from sinking under the gentle wave of that languid rhythm. It’s too intimate, too vulnerable, and Bucky’s chest is cracking wide open for Sam to look inside. He’s a little afraid of what Sam might see within him, but instead Sam’s expression is full of awe, his face open and tender as he runs a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone.
“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, so fucking sweet for me.”
There’s a lot of eye contact after that, and romantic face touching, and Sam telling Bucky how much he loves the way he feels, loves the way he looks and smells and tastes. Warmth pools deep in Bucky’s gut, spreading through his veins like the burn of whiskey, until Bucky feels like he’s going to burst into flames around Sam’s cock. Instead he comes, long and hard and messy, all over his stomach.
Sam’s eyes are hot as he looks down at the sight of Bucky’s abs covered in pearly fluid, and then he slams his hips into Bucky three more times, hard, before groaning and collapsing on top of him.
Fuck, Bucky thinks.
He takes a few minutes to catch his breath, and then suppresses a half-hearted sigh when he realizes that he completely blew the plan. Like, yes, that was some fucking amazing sex, Sam gave him the dicking of a lifetime, but somehow Bucky ended up even further behind in the love language competition. How does Sam keep winning?
It’s too late now to offer another act of service. Even if Bucky could get it up again, Sam definitely couldn’t.
Shit.
But wait, what was Sam’s secondary love language? Quality time? Perfect.
Bucky rolls over to give Sam a few open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder. Sam is sweaty from exertion, and he tastes salty and amazing. God, Sam is the best.
“You mind if I stay the night, sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs.
Sam’s lips curve up in a soft and pleased smile. “Yeah, baby, I was hoping you would.”
“C’mere, you can be the little spoon,” Bucky says, reaching around Sam’s waist to reel him in, and Sam huffs out a surprised grunt and then a happy sigh when Bucky wraps his arms and leg around him.
They fall asleep within minutes, and it turns out Sam really was into the smell of Bucky on his pillows because they fuck again in the morning, and this time Bucky forgets to keep track of who’s winning at therapy homework.
***
They fuck constantly after that, which is amazing, but unfortunately Bucky is still staying in this game only by the skin of his teeth. Like, yes, Bucky is performing acts of service for Sam on the regular, but somehow Bucky finds his self-control dissolving like sugar melting into caramel when Sam spreads him out under his dirty mouth and his clever hands.
So now when Sam collapses on top of him at night, fucked out and shaking, Bucky nuzzles his face into the back of Sam’s neck and wraps his arm around him to pull him close. Bucky stays the night, every night, and at work he sticks to Sam more tightly than one of Steve Rogers’s t-shirts. But the more quality time Bucky offers Sam, the more acts of service Bucky ends up performing—which, sure, sounds like a plan that would put Bucky pretty solidly in the lead, except for how Bucky always ends up a sobbing, needy mess dripping onto Sam’s sheets while Sam smirks and tells him how good Bucky is for him.
They fight together even better now, in sync in a way that Bucky hasn’t felt since he worked with the Howling Commandos, and when they finish a skirmish they turn to each other, flushed and grinning, flying high on adrenaline and oxytocin and arousal. They kiss savagely, mouths wet and open, and they don’t care who hears them pant and groan over the comms.
“God, you were so fucking hot—”
“Sam, yes, god, please—”
Bucky and Sam have died and come back to life already this year and somehow they’re still bringing each other back to life. Bucky swaggers through SHIELD headquarters with champagne flowing through his veins, bright and bubbly, and Fury yells at them twice for passing dirty notes to each other during briefings. They’re obnoxious about it, obvious and messy and shameless, and Bucky’s pretty sure that Maria Hill is going to resign in protest if she has to work surveillance for even one more of their ops.
Somehow they’re generating even more complaints to HR than before.
***
Dr. Carson has finally managed to find them a room with a window for their counseling sessions. They’re on the fifth floor, and there’s not much of a view—just the brick wall of the building next to them—but sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains and highlights the cut ridges of Sam’s frankly incredible cheekbones. God, Sam’s so fucking handsome.
Bucky and Sam are grinning broadly, but Dr. Carson looks stressed out and irritated today, even though they just started the appointment. Her hair is stringy and a little greasy at the roots, and Bucky wonders if Dr. Carson knows about dry shampoo. He isn’t sure how to ask, or if it would be rude to offer her a few sprays from the travel bottle he keeps in one of the pockets of his tactical pants? She’s still wearing a nice silk blouse, but it looks like she’s buttoned it incorrectly, and the tail is hanging out of the top of her slacks.
Are those even slacks? They kind of look like yoga pants.
Privately, Bucky thinks that an outsider might be hard pressed to figure out which of them was supposed to be the mental patient here. Are Bucky and Sam actually driving this woman insane?
“So you’re sleeping together.” Dr. Carson’s tone is flat and dismayed. “You know this is against SHIELD employee regulations, don’t you?”
She taps her pen against their folders in agitation, and Bucky wonders if those folders are their actual permanent records. Does Bucky’s folder still have all of the notes from Sister Mary Angela about his “distracting” and “unnaturally close” relationship with Steve? God, Sister Mary Angela hated Steve.
Sam waves a careless hand and props his ankle up on his other knee. “We’re independent contractors, and Steve and Natasha made sure that our contracts didn’t include any kind of anti-fraternization policies. They were extremely thorough about it.”
Dr. Carson sighs heavily, and it looks like she’s doing literally everything in her power not to roll her eyes. Instead, she tips her head back and looks at the ceiling, probably hoping to roll her eyes where Bucky and Sam can’t see them. “Nevertheless, the two of you are still required to be discreet and professional when you’re at work. We’ve received complaints from several of your coworkers about your behavior in the last week. According to Carl, you’ve been bringing, quote, unwanted and uncomfortable sexual energy to the workplace.”
Bucky scoffs. He knows how to handle this sort of situation. “Listen, I didn’t lose my life fighting Nazis so that a little homoerotic banter and ass grabbing would get me in trouble at work. And anyway, this is how Captain America and I behaved at work back when we were fighting fascism and defending the free world—in the 1940s, even!—so I can’t imagine that somehow you’re just not allowed to give each other friendly hand jobs in closets in 2023. If anything, I should be able to give Sam a friendly hand job outside of a closet. Those are exactly the kinds of freedoms I fought and died for.”
Sam nods in support and says, “That’s a great point, Buck,” and Bucky feels warmth curling in his belly before he realizes, fuck, Sam’s doing it again, and right in front of Dr. Carson too. Jesus, Sam is so good at therapy. “And it sounds like Carl might be just a tad bit homophobic. Maybe we should be complaining to HR about him. You know, I didn’t serve during the long years of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell just to hear—”
“Carl is happily married to his male partner of thirty-seven years,” Dr. Carson states, clenching her jaw. Bucky has literally fought people to the death who look less bothered by his general existence. “Also, you didn’t actually die fighting Nazis, Agent Barnes.”
“It was a metaphorical death,” Bucky defends, because this is important to him. “The old Bucky Barnes died in that ravine. We went over it all in my therapy in Wakanda, the most scientifically advanced country in the world. What even are your credentials and where are your goats?”
“I have a Bachelor’s degree in psychology from Harvard and doctorates in clinical psychology and neuroscience from Oxford. I was a Rhodes scholar, I’ve received a MacArthur Fellowship for my work in PTSD and polytrauma in returning veterans, and I literally wrote the textbook for most Introduction to Psychology courses.”
Bucky waves his dismissive hand at this. “Yeah, well, Sam did eighty hours of coursework and an eighty hour practicum to become a certified peer counselor. Plus he has experiential knowledge, which is more important than book learning. Also, Sam isn’t HYDRA. Are you HYDRA?”
The wood in Dr. Carson’s pencil cracks a bit under her hand. “I’m not HYDRA.”
“But, like, would Nick Fury know if you were HYDRA?” Bucky presses.
“That’s an excellent point, baby, you’re killing it in therapy today.” Sam pats Bucky on the thigh and then leaves his hand there, bare inches away from Bucky’s cock, and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moving his hips or making any noises. “Nick Fury would definitely not know if Dr. Carson were HYDRA, his Nazi-finding track record is, like, dismal at best. I vote that we suspend therapy until there’s been an independent investigation into whether or not Dr. Carson is HYDRA.”
“You can’t suspend therapy,” Dr. Carson says, her expression pinched. “These counseling sessions are mandatory.”
“Look, we’ll keep doing the love languages thing as a show of good faith, and once the investigation’s concluded we’ll come back so you can decide which one of us is winning at therapy,” Bucky says. “In the meantime just, like, prepare to have all of your secrets uncovered and all of your loved ones and ex-boyfriends questioned extensively about your most private and intimate memories.”
Dr. Carson covers her face with her hands. Is she trying to muffle a scream?
“For the last time, no one wins at therapy,” she grits out.
“I mean, I think I’m pretty obviously winning,” Sam says. Bucky tips his head in reluctant agreement. “Anyway, we’ll talk to Natasha and Steve about the HYDRA thing since they actually know how to find Nazis. If Steve and Nat clear you, then Bucky and I will agree to let you judge which one of us is winning the love languages competition. In the meantime, it would be nice if you could get some therapy pets for Bucky. He likes animals. Goats might be a bit unreasonable for downtown D.C., but I’m sure you could rustle up some cats or something, right?”
Bucky hums. “I like dogs better.’
“All right, cool. Dr. C, get us some dogs.” Sam raps two knuckles against the desk. “Bucky and I are going to go to the gym to work out a bit. Bucky’s shoulders are looking really good lately.”
“Sam!” Bucky hisses, squirming a bit in his seat. “Not in front of Dr. Carson!”
“Sorry, baby,” Sam says, holding out a hand to pull Bucky up out of his chair. “See you next week, Dr. C!”
***
It hasn’t exactly escaped Bucky’s notice that Natasha has been avoiding him ever since Bucky and Sam started their love languages competition, so when Bucky sees Steve walking alone down the hallway toward his office, he reaches out from the broom closet where he’s hiding and yanks Steve inside.
“Is Natasha helping Sam win the love languages competition?” Bucky hisses.
There’s no real reason that they need to have this conversation in a broom closet instead of Steve’s office, but Bucky’s feeling nostalgic today, and Steve doesn’t seem at all bothered to suddenly find himself in a broom closet with Bucky.
“I mean, probably?” Steve says with a shrug. “It seems only fair, since I’m helping you. Also her dirty talk has really leveled up lately, and that’s probably not a coincidence. Why, what’s Sam doing?”
“He’s, like, constantly flirting with me. And the touching! God, Steve, I’m horny all the time now. And you wouldn’t believe the things he says to me in bed! Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on all the sex routines you and I’ve choreographed when Sam’s telling me how pretty I look with his cock in my mouth?”
“Natasha is definitely helping him then—she says that to me all the time when she’s using her strap on,” Steve says, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Are you sure you can’t keep it together enough to service him without getting distracted by his words of affirmation?”
“Yes,” Bucky says, his cheeks growing hot. “You have no idea, Steve, like Sam just gets so filthy. I know my brain’s been fried like an egg and I don’t actually remember a lot about sex, but I don’t think people talked like this in the ‘40s, right?”
“I mean, you and I shared a bedroom in an apartment with paper thin walls and then spent a few years in a warzone. There’s not much opportunity for dirty talk when you’re just doing your best to get off without waking anybody up,” Steve says. “But that does give me an idea. Sam’s secondary love language is quality time, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“So date him! You may not have the sexual repertoire of someone who’s watched hundreds of hours of modern porn or even someone who remembers much about having sex before like three weeks ago, but you do know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing.”
Bucky’s forehead wrinkles. “Do I, though? Do I still know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing?”
“I believe in you, pal.” Steve claps him on the shoulder and then looks around the broom closet thoughtfully, taking in the dirty mop and the shelves of cleaning supplies and filthy rags. “You’re honestly not even doing a bad job of wooing me right now. Want to trade hand jobs for old time’s sake?”
Bucky shoots Steve a withering look. “I’m not wooing you right now, Steve, you’re just easy. Go find Natasha if you’re horny.”
Steve shrugs. “Eh, it was worth a shot.”
***
Two months later, once Steve and Natasha have completed Dr. Carson’s background check and confirmed that she isn’t HYDRA, Sam and Bucky return to therapy. Even though Dr. Carson hasn’t seen them in months, she looks pinched and irritated, and the deep wrinkles in her forehead and the sudden explosion of gray in her hair make her look as though she’s aged five years since she started giving them therapy.
Bucky frowns and squints in suspicion. “We haven’t gotten Blipped again, have we?”
“What?”
“You just look—” Bucky gestures toward her hair and the bags under her eyes.
Dr. Carson’s expression shifts from exhausted indifference to polite fury, and Bucky’s just about to apologize when Sam gestures toward the floor under the window and says, “Hey, look at that! It’s about time you got Bucky a therapy puppy, you know that his doctors in Wakanda strongly encouraged it.”
When Bucky follows the line of Sam’s arm, he sees the cutest puppy in the world sitting in a fuzzy little dog bed with pictures of bones on it. Bucky gasps in delight. “He’s so cute, Sam, look at his little face!”
The puppy’s face is perfect, with big brown eyes and a short little snout with a tiny black nose. When he wags his tail, his little butt wiggles and Bucky wants to die about it. He loves this puppy so much.
“I’m naming him Paddington after my favorite movie,” Bucky declares.
“I love it,” Sam says immediately, pulling out his phone. “Put him in your lap so I can get some pictures for Steve and Natasha. They’re going to be so jealous when they find out that we got to have a dog in our therapy.”
Sam and Bucky spend the next ten minutes playing with Paddington and taking photos of the two of them with their adorable new therapy dog while Dr. Carson rubs her forehead like she just fucking knew this puppy would be a distraction.
“I think we should get started,” Dr. Carson interrupts, glancing pointedly at her watch.
“Yes, perfect!” Bucky pulls a small notebook out of his back pocket. “OK, so let me catch you up on everything we’ve done to each other since our last meeting, and I especially want your input on the scoring system that Sam and I have developed—”
Bucky and Sam spend the next half hour recounting their every interaction over the past couple of months in explicit, pornographic detail while Dr. Carson repeatedly clenches and unclenches her fists. When they spend ten full minutes alone on the rim job Bucky gave Sam last Saturday, Dr. Carson’s eyes go distant and glassy like a shell shocked veteran of the Great War or something. Bucky has literally seen torture victims make less of an effort to dissociate from their surroundings than Dr. Carson right now.
Honestly, who would have expected a therapist with thirty years’ experience to be so faint of heart? It’s absolutely critical to Bucky and Sam’s scoring system to determine whether Sam let out a “choked moan” or a “strangled gasp” while Bucky ate him out, and Bucky doesn’t appreciate Dr. Carson’s frankly lackluster participation when they stage a reenactment of events to try and settle the matter. She doesn’t even seem very decisive when she finally renders her judgment, like maybe she just doesn’t care what kind of sound Sam made, even though it was the most erotic noise Bucky’s ever heard in a hundred years.
When Sam concludes his argument for why words of affirmation during sex should count for more points than praise at work, Dr. Carson sighs heavily, looks off into the distance for exactly ten seconds, and then states, “I think we should discuss how you two can erect boundaries between your work relationship and your sexual relationship.”
Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow at Dr. Carson’s audacity. “Do you really feel like you’re qualified to counsel us on that particular issue?”
Dr. Carson’s jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, after everything that went down between you and Dr. Fitzgerald back in Philadelphia, I hardly think—”
Dr. Carson’s face whitens like curdled milk. “How did you find out about that?”
“Remember Natasha’s background check? Anyway, I’m just saying that it’s a tad bit hypocritical of you to suggest that Bucky and I shouldn’t be fucking during work hours, I mean, Bucky isn’t even married—”
Dr. Carson bites her lip so ferociously that she draws blood. “Bucky may not be married, but he is technically your subordinate, and that means there’s an uneven power dynamic to consider here—”
Sam smirks like he’s fucking Benjamin Matlock and he knows he’s just one pointed question away from making the guilty party break down and confess right there on the witness stand. (Bucky makes a mental note to ask Sam later why he and Natasha always snicker when Bucky and Steve get together to play cribbage and watch Matlock on Sunday afternoons.) “You mean like the uneven power dynamic at play between you and that doctoral student whose dissertation committee you chaired at UPenn?”
Dr. Carson gasps, and her face turns as red and furious as Sister Mary Angela’s that time she caught Steve’s skinny arms nailing a copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-five Theses to the heavy wooden door of St. Charles Borromeo.
Bucky’s mind wanders a bit at that memory. God, Steve Rogers really was such a bad influence—maybe Sister Mary Angela was right about their distracting and unnaturally close relationship. Because of course Bucky couldn’t leave that stubborn asshole to face Sister Mary Angela’s wrath alone, so Bucky had ended up confessing to abusing his powers as editor of the student newspaper to let Steve use the school’s small printing press. Bucky emerged from the experience with an ass that burned for a week and a few uncomfortable new kinks.
Now, Bucky looks speculatively over at Sam’s strong hands and shifts in his chair.
“I just remembered, Sam and I have something really important to do,” Bucky announces. “So we’ll see you next week, right? OK, cool. C’mon, Paddington!”
Bucky grabs Paddington’s cute little dog bed and Paddington hops down from Sam’s lap to follow them out of the office, his tail wagging happily as he trots along beside them. God, Paddington is so fucking cute, Bucky cannot believe what a great dog he is.
Dr. Carson calls out after them through gritted teeth. “You’re not supposed to take the therapy dog with you!”
“Sorry, what?” Sam shouts back, cupping his hand around his ear. “I can’t hear you!”
“Bucky, I know you have super hearing!”.
“Sorry, I’m a hundred and six years old and I left my ear trumpet at home!” Bucky raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug to convey the hopelessness of trying to communicate at this great distance of about forty feet.
“God, I need a fucking vacation forever,” Dr. Carson mutters.
***
Later, after Bucky and Sam collapse against Sam’s sheets in sweaty exhaustion, Bucky mentally tallies their points and comes to the frustrating conclusion that Sam is still absolutely wiping the floor with him in this love languages competition. God, how is Sam so good at everything? He’s so fucking handsome and charming and athletic and just, like, absolute dynamite in the sack—
God, no wonder Bucky’s losing. There’s no way he can win this competition with his dick alone. Time to channel Tommy Dorsey and play it from the heart.
“Hey, Sam,” Bucky murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle his nose against Sam’s jaw. “Let me cook you dinner tonight, doll. Wanna treat you right.”
“‘M not your doll,” Sam grumbles. “But yeah, OK.”
Bucky kisses Sam’s shoulder and plots.
Three hours later, Bucky and Steve survey Bucky’s dining room with the smug satisfaction of Scarlett O’Hara stealing her sister’s fiancé to get her greedy hands on his general store and sawmill.
“I think we nailed it, pal,” Steve boasts. “This looks just like your date night mood board.”
“I mean, I feel like half the credit should go to Pinterest user donkeydick2004—who would’ve guessed that he’d have such a sensitive soul.”
Bucky’s dining room table is covered with rose petals sprinkled over Bucky’s mother’s best lace tablecloth, liberated from the archives of the Smithsonian along with the rest of the contents of Steve and Bucky’s old Brooklyn Heights apartment. Two lit candles rise proudly from the gleaming silver of Sarah Rogers’s candleholders—the only wedding gift she’d managed to save from the pawnbroker during those lean years of Steve’s childhood—and the Victrola crackles with the smooth tenor of Enrico Caruso singing an aria so romantic it once brought a tear to the clear, flinty eye of Bucky’s father. Bucky’s grateful now that the Barneses were a Victor Talking Machine Company family—those Edison wax cylinders decayed faster than American democracy after the invention of Facebook.
The first time Bucky saw the familiar red logo of that Caruso record again—faithful Nipper the dog, his head tipped toward the horn of a gramophone playing the sound of his dead master’s voice—Bucky drove straight out into the desert and screamed until he was hoarse.
And now tonight Bucky’s using that very record to romance the shit out of Sam Wilson, so Nick Fury and Dr. Carson can fuck off with their so-called “therapy” because Bucky Barnes is doing great.
Steve clears his throat and gives Bucky a meaningful look. “You know, if this is all just some competition between you and Sam, you didn’t have to drive out to Maryland to dig all of our most personal and intimate memories out of storage for this dinner.”
Flustered, Bucky replies, “You have no idea what a canny opponent Sam is! Every time that man talks, my heart flutters and my stomach’s all full of butterflies. Besides,” Bucky says, “my grandfather paid fifty extra dollars to get the Circassian walnut veneer put on that old Victrola—he would haunt me if I didn’t ever use it, Steve.”
“You know your Aunt Margaret spit on her own father’s grave when your grandfather left that Victrola to your dad instead of her?”
Bucky laughs. “Is that why they had that big falling out? I couldn’t remember.”
“Peggy said that your Aunt Margaret wrote Howard Stark a letter every month until the day she died demanding the return of that Victrola.”
“Well, I hope that greedy old hag is looking down at me right now,” Bucky says, shaking his head in disbelief. “She deserves to watch me seduce my gay lover with that Victrola, it serves her right. You know she called you a fairy once?”
Steve gestures toward the intimate tableau featuring all of Bucky’s most precious memories and dryly states, “Well, as long as you’re clear on spite as your motivation for all of this.”
Bucky bites his lip as a sudden fear strikes him. “Do you think Sam’s going to like the chicken? People still roast chicken, right? It’s not just, like, sushi and gluten free vegan desserts nowadays?”
Steve opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Paddington dives off the sofa like he’s responding to an Avengers Assemble alarm—which, oh my god, could Paddington wear a little outfit and come with the Avengers on ops? Bucky needs to look into this immediately—and dances around in elation when Bucky opens the door to reveal Sam, who is looking fine as hell in a lavender button-down and navy trousers.
And Bucky’s heart is—honestly not reacting much differently than Paddington right now.
“Aw, hi, baby!” Sam says, leaning down to pet Paddington and scratch him behind the ears. When Sam’s finished giving Paddington the attention he so richly deserves, Bucky’s pulled in for a long, heartbreakingly tender kiss that sends a shiver of want down the entire length of his spine. Sam and Steve exchange their own greetings while Bucky surreptitiously reaches up to rub at the goosebumps prickling at the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.
“Steve, you’re going to be OK watching Paddington tonight, right?” Bucky’s voice is threaded with the justifiable suspicion of someone who has known Steve Rogers for a lifetime.
Steve’s mouth drops open in offense. “Yes! Bucky, I know how to watch a dog.”
Bucky lifts Paddington’s tiny body and curls his arms protectively around him. “OK, well, Paddington is the most important thing in the world to me, and you are literally the least responsible person I know, so.”
“What? Bucky, I’m—that’s—I’m Captain America. I’m famously responsible.”
“Sam is Captain America, Steve. I feel like you’re not moving on. Also my brain might be a giant lump of small curd cottage cheese now, but I still remember that you’re a reckless idiot.”
Sam gives Steve a sharp look of his own and says, “Steve, Paddington is very important to Bucky’s therapy and also to our therapy as a couple—” Sam pauses, then adds, “of coworkers. So make sure you give him his favorite treats, but don’t give him too many treats, and make sure he doesn’t pull the squeaker out of his stuffed alligator—”
Bucky and Sam lead Steve to the door while Sam continues to debrief Steve on all of Paddington’s most important feelings and preferences. “You should really be writing all of this down, Steve,” Sam says with a frown.
Steve sighs. “I have an eidetic memory.”
“All right, well, if we pick him up in the morning and he has an upset tummy, I will literally kill you, and Sam—the trustworthy Captain America—will be my alibi,” Bucky says.
Sam nods in solemn agreement.
Bucky and Sam part from Paddington with identical expressions of worry as Steve walks him down the hall to his apartment.
As soon as Steve’s door closes, Bucky is all over Sam, pressing him against the wall and skimming his lips over the warm skin of Sam’s neck. God, Sam smells incredible, like tobacco and vanilla and oiled leather, and somehow the masculine scent of him travels down Bucky’s windpipe and directly to his cock.
“Hi,” Bucky breathes.
“Hey, baby,” Sam murmurs, tipping his head back to let Bucky’s lips trail along his throat to his jawline. Bucky’s just getting really into it, his hips pressing insistently against Sam’s, when the timer for the oven goes off.
Over dinner, Bucky and Sam talk and laugh about their coworkers as the candlelight does frankly amazing things for Sam’s bone structure. Bucky squirms in his chair and tries to will away the flush he can feel spreading up his neck when Sam compliments Bucky on the romantic lighting and the beautiful place settings. Fuck, he’s supposed to be giving Sam quality time here, and instead Sam’s using that quality time to offer Bucky more words of affirmation. Bucky’s not really ready to concede this battle just yet, but he’s definitely starting to craft a defeat narrative for himself about the lack of shame in being beaten by the best.
And Sam is definitely the best.
“That chicken was incredible.” Sam pats his stomach and groans in satisfaction. “You know that’s just how my mama always makes it?”
Bucky wonders if it would be weird to divulge that he actually broke into Sam’s mother’s house to sneak a look at her recipe cards. That’s normal intelligence gathering, right? Bucky made sure Sam’s mom was out of the house when he entered, and afterward he sent a team of security specialists to give her a better alarm system setup—”compliments of SHIELD, ma’am”—when he realized that her house was way too easy to break into. And Bucky’s dad always said to leave things better than you found them, so if anything Sam’s mom is probably safer now than she was before the world’s most legendary assassin crept into her house to rifle through her personal belongings.
He feels like Natasha would agree with him but he also feels like Natasha is probably just as batshit insane as Bucky and Steve are. Bucky has literally no normal friends and he should probably start spending more time with Sharon Carter.
After dinner, Sam looks relaxed and sated, his eyes warm and heavy-lidded as he watches Bucky shiver under his praise. “You know you have a praise kink, right?”
“Yes, Sam,” Bucky says, and tries to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Steve and I did a ton of research and watched, like, hours of porn together. We figured it out.”
“You and Steve have some serious boundary issues.” Sam shakes his head and grins in amusement. “But seriously, though, you’re not just hooking up with me because you imprinted on me after I made your dick hard or something, right? I mean, I remember the first time I got a boner after being deployed. I cried like a baby, so I get it, man, but—”
“Actually, I sort of wanted to talk to you about that,” Bucky says, his stomach swimming with nerves. This is the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading since he planned this whole date night op. “I was thinking—how would you feel about taking this competition to the next level?”
Sam’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I just think we’d both have more time and energy to devote to this competition if we were competing, you know, exclusively.”
“Ah.” Sam’s expression clears and a slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You want to be boyfriends.”
“I want to be boyfriends,” Bucky confirms with a decisive nod.
He may be losing this love language competition by about a hundred and fifty points, but Bucky still has some fight in him yet. And between work and sex and co-ownership of Paddington, Bucky’s already spending so much time with Sam that there’s no real way to increase the amount of time in “quality time”—but he can improve the quality of that time. If Bucky and Sam are boyfriends, Bucky figures, all that quality time should automatically count for more points than the quality time they spend together as coworkers with confusing feelings for each other, right?
Bucky’s lungs burn as he holds his breath held in anticipation of Sam’s response.
“Yeah, let’s be boyfriends,” Sam says, with a grin tugging at his lips.
Bucky’s heart soars in victory.
***
Bucky and Sam have decided not to bring Paddington with them to any future therapy appointments just in case Dr. Carson tries to take him away like Cruella de Vil.
This week, however, Dr. Carson shows up their session with a whole new vibe. Instead of striding imperiously into her office in her usual stern fashion, Dr. Carson blows in fifteen minutes late with the casual energy of a high school senior during the last week of school. She walks over to her desk, flip-flops slapping against her feet, and reclines back in her chair to prop her feet up onto the polished surface of her solid oak desk. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie like a suburban mom in an airport waiting to fly down to Miami for a Caribbean cruise.
“So how’s it going this week, boys?” Dr. Carson asks, slurping from the straw of her Big Gulp soda.
“Um, great.” Sam eyes her cautiously. “Bucky and I are boyfriends now.”
“No shit!” Dr. Carson says, and tilts her head back to squint down at them. “Huh. What do you know about that.” Then she shrugs. “Tell me how it happened.”
So Bucky and Sam tell her every detail of the last week, including the way they tenderly made love after Sam agreed to be Bucky’s boyfriend. Dr. Carson is clear-eyed and engaged the entire time, even during the five full minutes Sam devotes to the ripple of Bucky’s abdominal muscles as he strains toward orgasm, and Bucky’s just starting to think that maybe they can get some real therapy out of Dr. Carson when she says—
“So Fury’s transferring me to Hawaii.”
Bucky’s mouth drops open. “What?”
“Yup.” Dr. Carson burrows deeper into her chair and lets out a relaxed sigh before taking another loud sip of her soda. “This is our last session!”
“So do we have a new therapist after this, or?” Sam waves his hand uncertainly.
“Nah, I’m just gonna go ahead and tell Fury that you guys are doing great. You’ve officially graduated therapy.”
Bucky chokes on air. “Excuse me, what? We graduated therapy?”
“Sure, why not?” Dr. Carson says with a lazy shrug. “Despite literally all of my expectations to the contrary, it seems like you guys have actually formed a stable partnership. Just, you know, maybe stop fucking so much at work.”
Bucky scoffs. “Listen, I didn’t give my life fighting Nazis in World War II—” he begins.
***
After Bucky and Sam’s appointment with Dr. Carson, Sam receives a text asking him to meet Fury in his executive suite.
Bucky heads back to his own office—his real one, buried deep within the bowels of SHIELD in a secret interrogation room someone bricked up the entrance to and then forgot about years ago. Bucky discovered it while crawling through the air ducts to place surveillance equipment in the offices of Nick Fury and the major SHIELD department heads. Once Bucky disposed of the mummified body he found inside—which, wow, super gross—it made the perfect private office space and server room.
Bucky opens his surveillance software just in time to hear Fury tell Sam that Bucky broke his best therapist.
“Dr. Carson is a highly trained professional at the top of her field,” Fury says, his voice stern. “I had to offer her a fifty percent raise to lure her away from private practice, and now I’m sending her away from D.C., where all of my elite agents reside, to Honolulu, which is where I send all the useless nepotism agents I’m forced to hire by the World Security Council. I don’t know what Barnes did to that woman but he just cost me a very experienced and expensive mental health professional.”
“And what makes you think Agent Barnes is at fault?”
“Dr. Carson is obviously not at liberty to divulge any specifics about what was said during your therapy sessions, but she did note that your bickering was ‘maddening’ and that she, quote, hadn’t even realized it was possible to overshare during therapy. She also indicated that Barnes instigated an invasive and traumatizing background check that caused her a great deal of personal distress.’”
“Given Agent Barnes’s history with SHIELD, I think it’s perfectly understandable that he may have sought reassurance that Dr. Carson wasn’t an agent of HYDRA.” Sam’s voice is bland and pleasant. “It’s hardly Agent Barnes’s fault that Dr. Carson turned out to have a surprisingly messy personal life.”
“Be that as it may, I’m suspending Barnes from active duty until he passes a second psych eval from another therapist.”
“With all due respect, sir, Agent Barnes has been nothing but cooperative in this retaliatory investigation into his mental state. He’s a skilled and creative fighter, a selfless and generous partner, and a brilliant tactician. He deserves to be treated with the same respect as any other SHIELD agent who hasn’t shot you.”
Jesus Christ, is Sam offering Bucky words of affirmation even when he’s not there to hear them? What kind of love language master is Sam? God, how can Bucky possibly compete with this?
Fury’s voice is strangled. “Retaliatory?”
“Yes,” Sam says firmly. “As far as I’m aware, Agent Barnes has cleared all mandatory psychological evaluations and then some. If you have a problem with his—or my—behavior in the workplace, I suggest you carefully review our employment contracts and initiate the appropriate disciplinary proceedings. In the meantime, I will be continuing with Agent Barnes as my partner. There will be no suspension.”
The sound of Fury’s office door slamming shut is unexpectedly erotic.
By the time Sam slides through the secret passageway into Bucky’s office, Sam looks calm and collected, like he hasn’t just returned from facing down a man with the power and authority to send him to one of a half-dozen black sites so secret they probably exist on other planets.
“So how’d the meeting go?” Bucky asks, suppressing a grin.
“Oh, it was fine,” Sam says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We don’t have to do therapy anymore.”
Bucky lets his smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah? No more retaliatory investigations into my mental state?”
When Sam realizes how Bucky must have overheard that remark, his eyes widen in delight. “I’m sorry, did you bug Fury’s office? Bucky Barnes, you crazy asshole, I love you so fucking much.”
Bucky freezes. Sam loves him? Adrenaline and exhilaration race through Bucky’s veins, spreading through his entire circulatory system until he feels like he’s going to buzz right out of his skin. For the second time in Bucky’s life, he’s been flung straight over the side of a cliff, except this time Sam has wings to catch him. God, this is why they call it falling, isn’t it?
Bucky is feeling so fucking affirmed right now. He has never felt so affirmed in his entire life.
And Bucky’s lost that stupid competition now, hasn’t he. There’s no way Bucky can compete with that declaration, no way he can pull off a victory after Sam just earned himself, like, fifty million points—but when Bucky looks at Sam’s gap-toothed grin, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s secretly won after all.
And he does have one last, best card to play.
“Hey, Sam,” Bucky says, with a wide grin, “how do you feel about moving in together?”
#marvel cinematic universe#bucky barnes#sam wilson#bucky barnes x sam wilson#winter falcon#steve rogers#natasha romanoff#steve rogers x natasha romanoff#old man steve has no power here#fuck old man steve#natasha romanoff lives#idiots in love
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Evie’s and Doug’s relationship develops the best, Pt. 1
Why do people hate Doug and his relationship with Evie so much?
I honestly don’t get it. Out of all the relationships, that one, hands down, actually develops the best.
Let’s start with the very first Descendants (Please confirm with me, however, that the events of the first movie span ONE month only), the introduction to both as characters and their start as a couple.
Take Evie first…
A vain, flirty, one-track mind wannabe-princess who was bred by her mother to be a spineless trophy wife to a prince. ANY prince. So spineless to the point where she tries to act dumb and highlights her cooking, sewing and cleaning abilities, thinking that this is what a prince could ever want. That there is no other reason anybody would ever want her.
Now Doug...
Insecure, somewhat (but not painfully) shy, scrawny and nerdy sidekick offspring. A commoner that is not even considered “good looking” by Disney’s princes standards. Son of a side kick, and not the smartest one at that, living with the kids of kings, queens, fairies and powerful magic-wielding beings. That must have added to his insecurities, being viewed as “less”. Even if he was friends with them, because he was.
He seemed to be the most welcoming and the least afraid (and reluctant) of all the AKs, except for Ben. But let’s take Ben out of the equation, its his proclamation, his decision and his passion project. But hey, Ben trusted and assigned Doug to be their guide to the school, that counts for them being friends and Doug being trusted by the future king. Friendship points right here.
And Evie… Well, he had his eyes on her from the start, blown away, admittedly, by her beauty and only her beauty at first. And that didn’t change when she introduced herself to be the Evil Queen’s daughter.
Out of all the different couples that Descendants have included (Mal/Ben, Carlos/Jane, Audrey/Jay, Lonnie/Jay), Doug and Evie are the only ones who can be considered direct enemies. He overlooked that, it didn’t even register to him, I guess. Which makes for a lot of very great hypothetical reactions from his parents/family to him possibly having feelings for their enemy’s daughter.
But as shallow as that was in the beginning, it wasn’t her beauty that kept Doug under Evie’s spell. But more about that later on.
Now, one thing I always respect about Doug is his protectiveness over her. He had her back a few times throughout the first movie alone. On introducing Chad jerkface Charming to her, he made a point to point out that while Chad inherited the charm, he didn’t inherit a lot of their there. Which could mean a lot of different things, I’ll give you that. But I’ll narrow it down to two traits, the first is Chad not being… bright. The second, I’d reckon, is Chad not being the nicest guy around, far away from Auradon’s straight and narrow norms.
Then the very next Evie-related scene, Chad is blatantly attempting to take advantage of her and she’s ignorantly letting him. While her ignorance is excused by the upbringing, Chad’s behavior is not. So, technically, Doug was looking out for her.
In correlation with the same two scenes, Doug saw the note Evie received from Chad, asking her to meet him under the bleachers. That visibly left Doug in a sour mood.
His next action was showing up to their meeting point to ask her out. After admitting he was technically stalking her. Sidekick offspring got balls; I’ll give him that.
While his advances were not exactly rejected, they were not welcomed either. Skipping game day, their next interaction takes places at the next Chemistry exam (BTW, what kind of school has an exam the day right after a big game? The announcer said the Auradon Knights were winning back the trophy, this is a final game of some sort.).
So any way, the next two scenes are basically what establish Evie and Doug as a couple, making her see him in a new light, if you will. Sappy as hell, but I loved it.
Yeah, so, Doug stands up for Evie after Chad jerkface Charming steals her magic mirror and turns it in because she was using it to cheat (which she totally was, but that’s not the point).
I hope you are seeing what I am seeing.
Yeah, I do mean Evie’s complete confusion over anyone standing up to defend her. Particularly, an AK, the supposed enemy. Especially Doug, the person she just blew off two days ago. She obviously isn’t used to people sticking up for her, seeing the good in her that she wasn’t even sure was there, acknowledging her intelligence and gambling her entire stay in Auradon on it.
He believed in her so much, so completely, so BLINDLY and in so little time. He believed in her smarts before she, herself, recognized she was all that. When she said that maybe for the first time, she felt she was more than a pretty face, he replied “A shocker, huh?”. He knew. Then she started to trust him and be somewhat affectionate towards him, telling him he was great [in there]. He suggested getting together to study and she almost spoke over him, eager to do so and excited for it. She was genuinely happy and for, maybe, the first time; her happiness was caused by someone outside of her inner circle.
Presumably a few days (weeks? I mean it’s the day right before the coronation) later, the crisis that was family day occurred. Now, let’s break that down.
In the Be Our Guest number, Doug is included. Ben flicks something off his shoulders, Chad grins at them both in idiotic happiness and… Jane is not included in the number. So, Doug is actually in the AKs’ inner circle with the royals while Jane isn’t, opposing several theories that Jane and the rest of the AKs were friends before the VKs came along.
Anyway, the fact that Doug is supposedly close with Chad is important for the very next Evie/Doug interactions.
Now after Queen Leah freaked out, Chad went OFF. He had a few points of course, and Evie retaliated peacefully (well, as peacefully as it can get after Chad’s outburst) with an insult using the mirror, Chad pushed her hand away because he is a jerkface (as previously established), Jay got involved and Evie sprayed him with the sleeping potion meant for the limo driver.
And Chad fell straight into Doug’s arms.
See where I am going with this? Not yet? Okay, no problem, I’ll get to the point. A while later, when Ben is speaking to the VKs, Doug is seen pacing back and forth, visibly conflicted about the entire situation. And rightly so.
He attempts to apologize to Evie, she apologizes back acknowledging that is was indeed her fault, however Chad jerkface Charming interrupts them and peer-pressures Doug back to his side.
Now while that is questionable behavior by Doug, the earlier events have to be taken into consideration. To the AKs and to Doug, while Chad provoked the VKs, Evie had a SLEEPING POTION in her PURSE at a FAMILY EVENT. So, Doug’s actions are completely justified, there is a valid reason for the seed of doubt now to grow. He sits back at the AKs table, glances at Evie then looks away when she is shown to be visibly upset, pushing away her tray of food that she was only picking at anyway.
BUT they obviously made up somewhere between the coronation and the after party. They danced together and after the number they bowed to the king, then skipped into each other’s arms.
Now with these gifs below I rest my case for the first movie…
Bonus gif from rehearsals and I am legit mad this entire sequence got cut:
I also blame everything on Sofia Carson and her ability to be so lovable...
#disney descendants#descendants#descendants 2#descendants 3#evie#evie grimhilde#evie descendants#doug descendants#evie daughter of evil queen#doug son of dopey#devie#king ben#ben florian#character study#relationship analysis#sorta#Sofia Carson is everything#malvie are soul sisters#friendships are good too#this is not over#in this essay i will#power couple
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ya girl saw the downton movie and has some Thoughts
if you followed me at all from 2011-2015 then you'll know i am firmly Team Downstairs and did not want this movie to happen, just so you all know what position i'm coming from here.
everything below is gonna be spoilery af. if you haven't seen it yet and want info just hmu. if you have seen it and want to talk about it please message me bc i’m always up for chatting about Downton.
okay but the title sequence with the music building and cresting as we come up over the hills and get our first shot of downton... goosebumps. tbh i don't know shit about film making but i can't fault the technical aspects (costumes, music, cinematography). the impact of the increased budget was felt from the very first second.
for the plot i’m gonna split things by character to make it easier. i’ll probably go to see it again and maybe after that i’ll have some deeper Thoughts but i missed being able to liveblog during the film so enjoy my rambling first reactions.
upstairs peeps
everything with violet was iconic. i'm glad that they didn't neglect her relationship with isobel and ofc maggie and imelda played fantastically off each other. pretty much everyone has already highlighted the scene with violet and mary at the end and it tied things up perfectly between them. violet and mary are so so similar and violet has been pushing for her to inherit since before S1. the movie showed us that mary is basically running the estate even if she doesn't get the the title and i can totally see why violet is confident in the future of downton now. that being said, i don't think violet will actually die. maggie has been talking about leaving since 2012 and fellowes obviously put this in as a get-out clause for her should she want to go, but i reckon they’ll convince her to do more. if carson's palsy can be mysteriously cured, so can violet's conveniently vague illness.
i already knew that robert and cora weren't gonna be in it much, but i wish we could've seen cora finding out what was happening with edith and helping her out. it wouldn't surprise me if there was a deleted scene there cause that whole storyline felt a little disjointed. i completely forgot that cora knew about the pregnancy and was so confused at how the queen foud out about it all. i don't think we got anything in robert and cora's bedroom, or anything with cora/baxter and robert/bates, which would've also been very welcome but i guess they can only fit in so much.
onto mary: this may be an unpopular opinion but god i miss her long hair. yeah i know it wasn't the style of the time but her wig in this one was tragic and they need to fix it. i absolutely love that t*lbot didn't exist for a solid 95% of this movie and mary got her rightful place ruling downton. i wouldn't say i’m the biggest mary fan but her arc felt like one of the more satisfying ones of the movie imo.
as someone who has been firmly #teamedith from day one i am delighted to see my girl happy and successful. literally all her outfits were A+ and not to be gay on main but those scenes of her in her nightclothes getting ready for bed gave me my rights. i’m sad that she seems like she's either given up her magazine or has less of a role in it now based on what they said outside???? she did seem unsatisfied with aspects of her position so hopefully she'll go back to doing some writing and publishing cause that was a good fit for her, and if edith and bertie are “modern” enough to travel without servants surely edith moving away from traditional grand lady duties and back to her magazine that wouldn't be an issue.
the mention of sybil being gone seven years? yeah. thanks for the pain. tom accidentally saving the monarchy on no less than two occasions is the ultimate "congratulations you played yourself" moment but the fact he thought the army had sent someone to check up on him is the level of republican i'm trying to be on. i'm a bit ehhhh on his relationship with lucy, mainly cause i'd rather the screentime given to the newbies had went to established characters. but like sybil/tom was a wholeass epic romantic slowburn spanning several years through a war and across class divisions n shit and meanwhile lucy/tom have known each other for forty eight hours and had three conversations in a hallway so like obviously that’s just gonna pale in comparison????? like it just is???? i guess i don't hate it but it just was a bit unnecessary and the time coulda been spent on better things.
isobel didn't have all that much to do on her own but i appreciated her scenes with violet and i love that she was the one to figure out that lucy was lady whatever's daughter. penelope wilton's facial expressions during some of the exchanges with violet were great. i see lord merton has also undergone a miraculous recovery from his apparently serious anaemia but he also didn't appear much which was a big win for me!
team downstairs aka the ones i turned up to see
as a downstairs supremacist who has watched the screentime distribution in previous fifty two eps of the show, it’s fair to say i had low expectations going in. i expected a grand total of 10 minutes for the servants combined and i think that's why i was unexpectedly happy with what we got. ideally we would've ditched the subplots involving the personal lives of the royals and all the stuff w imelda staunton and her maid but oh well it could’ve been worse and i'll take any breadcrumbs i can get. anyway i'm eagerly awaiting the team downstairs cut of the film one of yall will hopefully make when the dvd comes out. the only part that was far, FAR too upstairs heavy for me was the last sequence of the film after the royals left and i think we would've benefitted from rounding things off with team downstairs after the ball.
so i guess retirement magically cured the palsy carson had, but i guess after matthew’s miraculous recovery anything can happen at downton when it comes to health. Fellowes is getting a free pass for retconning this one cause i cba with more death/loss. mary going to carson for help and him immediately coming to her aid was very sweet. kinda wish we'd find out what he was up to post-Downton (except for his gardening) tho.
i was expected zero carson/hughes content in this movie and yet !!!! and yet!!!!!! we were somewhat well-fed. like carson (incorrectly) thinking he can control the other servants and mrs hughes' "oh that went well charlie, start as you mean to go on" hdjksjs i love them. and the lil scene in their cottage ugh. also we got more of them using their first names and yeah i guess that makes sense given they've been married for a while now but as i said, i had low expectations.
mrs hughes is still like the best person ever but wbk. her vs. the royal housekeeper = iconic. i kinda felt bad for royal whatsherface in some ways because she clearly didn't know who she was up against THE elsie hughes who has vanquished much scarier foes in her time. the other servants were never gonna win that battle.
the 0.5 seconds of baby bates *chef's kiss* perfection. god i am slightly bitter it was only 0.5 seconds given the fuckin multiseason journey leading up to his birth. tbh we should've ditched everything involving the personal lives of the rando new characters and let baby bates have some of that time but fellowes loves upstairs too much to let that happen. the small interaction was adorable though and i'm glad the mention of his name was subtle enough that we can retcon it cause i truly believe anna and bates would've came up with a more creative choice than that. genuinely i'm so curious about their whole living situation and how they cope with a smol child while working full time but i doubt fellowes even considered that so y’know. what can we do. i enjoyed the breadcrumbs but i wanted more.
i did go into this film with the mindset of "something awful will probably happen to anna or bates," cause that's what usually happens in these things but plot twist!!!! we saw them smile on multiple occassions!!!! what a nice change for us all! i swear every time anna bates smiles an angel gains their wings. her scenes with mary were good and i'm happy their friendship made it into the film. you know what else i was happy to see? the EXTREMELY UNDERRATED brotp between anna and baxter. there was a couple of moments with them standing next to each other or talking to each other and it warmed my heart. like yass two of my fave people are friends. it's a big win for me.
i'm sure i read something about brendan being involved in another project which meant he couldn't film too much (i'm curious to whether this impacted the lack of baby bates scenes?) and while it's true that bates didn't have a ton of scenes, i didn't feel like he was absent which was good.
thomas had the best storyline imo. i don't blame him for being angry that mary brought in carson and it was actually very iconic of him to go off in the library like that. i found it hilarious that while everyone else was panicking at downton he went off on gay adventures. i really wish we'd gotten this "thomas makes a gay friend then discovers the village's underground gay scene THEN gets a boyfriend" in the show cause that would've been SO MUCH BETTER than some of the other stuff that got stretched out across the last couple series (like the love quadrangle with daisy/ivy/alfred/jimmy). like, imagine thomas’ movie plot as a series-long arc. the impact. i liked the guy that was his maybe-boyfriend and i hope any continuation keeps that relationship going.
mrs p and daisy continue to be the mother-daughter duo of the century. i thought both of them were supposed to be moving to the farm post-S6 but i suppose that would've meant they wouldn't be in the film hence why it didn't come to fruition. i guess they could all move once daisy and andy get married. mrs patmore didn't get a great deal to do but i still feel like i saw her a fair amount. comrade daisy was awesome and is definitely me when i see any monarchy-related stuff. somewhere over the last few seasons she's developed into one of the most interesting characters in downton and we don't talk about that enough. andy trashing the boiler was immature af but at the same time i feel like it completely makes sense for daisy to take that as a compliment. it’s just such a daisy thing to do?????
now, there is one thing i kinda fucked up here. while i went into the film with low expectations for everyone else, i fully expected baxley to be A Thing because how could i not and boy did i come out looking like boo boo the fool. i guess baxter and molesley have continued the tradition of Agonisingly Long Downstairs Slowburns which would be okay if we were still getting one season per year but is quite frankly rude when we're on rationed content like this. the first half of the film i thought it was gonna be revealed that they were together or something but then that scene at the end implied they're dancing around each other and my god is it frustrating. i would give so much to trade tom and lucy's romantic subplot for a baxter/molesley one but once again i know that's an unrealistic dream.
definitely not enough baxter in general but that one shot of her, anna and mrs hughes standing in the same frame was worth the price of my cinema ticket. still love molesley even tho he's a monarchist.
in terms of the overall downstairs stuff, i'm euphoric at seeing all these people interact with each other again. as we all know, found family is the best trope and since the servants are literally the epitome of that every moment focussed on them is like chicken soup for my weary soul. was the revolution against the royal servants realistic? no. was it realistic for the two people who came up with most of the plot to be the ones who went to jail for doing literally nothing wrong and would therefore want to avoid stuff that could get them in trouble with an all-powerful family? also no! however, seeing downstairs all working together for a common goal is content that appeals directly to me and i am thankful.
shoutout to the last scene which is the best way the movie could've ended it for me. use of first names AND walking home together? thank u fellowes.
tldr; team downstairs fan who was strongly anti-movie, went in with low expectations, was pleasantly surprised. there are a shit ton of things i’d change but i just really loved seeing these characters who all mean so much to me again. obviously the only reason this film happened was for financial reasons rather than a desire to continue the storyline (cause the finale tied things up perfectly imo) but i wish they'd done a two-part miniseries instead to ensure everyone gets some screentime. two ninety minute specials every few years would work much better if everyone wants to keep downton going but i guess that doesn't bring the cash in like a movie does.
#downton abbey#downton abbey the movie#downton spoilers#downton abbey spoilers#downton abbey the movie spoilers#da spoilers#ok that's every spoiler tag i can think of no one has any reason to complain#robert crawley#edith crawley#charles carson#phyllis baxter#mary crawley#joseph molesley#john bates#violet crawley#cora crawley#anna bates#daisy mason#beryl patmore#thomas barrow#elsie hughes#isobel crawley#andy parker#is it just me that found it so weird to hear mary edith and isobel called by their married names?#like nah they are crawleys and they always will be
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Car Accident fic Part 2
I felt the need to finish this little story and come to some kind of resolution with Jason. Don’t worry though there’s still whump for Carson.
When the emergency vehicles arrived they went straight to Carson first. Daniel felt guilty just standing by, touching the spot where he'd been impaled just minutes before. It was a little sore but there wasn't a scratch on him, Jason either besides a sprained wrist. A paramedic jogged over to them, giving them each one of those large, grey, scratchy blankets like you see in the movies. Daniel shrugged his off and draped it around Carson as well, much to the annoyance of the paramedic that insisted he keep it on.
There was a tension in the air between the three of them. Daniel stayed glued to Carson's side but Jason was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't until they loaded Carson into the ambulance and prepared everyone to leave that he appeared again on the other side of the busted up truck.
"I don't need to go to the hospital," Carson said through chattering teeth. "I'll be fine after I get some sleep."
"Sir, please cooperate. It's better if you stay awake right now. Your temperature is still unusually cold at 95.3⁰." The paramedic told him.
--
They ended up taking them to a different hospital than the one in the city that they usually go to. And thus, there weren't any doctors there familiar with Carson's condition. While it wasn't strictly legal, it wasn't unheard of for hospitals to refuse treatment to magic users. Daniel managed to lie around the unexplained hypothermia as Carson's ribs were wrapped.
"Oh Danny, my baby, are you okay?" Daniel's mom ran over to him, followed by his dad.
"I'm fine, mom, just a little banged up." Daniel told her. It should have been obvious that he was fine seeing as he was standing next to the patient bed and not on it. It hadn't taken long for them to assess him and find that he had no serious injuries. Carson was doing better too, now that he was around more people with more energy he was able to restore his temperature quickly.
"And you, Carson, are you okay?" She turned to him after giving Daniel a hug.
"Fine, just a couple bruised ribs the doctor said it wasn't too bad, just needed to be wrapped for now."
As soon as Ralph was sure they were both okay Daniel's father stepped forward with a hard look on his face, "and the truck... it's totaled?"
Daniel nodded grimly.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sorry, Dad."
"You know I've had that truck since you were in middle school." He wasn't blaming his son, not really. Everyone knew how much he treasured that truck. It was the only vehicle their family even had and buying a new one would make a serious dent in their savings.
"We passed Jason on the way in, he seemed upset, didn't want to talk to anyone. Do you know what's going on with him?" His mom asked. Carson and Daniel exchanged nervous looks.
"He must still be shaken up from the crash," Daniel suggested. Luckily his parents were quick to believe him. Out of the corner of his eye Daniel spotted Jason walk over to them, leaning against the opposite wall. His brown eyes looked even darker than usual and his jaw was set with an emotion he couldn't quite place. He was going to say something, he could tell how bad he wanted to. Before Jason even had the chance to approach them Daniel took action.
"I'm gonna go talk to him. We'll bring back some coffee for everyone," He smiled. When his parents weren't looking he grabbed Jason's good wrist and started pulling him down a quiet hallway away from the ER. They stopped by some windows and Daniel let go of Jason's arm.
"What's wrong with you?" He demanded.
"What's wrong with me? You're the one hiding a god damn magic user. I can't believe you, bringing him to our house, my wedding-"
Without thinking, Daniel did something he hadn't done since they were kids. He raised his hand and slapped him square across the face. Jason fell silent, staring at the floor as his cheek turned red.
"Shut up! You saw what he did. He saved my life tonight and you're over here groveling to yourself. Would you rather I died?" Daniel's voice got louder and louder as he talked, "but no, all you can think about is the magic. You're just like everyone else, believing everything you hear about them without ever thinking for yourself!"
Rage sparked in Jason's eyes and his chest started to heave as adrenaline took over. "He's dangerous. My brother would never trust one of them, he must have you under his control somehow."
Daniel laughed madly, "His control? That's absolutely ridiculous. You've known him for years now, you know it's not like that."
"Do I? Do I know that? Magic users are manipulative, they kill and steal, like criminals. Hell, he's been lying to me the entire time I've known him. If using magic isn't a bad thing then why treat it like a dirty secret in the first place!" Jason yelled, rising to Daniel's volume. There were a few heated seconds where nothing happened but then they lunged at each other at the same time, falling to the ground.
Jason came out on top, gripping his shirt collar as Daniel attempted to punch him in the side. Jason retaliated by punching him in a face and before long they were in an all out brawl. Lost in their own world they didn't even notice when Carson turned the corner, stopping at the end of the hallway. At first he just watched, wrapping his arms around himself in discomfort. All this was happening because of him, because of what he was. And how could he convince himself that Jason was wrong? He has killed people, he has used his magic as a weapon countless times.
The fight didn't stop until they were too tired to continue. Jason's sprained wrist burned all the way up his arm and Daniel's face took enough hits to draw blood. Jason noticed him first, stopping in his tracks.
"Stop it. Both of you," Carson said. Jason quickly scrambled backward, away from Daniel. The anger was still there but he was actually too afraid not to do what Carson said.
"How can I convince you I'm not what you think I am?" Carson asked quietly.
"I don't want you convincing me of anything. Stay out of my head!" Jason barked.
Magicians couldn't even get into people's heads, only Carson had the limited ability as a soul magician to do that. Clearly he'd heard a lot of rumors, government propaganda too. People were the most afraid of danger they couldn't see. Right now he was just a person standing in a hallway, but to Jason he might as well have been holding a gun right to his head.
Daniel climbed to his feet after catching his breath and went to stand next to Carson. "Where are my parents?"
"Signing release forms."
"And what the hell are we going to tell them when they see the state of us?" He gestured towards himself and Jason who was still sitting on the ground looking scared out of his mind and more than a little pissed off.
Carson sighed deeply, "I think it's best if they don't see." He grabbed Daniel's wrist, healing all the surface wounds on his face but leaving any bruises that were covered by his shirt. He still needed to conserve his energy. Jason stared in disbelief as any traces of a fight disappeared from his brother's face, gone almost instantly. Carson took a step toward him, Jason scooted another foot back. "Can you hold him for me?"
Daniel nodded and grabbed Jason before he could run away, "that looks like it hurts," Carson said, eyeing the split skin over his knuckles, "this'll only take a second."
Carson laid his hand over Jason's, closing his eyes so he could read his energy before healing him. Jason didn't try to move away, he didn't even flinch. No, he just stayed completely still as Carson used his magic on him which was somehow so much worse than fighting back.
Jason was expecting pain but when Carson's skin made contact with his, he was filled with what might have been the best feeling he's ever experienced in his life. All aches and pains melted away. Even his fear and anger felt dulled under it's warmth. He closed his eyes, sagging against the floor as Carson's life energy swirled around his body, healing every little cut and bruise. Just to score some points with him Carson went as far as to heal his wrist too.
"That wasn't so bad was it?" Carson asked after he finished.
Jason blinked his eyes open slowly, staring aimlessly at the ceiling above them. "What... what was that?"
"I don't have time to explain everything to you now, but I'm a type of magician you've never heard of. A soul magician. I work with a different kind of energy than most... "magic users". I move life energy between living things in order to heal them, sometimes even resurrect them." Carson explained. Talking so much right after healing him left him a little breathless but he continued anyway, "what you felt just now was a tiny thread of my own soul."
Jason still looked skeptical but he'd calmed down considerably. What Carson didn't dare to mention was that the exchange could go both ways. Just as easily as he could heal him, he could also kill him by removing all the life from his body. It only takes about 3 seconds and doesn't leave a trace. So when you think about it, Carson is even more dangerous than the other magicians. But he did use his magic almost exclusively for healing so that part wasn't a total lie.
Jason got to his feet and patted himself down, amazed at how great he felt. No bruises, no pain, it was all gone just like that.
Carson however wasn't feeling as great. Blood roared in his ears as he stood and his body felt unusually heavy. He was forced to take a small step back to regain his balance but it did little to ease the disorienting pull he felt, luring him closer to the ground.
Daniel quickly grabbed his elbow to steady him, seeing him waver on his feet.
"Are you okay?" He asked several times until Carson seemed to hear him.
"Hmm? Yeah fine, just tired. Let's go home now," he said. Carson sniffled and an odd metallic taste filled his mouth.
"Um, Carson? Your nose is bleeding again."
"Shit, really?" He cursed, bringing a hand up to his face to catch the blood. It wasn't too severe, probably just a side effect of exhausting himself too much. Daniel pulled a packet of tissues out of his coat pocket and put it in his hand.
"Here, I'll go call a cab."
Quickly wadding up a couple tissues to hold to his face, Carson realized that Daniel probably carried tissues around just for this reason. He wasn't sure whether or not that should make him happy. Jason was staring at him again.
"I guess... I guess I shouldn't have been so harsh at first," Jason piped up.
Suppressing the urge to act like a petty bitch the second Jason seemed ready to concede, Carson took a deep breath and told him it was fine. Deep down he couldn't really blame him for being afraid.
If so much of that fear came from how he was raised then why wasn't Daniel the same way? Maybe it was just a difference in personality. Daniel was overly curious and dangerously fearless. "Oh you wanna try lighting this on fire? Go ahead, I'll hold it for you." Carson laughed to himself at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Jason asked.
Carson looked down the hallway to where Daniel was on the phone trying to get them a ride, “Nothing.”
#whump#part 2#car accident#magic reveal#magical exhaustion#magical healing#tired#nosebleed#fight#hospital#Carson Hall#Daniel Hopkins#Jason Hopkins#Daniel's family#these tags are a mess
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Rivers | Chapter 8
Tags/Trigger Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Self-Harm, Abuse of Authority, Anxiety, Childhood Trauma, Abduction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Victim Blaming, Dissociation, Forced Orgasm, Creampie, Kidnapping, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Humiliation, Crying, Angst, Dark, Psychological Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Grooming, Fucked Up, Slut Shaming, Asphyxiation
[read on AO3 here]
It has to have been weeks, at this point. The repeated abuse; the unyielding humiliation, heaped onto his decaying body and beaten into his fractured mind with every increment of time that passes.
Over and over and over again.
Richard had tried keeping track of it. A way to measure his stay, in this otherwise never-ending hell. But the exercise quickly proved itself useless after a while, when even he can’t be sure of its accuracy—not with the older man’s penchant for raping him unconscious, anyways. The truth, he’s realized bitterly, is that no matter how many times he’s suffered Richard is nowhere near closer to the end than he was at the very start. If anything, each count only served to solidify the helplessness of his situation: giving him an increasing figure for his brain to latch onto, while providing no real meaning or end in sight.
He stopped somewhere, after 17.
The door unlatches. The sound of it opening and closing rouses him from sleep, dragging him back into the land of the living. Richard groans as he wakes up to immense pain all over his body: hurt after terrible hurt after Rivers’ latest few visits, piled atop one another just beneath his skin, deeply buried within his tissues. One by one, they seize the muscles in his throat, his limbs, his torso, his chest. His lower half. Each part clamors over one another for his attention—taking turns to scream at him as if Richard could stand to do anything about them. As if merely lying conscious on the mattress, waiting for the inevitable, is not in and of itself a battle he’s sorely losing.
Wrapped in his own thoughts, Richard barely registers the hefty thumping down the stairs—too weighty and heavy footed a sound for it to be Rivers. He’s too busy mentally preparing for another few hours of having his body played with, he doesn’t even bother looking up at the hulking figure descending the staircase until it hovers directly over him.
“Richard?”
He cracks open his eyes.
“Are you Richard Carson?”
The large, intimidating man was dressed in black, in what looks to Richard to be some sort of uniform and matching jacket. The man takes one good look around the room before turning his head and talking to a device strapped onto his right-hand shoulder, tucked away almost completely by the large jacket. On his left, a silver badge sits above his breast pocket, gleaming under the pale yellow lighting of the room.
Richard balks at the sight of him. His heart pounds, fearing the sudden surge of hope threatening to overtake his body. He opens his mouth to answer the man, but eventually settles for a shaky nod when the words refuse to tumble out of him.
“Well, Richard,” the man says, crouching down to his eye-level. “I’m Officer Robertson, from the local county sheriff's department. Your friends, Katherine and Abigail, had called our office a few weeks ago and we’ve been on the case to find you since. I’m here to bring you back where you belong.”
His breath stutters. Soft and slow, like a repressed sob from deep within his chest. Richard stares at the officer for the longest time, refusing to even blink for fear that the man will disappear and it will all be some cruel dream he has yet to wake from.
It can’t… be.
He’s…
“Are you hurt anywhere, Richard? In any immediate pain I should know of?” The officer purses his lips, grimacing at the sight of the large, ghastly bruises mottling the skin around his neck, chest, and thighs. “Can you try sitting up for me?”
Richard tries his absolute hardest. He attempts to move his arms, his legs—anything he can leverage to get himself up. But despite his best efforts, his exhausted body refuses to budge even a muscle for him. Richard cries out in frustration. How long has he been locked up here that Rivers had done this much to him? He can’t even sit up.
Tears start to well up in his eyes.
“Hey, it’s okay,” the man says, reassuringly. “You stay right there, alright? I’m going to get you out of here, Richard; we’ll be out of here soon.”
Mr. Robertson inspects the chains binding his wrists to the bedpost. He gives it a good tug, before fumbling around for something in his pants.
“I can try to cut this chain if this doesn’t work, but I did find something while I was searching around the area.” He pulls out a ring of keys from within his left pocket. “I didn’t find anybody upstairs, but I did find this near the door. Do you know who has you here? Do you know where they might be right now?”
Richard nods, then immediately shakes his head. He realizes for the first time that he has no idea where Rivers heads off to after his visits. Up until now, he hadn’t even been aware the man had left the house.
It had been awhile since his last visit, Richard figures; perhaps Rivers had heard news that the police were coming for him and had fled the premises beforehand, abandoning him altogether.
“R… Ri..vers…”
“Rivers? Is that his name?” The officer tries out the various keys on the ring, until he finds a tarnished silver one that works. He inserts the right one into the keyholes on the cuffs, freeing Richard’s wrists.
“There we are. Now, do you have any clothes here? Or know anywhere we can get you clothes from?”
He shakes his head, blushing. He’s been left here without clothes for so long, he had almost forgotten...
The thought of that sends a shiver down his spine.
“Okay, then...” Mr. Robertson shrugs his jacket off of him, and offers it to Richard. “How's that? It’s not much, but it’ll do for now.”
The man guides him up on the bed, slowly, before helping him into his jacket. Richard’s nothing but grateful for it, even if the jacket’s scratchy fleece lining chafes at his sore, sensitive nipples.
“Thank you… s-sir…”
Mr. Robertson nods, standing up.
“From here, I think it’s best I carry you out. You can’t stand up now, can you Richard?”
He shakes his head. There’s no point in wasting time embarrassing himself in front of the officer again.
“That’s alright.” The officer hoists his body up with ease, placing Richard firmly across both his shoulders in a proper fireman’s carry. “Up you go, then.”
He doesn’t even care that the officer’s grip on his thighs is too firm to be comfortable. Richard stares at the basement room he’s leaving behind, growing further and further away as they climb up the stairs, until it’s out of sight altogether. The door closes—closing this chapter in his life for good.
He’s free. He’s finally free.
Mr. Robertson makes his way across the house until he reaches what is presumably the front door. To Richard’s surprise, it is pitch black when they take their first few steps outside. It wasn’t as if he knew what time it was, but somehow Richard was expecting there to be some sunlight still by the time they headed out. The moonless sky tonight is almost suffocating in its darkness, and he feels a sense of unease as the officer continues on walking unfazed.
“Officer..?”
Before he can even think to ask, Richard feels himself suddenly lifted off the man’s shoulder. He grunts upon impact, back slamming down onto something soft.
His brain short circuits as he realizes what it is.
“Officer, no… !!”
He shouts as his jacket is brusquely ripped off of him. A pair of hands cradles his head, placing it onto what feels like a pair of thighs, while a different pair goes to grab both his arms. Richard could practically feel the blood curdling in his veins when the cold metal encases his wrists, cuffing them tightly to one another.
A tongue presses against his exposed skin, slithering up his neck. Breathing heavily against his ear.
“You didn’t think you’d be gettin’ away so easily from me, did you Dick?”
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i could write it better than you ever felt it - FINAL
summary: fuck growing up. this is freedom, this is life, this is youth – 2007 Warped Tour style.
warnings: Language, vintage Something Corporate, oversugaring tea amidst Londoners
word count: 5.2k
A/N: this is it, fam! thanks for coming along in my time machine. I hope it’s everything you dreamed it would be. Shawn’s song is “As You Sleep” by Something Corporate, highly recommend a listen. thank you for everything you are and everything you give me. I love you guys.
Lucky 13.
The emblem of the 2007 Warped Tour has surrounded her all summer, but it feels especially present today somehow, on the last day of tour in Carson, California.
It seems a contradiction in terms, lucky 13, which Val supposes is probably the idea. She knows it’s a cheeky nod to the counterculture vibe that Warped Tour represents, but it also feels representative of her in some ways.
Val’s had a very contemplative and quiet three weeks since she gathered her things and walked out of that hotel room, leaving the scribbled note on the pillow behind her. She’s turned inward, no longer hounded by her conflict with Raf or Bea, able to focus on herself for the first time in a few months. And she’s picked out a few things that coincide with the theme of the summer.
Val is often reckless, and sometimes maternal. Val is book smart, and also street smart. Val embraces academia, but sometimes thinks she could drown herself in music and never read books again. Val is vibrant even when she is broken.
Humans are made up of contradictions, Val knows that as well as anyone. She is not suddenly realizing that she is not only one thing -- her dichotomies are not really news to her. But as she thinks about the people she loves most, she sees the way certain parts of their personalities bump up against other parts and fight for dominance, and she loves them more richly for it.
Humans are made up of contradictions and Val is embracing that from here on out. She arrived on the first day of Warped wearing a blink t-shirt with a textbook on Ming dynasty art in her trunk. All summer, she studied the ways she doesn’t fit in here in the scene anymore like she was looking for reasons to make a clean split and join her adult life across the pond. But the truth is, she failed. She looked for the ways that made her feel different from this world that she helped in her small way to build, but it’s as much a home to her as academia is and it will never truly feel foreign, no matter how many hours she spends crouched over a 9th century vase with a tiny brush. So her biggest contradiction, her inner strife over choosing academia over pop punk, it fades into her skin like her tattoo, as much a part of her as the dimple in her chin or the curls in her hair that she decided not to straighten today.
Val walks the grounds as the sun begins to fade. The last sets of the day are in progress or being set up. With earbuds in playing Boys Like Girls, she strolls between booths of merch people clinking beers and congratulating each other on a summer well done, between groups of kids comparing signed merch, between crew guys beginning to break down and pack away equipment to be pulled out next June for another go around.
She imagines who she’ll be next June.
She walks slowly on her way to Smartpunk. It seems her body is just as hesitant as her mind to attend this one last set, but she’s doing it anyway. She’s not sure why -- to prove a point to herself? To indulge in the talent one last time? To try to believe in a miracle?
She doesn’t like any of those options. She settles on curiosity and keeps her feet moving in uncharacteristically small steps.
She stands at the back, nice and far from any moshing action, by the All Time Low booth so she can sit on the edge of the table without getting grief from Vinny Vegas.
She wears a small smirk as the space around her fills in. It seems every Warped attendee is a Forefront convert now. She doesn’t blame them. But damn is it a far cry from their first sets in June.
They’re announced over the yelping cries of fans wearing out their last screams of summer. They hustle out in a group, with their tall, gawky frontman bringing up the rear as usual. He plants himself in front of the mic and swings one powerful arm above his head with a wild grin to wave as his adoring fans.
And it begins.
They put on a hell of a show. It’s not a given -- just because you’re good in the studio doesn’t mean you have the chemistry or energy to do well live. There are special bands that make a live concert a nearly religious experience -- her friends in Paramore and All Time Low among them. Forefront has gotten their sea legs this summer and won’t easily lose them now.
She takes the time to notice each member -- passionate, goofy Francis on rhythm guitar, hard-hitting, soft-spoken Seth on the drums, raucous pretty boy bassist Bobby. And then Shawn, switching between his keyboard and guitar effortlessly like he was born with a damn instrument in his hand, charisma leaking out of him all over the stage, making everyone in a fifteen mile radius certain that he’s born to do this.
She closes her eyes through the end of “Open End” and waits for “Swim” to start. When Shawn switches back to the keys at this point in the set, he usually engages in some chit chat with the boys or yammers on to the fans about how much they inspire him or whatever. But he’s quiet and the air around the stage is tense because everyone knows something’s up.
Val opens her eyes. He’s where she expected him to be, propped at the edge of his bench with his fingers resting over the keys, looking down at them frozen.
“We’re gonna play you a new one today.”
Val’s stomach falls out and flops into the dirt at her feet. She’s glad she’s sitting on the table because she can’t feel her legs. She overwhelmed by certainty that whatever’s about to happen, it’s going to be personal. And it’s going to hurt like hell.
Shawn is quiet for a few more electrically charged moments before he closes his eyes, rolls his shoulders forward and leans into the mic, singing before the instruments join him.
“Close your eyes and I will be swimming, lullabies fill your room, and I will be singing, singing only to you. Don’t forget I’ll hold your head, watch the night sky fading red.”
His fingers work furiously against the keys. The piano line is so intricate and shows off his talent for the instrument in a way she’s never seen. He keeps his eyes down at his hands as they dance, distracting him enough from the content of the lyrics so he can get through them without breaking down like he did when he wrote it.
“But as you sleep, and no one is listening, I will lift you off your feet, I'll keep you from sinking. Don't you wake up yet, cause soon I'll be leaving you. Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me.”
Val closes her eyes again and lets herself fall back into their last night, into their frantic lovemaking punctuated by irresponsible, unkeepable promises. She thinks about the weight of his legs between hers as she drifted off with him in the last full night sleep she got on tour. She remembers the way she let her hand rest on his side of the bed to try to tell when he left by how cool to the touch it felt.
“In the car, the radio leaves me searching for your star, a constellation of frustration driving home, singing my thoughts back to me, and watching heartache on TV.”
It feels so good to get this out, Shawn thinks as he hits each note just the way he wants it. This song came spilling out after their last night together in a way that felt too easy. After all that he put her through, he doesn’t deserve to have his art come easy. But art is never fair.
“But as you sleep, and no one is listening, I will lift you off your feet, I'll keep you from sinking. Don't you wake up yet, cause soon I'll be leaving you. Soon I'll be leaving you, but you won't be leaving me.”
By the second chorus, Val knows the words. It’s hard not to zero in when you know they’re about you. She notes the way the crowd reacts, arms in the air waving at him like he’s Jimi Hendrix, cheering along, eating up everything he gives them.
Good, she thinks, he deserves it.
The lead into the bridge is still piano heavy, but his fingers know the strokes of the keys as well as his heart does, so he gets to sit up and look around, grinning as their fans cheer, watching the sky explode vibrant summer watercolors over the trees on the horizon. A thick, soothing breeze passes through.
He looks back through to where he saw her a few songs ago. He lets his gaze stay there long enough that she knows now that she’s been spotted. He licks his lips and leans into the mic, but keeps his eyes up at her, perched on the ATL merch table like she owns it.
He repeats the lyrics even though each word feels like tearing at scabs that won’t be healing for a while. He pours it all in, everything he has left, every piece of I’m sorry, every hint of thank you, every whisper of I love you, it soars out over the heads of the fans who love the words but don’t know the boy that wrote them.
They’re for her.
As the final note fades out under sweeping cries of gratitude from the scene kids that came to celebrate their home and community, Val stands, brushes the dust from her skinny jeans and secures her earbuds back in place. With a final nodding smile to Vinny, she turns from the stage and walks off in gigantic, loping steps to read about John Singer Sergeant and listen to Dookie on repeat.
+++++++
December 18th, 2017
Shawn doesn’t often fit most musician stereotypes -- he doesn’t drink too heavily, he doesn’t do any drug harder than weed, he’s kind of a serial monogamist.
But he does love a moody walk along a body of water.
With a pair of good headphones, a carefully curated playlist and a path along the water, Shawn can figure out anything. When he gets stuck on a song, he goes to the water. When he’s in a weird spot with someone he’s dating, he goes to the water. He doesn’t like to get too spiritual about it, but it does feel somehow clarifying.
So one afternoon in London when the sun is out and the Londoners are out with it, Shawn decides to join them. He’s there on business promoting the latest Forefront album with a Live Lounge performance on BBC Radio 1 with Nick Grimshaw. He’s jetlagged and a little turned around by the Underground system like he usually is when in London but he’s otherwise feeling just fine. He just needs a walk by the water today. He tries not to look too closely at why.
He bundles up in the Barbour jacket his mum got him last Christmas and sets off down the stairs into the opulent Savoy hotel lobby decked out with a Christmas tree in every corner and fresh garland wrapped around every non-moving object in sight. He smiles at it -- nobody does Christmas like the Brits. He’s looking forward to going home in a few days to see his mum and the rest of his family and decompress for a few weeks before heading back over to the UK to write and record their next album.
He gets reflective like this -- the combination of the water and the music offer him perspective he can’t usually reach otherwise. He tucks his hands in his pockets and sets off through the garden that opens up into the Victoria Embankment Gardens, usually lush and green in the spring and summer, full of life and people. He likes it like this, though, cold and quiet and almost like a little secret.
2017 has been good to him. Forefront played seven new countries this year on their world tour in celebration of their sixth studio album. He’s gotten a little better over the years about being more present in those moments rather than looking forward anxiously to the next album and the expectations that surround it. That attitude really spoiled the last few records, but the new friends he’s made in the industry have helped guide him through that. He’s even becoming friends with the Irish guy from One Direction now, though they had very different paths to the music industry. He seems like a cool guy.
Personally, 2017 wasn’t really a banner year. He broke up with Jess in April after almost a full year. He’s had a few of those lately -- relationships that start hot and don’t make it past a year mark. He should take a closer look at that and figure out why he can’t seem to stay in a relationship for longer than 11 months, but he’s too tired to think about it now. It’s been a long fuckin’ year.
It’s been a long ten years, actually, since Joy Ride. He thinks back to the show they played at home in Toronto over the summer to celebrate the big anniversary. They played the whole album start to finish, something they’ve never gotten to do. Being immersed in it like that brings back a lot of memories of that summer when everything really kicked off. Not all those memories are ones Shawn likes to think about.
He doesn’t think about Valentina much. It’s by design. He doesn’t even play “As You Sleep” as often as it’s requested. It just… doesn’t feel healthy for him. He’ll pull it out every once in a while when curiosity gets the best of him, when it’s been long enough that he forgets how sharply he still feels every word of that song. He usually regrets it.
He lets himself wonder about her sometimes, like today when he’s knee deep in nostalgia anyway. He still sees Raf and the other Streets guys. They went on a hiatus for a while around 2013 but are back again recording a new record somewhere in Malibu, from what Shawn’s heard. When he sees them, he doesn’t ask about her. He doesn’t want her knowing he’s asking. And he thinks sometimes he doesn’t want to know what she’s really up to, he’d rather imagine.
He falls into his favorite daydream. He likes to think she stayed in the UK (he always felt like that was the place for her to end up). Maybe she got a job in conservation at Oxford or Cambridge or some other hoity-toity university. Maybe she met a nice, polite, skinny, bookish English guy who looks at her like a miracle every time she speaks to him. Maybe they had a small wedding at his local church and his family loves her because she’s colorful and articulate. Maybe they have dogs -- sheepdogs or setters or something, good country dogs. And maybe they’ve had a little girl.
That’s where he usually shuts the daydream down. For obvious reasons.
But when he doesn’t, he thinks about her and who she might be. He thinks about thick, lush curls flopped over a tiny forehead. He thinks about pouty little lips and a chin dimple that matches her mother’s. He thinks about little feet that kick hard because she’d have to be strong, of course.
Now that he’s letting himself think about it, he thinks maybe she’d look kinda like the kid that’s staring at him, reaching out from her pram that’s parked next to the bench he’s strolling past. He smiles at her and she beams back with a grin that has only two teeth. It makes Shawn laugh.
He glances over at her lucky mum or dad.
And it’s almost like he expected it, like it had to be her. I mean, this kid really couldn’t have been anyone but Val’s. She’s just… so Val.
So when Shawn looks her over, from her sweeping dark curls and her leather trousers and her ankle boots, he’s barely even surprised to see her. He just tips his head back and chuckles at the universe.
“Hey mister,” she calls, and her voice sets his skin rough with goosebumps, “Can I have your autograph?”
Shawn lets go of where he’s holding on to the wrought iron fence above the banks of the Thames and walks over, his chelsea boots scratching at the frosty stone.
She doesn’t stand to greet him. She’s got a similar look on her face, bemused acknowledgement of fate and its tricks, like she was thinking about him too and they both somehow willed this to happen. Her long slender legs are crossed. She has one black leather-gloved hand in the pram in the grasp of her little girl who’s chewing on her finger and no longer paying Shawn any attention.
“Hey, Vally,” he sighs. He doesn’t mean to call her that, it just happens. She doesn’t visibly react beyond a slightly deeper dimple in her cheek, so he figures he scraped by with that one.
“Were you on your way somewhere?” she asks, glancing back as if she realized she might be taking him away from something.
He shakes his head. “No, I just-- I’m staying at the Savoy and I like these gardens. I just wanted a walk.” He has enough presence of mind to pause his music. He doesn’t bother to mention it’s an old Streets song. That she wrote.
“We like it out here. We live over by the Farringdon stop but we take the train out here because we like the waterfowl.”
Val looks down at the pram as she speaks. Shawn takes that as an invitation to acknowledge her more formally.
“Who’s this?” he asks breathlessly.
“This is Alice,” Val replies with as much pride as he’s ever heard from any mother, “Alice Fernanda Moreno, she’s nine months old and very hefty for her age because we run a body positive household and she loves mashed carrot and swede.”
Shawn lifts a hand and waves in that open-close way he does like he’s a big toddler himself. Alice kicks hard and squeals at him.
“She’s… so beautiful,” he marvels. Val’s smug smile tells him she agrees. Shawn doesn’t share his next thought because it feels like a line and he doesn’t want to go there.
Because she looks exactly like you.
“I picked out a real pretty one,” she jokes, tightening the wrap of the thick wool blankets around Alice as she yawns.
Shawn continues staring at her openly, trying to pick out features that could belong to any potential father, but as far as he can tell, Alice is simply a clone of Val. It’s Val’s throat clearing that brings him back.
“Sit, Mendes,” she suggests, patting the warped wooden bench. Shawn lowers himself on the other side of the pram as Val rocks it back and forth with her foot.
“She’s been fussy today, but it’s naptime. She has to give in eventually,” Val mutters like she’s reasoning with herself. Shawn grins.
“You have a daughter.”
Val doesn’t look up from the pram as she rocks it. She just nods and snuggles into her prim peacoat.
“I have a daughter.”
Shawn can’t bring himself to ask. She’s wearing gloves so he can’t see if she’s wearing a ring. He stays quiet and studies her instead.
She looks largely the same, barely even older than she did at 22. Her sense of style is maybe the only thing he can see that’s changed in the ten years since he’s seen her last. There’s something comforting in that.
He wonders if he seems different. He works out more now, eats right. He’s definitely put on a whole lot of muscle since he was scrounging for burger scraps on Warped. He’s gotten a few more tattoos she can’t see. He also has an actual stylist now, which is sometimes weird, but he’s elevated the black skinnies, Vans and band tees to black skinnies, $800 boots and silk button-ups. So there’s that.
He’s still got that lip ring though.
But… he wonders if he seems different. If he carries himself differently. If he comes off more confident, more calm, less wide-eyed and wondering.
Because she seems the same. She’s always glowed from the inside out like this. Maybe the glow feels a little stronger now. Or maybe it’s just because she glows through herself and her baby girl all at once. Shawn sits back and watches them -- he could bathe in it all day.
“You know it’s been ten years?” she breathes.
Shawn nods slowly. “I know. Kinda feels like 40.”
She laughs and a piece of him astral projects back to nights tangled up in her bunk kissing her neck and trying to keep her quiet so her brother won’t come mock them from outside the bunk curtain.
“It does,” she muses, “But sometimes it feels like fifteen minutes ago, too.”
Shawn tips his head back and sniffs, looking up through a tall pine as its needles shiver.
“Has your decade been good to you?” she murmurs. He lifts his head back up. She’s staring down at the baby.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s been great. We’ve toured a lot, done a few more albums. The guys and I, I mean, you know us, we’d push each other in front of a bus most days, but we’re brothers and maybe obsessed with each other, too. We’re on a great ride.”
Val lifts her eyes to his briefly, all too knowingly, and lowers them back to the pram. “That’s good.”
Shawn shakes his head. “That’s not even at all what you meant, was it?”
“Nope.”
Shawn goes quiet, contemplative. Val waits him out until he’s ready.
“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he chokes finally, “Everything about it. Writing after Joy Ride, it was… it got bad. I mean, I was ok, like fundamentally, but I didn’t feel good. We had so many eyes on us. We had no idea what to do, just like no one else does. Some tours were great, some were bad. And the whole deal makes everything else harder. It’s hard on my family, my friends. I… I haven’t been in an actual good relationship in… five years, at least. This year was better. We’ve gotten our feet back under us. I let it all out in the last album, and that helped.”
“I know, I heard it.”
Shawn looks up from Val’s hands in the pram. For the first time all morning, he’s really, truly shocked to the bone.
“You did?”
Val doesn’t answer him exactly, just mutters something about needing to get the baby inside and announces they’ll head down the lane for a cup of tea. She leads them to a little corner coffee shop made for hipsters, not for women with very expensive prams, but Val doesn’t seem to care and parks in the corner by the fire. She layers down, stripping off her scarf and coat to a black turtleneck. Her cheeks go warm as she settles in and orders for them.
Shawn keeps his mouth shut and tries not to do the mental math of how many of the songs he’s released in the last ten years have been written about her, and exactly how many of them she might have noticed are definitely, totally written about her.
She folds her manicured hands together and looks up at him. His brain mercifully shuts off.
“It took a while after that summer for me to get there, but about three years later, I was around Oxford with some friends and I saw your latest album, on vinyl no less, in some indie record store. I suddenly got this feeling that I had to stop my whole life for a minute and go in and buy it. I bought it and the one that came before it, I said goodbye to my friends and I shut myself up in my flat for a couple days with a bottle of whiskey and just… let it happen.”
Shawn winces. “Wish you’d have just skipped over Making Midnight.”
Val smirks. “I wish I had, too.”
Shawn scoffs and leans back in his chair, mock offended. Val giggles and dumps an ungodly amount of sugar in her Earl Grey.
“I was glad to just hear your voice again, actually. I’d done a good job of avoiding it. Too good, maybe, because it was a real shock to the system when I heard it again.”
Shawn knows how that feels. He went through a Val cleanse too, a much shorter one because he doesn’t have her willpower. And then he heard a song she wrote with Alex Gaskarth for All Time Low’s Dirty Work and he let her back in.
“From then, I just bought your records when they came out. I really loved this last one. It really… I dunno, it just really felt like you, I guess.”
Shawn keeps his head down as he stares at his tea. He hears Alice coo. He looks up to see Val lifting her out of her pram to bounce her in her lap, baby in one arm, cup of tea in the other.
“God, it’s so fuckin’ good to see you,” he croaks, shaking his head a little, “Especially…”
He trails off, unwilling to finish. He ducks his head again.
“Especially with a kid I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to have?” Val guesses.
Shawn glances up and nods.
“Do you want to hear about this?” Val murmurs, ignoring Alice as she yanks at some silky curls.
Shawn chews on his lower lip. “Yeah, I think I do.”
It’s Val’s turn to look down. She stirs the mountain of slowly dissolving sugar at the bottom of her mug and sighs.
“She’s just mine. Last year I started to get a little anxious about my biological clock, especially given the last time I got pregnant. I saw a fertility specialist and we discussed my history and she agreed if I want to have children, it’s probably better to start now. So I went in for IVF. On the second cycle, I got pregnant with Alice. The pregnancy was complicated, but my doctor was a saint and did everything absolutely right. The birth went perfectly. So now it’s me and Alice against the world.”
Shawn slides his tongue against his lower lip, taps his foot impatiently against the leg of his chair. “Just you two?”
“Just us two,” Val replies easily, “There were a couple guys in and out before her, but I haven’t gone out with anyone since I got pregnant. I didn’t feel the need. I just wanted to focus on her. I’m glad I did.”
They’re quiet for a few minutes, reflective. Then Val stands and looks down at him.
“Would you mind holding her for a minute? I need to use the loo.”
Shawn bites his lip and nods, standing to complete the transfer. Alice is asleep in her mother’s arms, but, as Val explains with a chuckle, “she’s a snuggle whore -- she’ll go with anybody for a little cuddle.”
Shawn sits. Alice curls up against his chest and pops her tiny lips in her sleep. She radiates warmth from her little swaddled bundle. As he stares down at her, Shawn fundamentally understands why Val hasn’t needed anyone else in her life since Alice arrived. He thinks if Val let him, he’d never put her down.
Alice stretches a tiny arm out in her sleep and punches Shawn in the chest. He snickers, jostling his little bundle, but it doesn’t wake her. He starts to get comfortable, sliding down in the chair a bit so he can rock her, but Val’s hand on his shoulder startles him.
“It’s ok,” she says, “Keep her, if she’s not fussing. I’d rather she stay asleep.”
Shawn nods eagerly and strokes Alice’s back with his long, rough fingers. Val sits across the table with her elbows propped up like she’s physically restraining herself to keep from snatching her child out of his arms. It makes Shawn grin.
“You ok over there?”
Val blushes, caught. “It’s usually just the two of us. I don’t ever have to share her. I’m not used to jonesing.”
“I’ll give her back if you want,” Shawn mumbles reluctantly. Val giggles.
“No, it’s ok. She looks happy.”
Shawn hums. She does look happy.
“So are you working?” he asks quietly, not wanting to wake Alice.
Val nods. “We are, we work at the V&A in the medieval department. We just started back about a month ago after my maternity leave. The museum’s been very generous. They let me walk around with her strapped to my chest all day. She helps consult on various matters, charms my coworkers into letting me leave bottles of breastmilk in every fridge in the museum. I shifted from conservation to curation a few years ago, which is a steadier, more lucrative track. I think it’ll be better for us.”
Us. We’re working at the V&A. We started back at the museum. Shawn’s enamored. He goes pink and brushes through the curls on the back of Alice’s neck.
“Sounds like you’ve got a great partner here,” he quips.
Val is quiet for a minute. “We’re very happy together. But we get a little lonely sometimes. Like when it’s cold and mummy really doesn’t want to get out of bed but Alice is screaming bloody murder. Those are the only moments when this isn’t the greatest thing in the whole world.”
Shawn looks up. Val is watching him carefully. Before he can speak, she swallows and lowers her gaze.
“But we get along, you know. We’re ok.”
“Yeah,” Shawn says, “I know you are.”
They chat. They talk about Raf and his wife Rachel and their little ones -- Val and Alice will be heading across the pond to spend Christmas with them and her parents. They talk about Bea and how she’s spent five years with the same guy up in Edinburgh and she seems actually happy. They talk about their near miss at Alex’s wedding last April -- she came for the ceremony but had to skip out of the reception, Shawn the opposite. They chat through several more cups of tea, an array of pastries, and another nap cycle until it’s dark and quiet outside. Val stares mournfully out the window as she puts on her jacket with Alice back in her pram, gurgling quietly.
Shawn is silent, brow furrowed. He pays the tab with a ghost of a smile and thinks about walking back to his hotel to sit in his room with the TV to try to drown out this day. It’s… unappealing to say the least.
They walk to the door. Shawn holds it open for Val and Alice and considers that they probably look to anyone else like a young family that spent the day together and are headed home to a warm dinner and a cozy night in.
Val’s heart pounds in her ears faster than their boots’ steps on the crunchy ground. She wants to swallow the words, but she doesn’t think she can. Not with him.
“Would you like to walk us home?” she breathes.
Shawn’s smile is extraordinary. He looks up from Alice’s curious brown eyes.
“Yes, please.”
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Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @stillinskislydia @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn @alone-in-madness @alone-in-madness @singanddreamanyway@accioalena @randi-eve @shawnitsmutual @embracehappy @itrocksmysocks @yslsaint @peacedolantwins2 @kitykatnumber
#shawn mendes#shawn mendes fanfic#shawn mendes fan fic#shawn mendes fanfiction#shawn mendes fan fiction#shawn mendes fic#shawn peter raul mendes#shawn mendes angst#shawn mendes fluff#punk!shawn#warped tour shawn#dad!shawn
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in which some metafictional stuff happens
Inspired by some chat I was having with @sybilius and also an amazing ‘80s AU fic by @morgan-arthur although this can’t actually be blamed on either of them. Not least because it seems to be set in the ‘70s sometime instead.
so anyway, here’s a thing where Blondie and Tuco are draft-dodging, card-playing hustlers, and wow did I get involved in building up the situation for this. Also some racial stuff, hence the tagging.
(edit: Tumblr in its infinite wisdom blocks the fic when I had the tagging in. I’m of the opinion that any fic where the POC protagonist is contemplating their own participation in screwed-up racial dynamics for the sake of pulling a fast one ought to be tagged racism, but I also want people to actually be able to read the thing, so no tagging.)
Ugh.
Anyway, I feel that you can’t have Leone if the GBU characters are wandering around, so...
“Badlands,” Blondie says, holding the grey film can easily, as if it weighs no more than a dream; and Tuco privately seethes.
They’ve been so careful about this little hustle, never entering a town together or winning too much from the same people. Blondie will show up at a bar’s back room first, play a few hands, let everyone there get a sense of him as a discreet, careful player, with a damn-near perfect poker face.
Enter the sucker: one loud-mouthed, louder-dressed Mexican, twirling a mustache and flashing a roll (hundreds, wrapped around ones). Sometimes the other players will play it straight, and those nights they more or less break even. Other times, well...maybe he takes his time ordering the tequila, and gets to the table to find too many smiles, quiet sniggers behind the cards. And a couple too-good-to-be-true rounds to be sure of roping him in, with Blondie betting the most.
So he wins those, and takes all the money, and tells them he’s quitting while he’s ahead. With a free round of tequila for everybody, to show there’s no hard feelings. If that’s not good enough, he has his gun; and there’s always Blondie’s if the situation got serious. So far they haven’t needed either, because the hustle they sell is never about the money. It’s something better, even more important, for the kind of men who hate the border and everything from south of it. Giving them the chance to look down on this cringing, incredibly superstitious foreigner who’d obviously love to play on, but santa maria, the Virgin Mary, she whispers in my ear and tells me no, go home now...
(a joke in many layers; he’s from Brooklyn, not romantic Sonora, but even Blondie doesn’t know that part. There might be less dangerous ways of making a living; but none that won’t be just as insulting, Tuco figures. And the hours suit him fine.)
Only apparently their reputation’s preceded them this time, because there’s no reason on earth that Bill Carson would just so happen to have a hot film print sitting in the trunk of his car. Blondie’s got next to no vices that Tuco’s ever noticed, but every man needs a couple, and his are Westerns.
“Adequate stakes?“ Carson asks, with a hopeful, driving need in his voice- the jitteriness of a barely controlled addict, on something stronger than the whiskey he’s gulping like coke. Maybe there’s something to work with, then. If the stakes were worth it.
“An old film,” Tuco says dismissively. “You tell me what I want with an old film, eh?”
“Badlands is New Hollywood,” Blondie says, not letting go to Carson’s pleading tug. “They’d never made anything like this before.”
Now that’s simply not true, Tuco’s well aware; he can date and place their progress across the country simply by what movie was playing when. 1967, Texas, Bonnie and Clyde. 1968, Colorado, and such a handsome bastard in Ace High. By 1969 they’d reached Las Vegas in time for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and spent more time sneaking into theatres than counting cards, the way he remembers it. There have been plenty such films before.
Then again, he doesn’t know what it is that Blondie’s looking for, every time they sit before that silver screen and watch the pictures flickering by. To him they’re just a tolerable way to pass the time, a chance to rest his feet and fill his belly with hot buttered popcorn; but for Blondie, movies are meat and drink and eucharist all rolled into one, a gaping hole in the world’s tightly woven net, a wound that leads out somewhere that everything is upside-down, and their petty struggles for one more win, the indifferent hamburgers at forgettable lunch counters, sweaty nights at plastic-wrapped motels, all become the stuff of legend.
But Blondie does have such a fine poker face; and that makes it worthwhile putting up with his foibles. “All right, all right,” Tuco says, a little more impatiently than usual; and lays down the covering stake.
They win. Of course they win; and Bill Carson watches them take his prize with a strange kind of satisfaction, a relish that makes Tuco’s flesh prickle. All gamblers say they’re in it to win; not all of them are, though, and it fills him with unease when they play a man who begs the world to take everything he has.
“Fucker had it coming,” he says afterwards, in the night-cold air of the alley (desert air is cruel like that, he’d discovered early on, while pretending that he’d known it all along). “But no match for us, eh Blondie?”
That’s breaking ranks. Even now, standing in front of the battered station wagon that will lead them to the next town, and another and another, they are not supposed to talk of their connection- but Blondie merely shoves an elbow into his ribs, a lackluster motion with no energy behind it. Talking’s no use, the man’s transfixed.
Tuco curses under his breath, lights a cigarette to warm his hands and curb frustrated appetites. They’d plotted this one for weeks, planning and quarreling by turns, how to dupe the famous spendthrift Carson. He’d been dreaming of a month of steak dinners, real hotels with pile carpeting, enough money to let them rest a while and not have to do any thinking at all.
Instead they were taken in themselves, just as broke today as they were yesterday, with a head muzzy from too much tequila and his stomach crying out with hunger. He has to be drunk, Tuco concludes, or he’d never have let Blondie dictate terms; not when they could have held out for money or a car or something practical, not a damned film that they can’t even watch.
(Briefly, he envisions reaching out and pulling the narrow length of Blondie’s black necktie into a choking knot; and the image fills him with too much bleak satisfaction.)
“You there,” somebody calls. Standing at the edge of the alley, where the street lights can outline his silhouette to maximum effect; it’s a nice theatrical gesture, Tuco notes, and tucks that one away in his memory for later.
“You want us to put out, you’d better be prepared to pay up!” If that won’t get Blondie’s attention, nothing will. It doesn’t.
The interloper comes closer, and Tuco recognises him now; the fourth member of their poker quartet, the one who’s spoken even less than Blondie. His mouth moves more than Blondie’s, but his eyes are just as verboten. “I have something you two might be interested in.”
“We’re not,” Blondie says, dropping the precious film into his game bag; and Tuco watches him move it from hand to hand, ready to toss onto a soft bulging trash pile if the situation degenerates into a fight.
Angel Eyes smiles, at the both of them, and Tuco wishes he wouldn’t. “I have a projector. Someplace quiet to watch it, too. Sounds to me like we need each other.”
Blondie considers, pronounces. “Done.”
“Hang on here,” Tuco says, more for the sake of the protest than anything else. “Blondie, it’s late, this is new territory for us. We need to find somewhere to sleep tonight, get out bearings and pick up some dinner.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Angel Eyes says, an offer that’s halfway to a command. “Only fair recompense.”
“Do us both good,” Blondie says, now staring at Angel Eyes with that same lust he’d just been lavishing on a second-hand film can; and Tuco does not ask himself the source of that sudden raging heat that grips his body tight. Doesn’t ask what it means for their unspoken trust, if someone else can wedge a way between him and Blondie; doesn’t ask himself how long this deal with a devil can be expected to last, or how it’ll end.
All he allows himself to know is that he’s warm now, and somebody’s offered them dinner, and just now, there’s nothing more he wants out of life.
“Tuco will probably fall asleep, but never mind that, I’ll wake him up if he starts snoring,” Blondie says.
There’s a flicker in Angel’s expression, then. “For a poker player, you sure don’t pick up on tells.”
wouldn’t it be just my luck, to be the bystander in a tale of love at first sight?
“It’s your call, Blondie,” Tuco says, letting the tension drip into his shaking voice (it’s cheap, and he’d make himself a damn sight cheaper, to hold what he has). “Who are you spending the night with, huh?”
“Who’s to say I can’t spend it with both you idiots?“
“And where do you get off,” Angel Eyes asks. “Calling me an idiot?”
“If you weren’t, you’d have won the film yourself and we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Blondie says. He takes one of his little cigars from a shirt pocket, lights and inhales.
Not with the slightest trace of desire. There’s a devastating, effortless charm to it, the glorious self-sufficiency of a man who wants absolutely nothing from life, and will never need to ask. Illusion, the ideal poker face, perfect and complete.
Tuco sucks in a breath at the sight, same as he always does; besides him, simultaneously, Angel Eyes does precisely the same.
They don’t even need to look at each other, to share the next inexorable thought.
That one’s going to be trouble.
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Neuron Ch.9
Bucky x Named (Mutant) Reader
Warnings: fluff, fluff, dealing with trauma, etc.
Masterlist
Word count: 2,929
Note: THIS IS A REVISED CHAPTER. I didn’t really like the first iteration as much as I think I should for a chapter that basically sets the tone for the focus characters and relationship. And it’s my story, so I figured I could do what I wanted with it.
All in all, I really like this one better - I think it adheres more to the Bucky that I’m trying to write, and... it’s just better.
If you read the first one, and remember it at all feel free to let me know if you have any thoughts (I mean, feel free anyway) on the characterization.
The gifs still aren’t mine.
If you’ve ever made a gif, I appreciate you.
Bucky stood in the hallway outside your apartment, bouncing on his feet, mentally reciting his battle plan. Apologize, flash drive, retreat. Apologize, flash drive, retreat. Okay. Probably good to knock now.
He knocked on your door and took a deep breath; he heard you sigh, and wander over. He also heard you mutter, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
This was going well.
“I heard that,” he mumbled, trying to put his heart back where it was supposed to be. Then you opened the door.
Standing in the doorway, you wore your standard - large tee-shirt and shorts, but you were still so pretty. Pretty and tired. Why had he come here again? You blinked at him for a moment; every word he had ever learned escaped him.
When you finally broke the silence, your voice was hesitant, “Sorry. I just... I wasn’t expecting to see you. Is everything okay?” You poked your head out into the hallway, looking for Steve, Natasha maybe.
Bucky’s hand found his hair on its own, running through the tangled locks absentmindedly. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, just,” he trailed off, plunging his hand into a back pocket for the drive, “Steve forgot to give this back to you.”
“Thanks, that’s kinda important,” you said, taking the flash drive from his hand. The tone of your voice settled his nerves, but it didn’t escape him that you were careful not to brush his fingers with your own. Not that he could blame you.
“We figured. Steve was gonna mail it, but I wanted to come down myself,” he caught the ghost of a glimmer of hope in your eye and continued quickly, “just to be safe. I’m just a delivery boy today.”
That look was gone quick as it came, and you looked tired again. Damn near broke his heart. This was not going as planned.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, “I should’ve asked Mr. Stark before I left. That’s a long trip for a USB.”
Definitely not going to plan. He sighed, throwing the plan out the window. “Shoot, doll, that’s not what I meant. I just...” Finally, you met his gaze again with a look that said me too.
Nodding, you opened the door wider. “Let me make you some tea?”
Bucky had followed you into your apartment, at once watching the sway in your shoulders as you watched and covering all his exits - a window and fire escape to the east, and the door he’d come through.
You opened the microwave before it could beep and poured the steaming water into the two clean mugs on your cluttered counter. As you handed Bucky his mug of Constant Comment, the constellations on the heat-change mug started to show.
Several pillows and a few blankets sat piled on your couch, which you pushed onto the floor, and sat down crosslegged.
Bucky sat next to you, talking about the weather, about Peter having to start school again, about how when Sam showed up with a bugle Wanda threatened to chemically bond it to his backside should he play later than sundown. Small talk, sure, but it made you laugh.
“Alright, Buck. Lay it on me.” You peered over the rim of your octopus shaped mug, sipping slowly. “What’s on your mind?”
Bucky took a deep breath in, bobbed his tea bag, and asked, “Are you okay?”
The corner of your mouth turned up ever so slightly. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I am a hundred years old, you don’t have to worry about me.”
“We’re friends. Generally, that means we take turns worrying about each other.” When he didn’t respond, you asked hesitantly, “We’re still friends, right?”
“Yeah. We’re still friends.”
“I missed you,” you said quietly and Bucky’s heart was called back into his throat. Shit, he’d missed you too. “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, doll, what for?”
He could feel the heat radiating off your face as blood rose into your cheeks. “I ran away. From Strucker, myself, you guys. You.”
“I’ve done my share of running.”
You shook your head. “You’ve had valid reasons. I should’ve handled it better,” you whispered into your tea before taking a long sip.
Bucky took a long look at you. “It’s not a contest.”
“I know, but-” A car’s alarm forced its way into the room through the open window to your back, starling you and making you jump to your feet. “Mr. Carson I swear to god if that’s your Prius again,” you trailed off to smack the wall you shared with your neighbor. Presumably Mr. Carson.
His voice came back muffled through the wall, “Sorry!” Only when the beeping stopped did your shoulders recede from your ears.
“Wow,” Bucky remarked, watching you closely as you plopped back onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. “You sure you’re okay?”
You snorted, “Y’know I used to be better at hiding it. I don’t know what happened.”
Against his better judgement, Bucky said quietly, living your chin, “Don’t hide. Not from me.”
Good job, Barnes. That’ll keep things platonic. He withdrew his hand, internally facepalming and doing his best to ignore your expression. Wasn’t he supposed to have retreated by now? Recover you dumbass. “I just mean,” he cleared his throat, “you’ve been shot at, in hiding, a car chase, an explosion and harassed by reporters. That’s a lot to happen in two weeks.”
“Don’t forget chastised by Wanda and Rogers,” you said, laughing a little at the absurdity of your life at the present.
Bucky chuckled into his grimace, “Been there. Not fun.”
“And now I’m afraid of microwaves, car alarms, and peanuts.” You rolled your eyes and took another sip of tea.
“I freak out when it’s too cold,” he said with a shrug, “Especially if I’ve just woken up.”
“Buck,” you started.
“And, for the record, you could kick the shit out of any microwave.”
You let out a breath of laughter and nudged his shoulder, “What happened to not hiding?”
He grinned, “Made you laugh though.”
“Yeah, yeah, you cheese ball.” You held his gaze, eyes filled with something he couldn’t quite read.
His eyes flicked away from you, knowing that they’d give him away, and reached for his tea. “I’m still really fucked up.”
You stiffened and quickly deflated; he could feel it through the cushions. A glance in your direction, and he saw you nodding, lost in thought.
“I’m sorry,” you said, your tone suddenly colder. He waited for you to continue, frozen. “I misjudged... this, and,” you paused, “We should probably just forget it.”
Bucky nodded for a bit. Then he stopped nodding. Then he looked you square in the eye. “The thing is, I don’t want to forget it. Because you didn’t misjudge anything.”
Your mouth popped open in surprise. “So...” You bit onto your lower lip just to keep your mouth shut.
“I don’t know what that means, for us, y’know. I wouldn’t know where to begin, and I don’t know if I’m ready to be... But that’s... I thought you should know. You, uh,” he chuckled in defeat, “you’ve done some kinda number on me, Reese.”
Feeling your face begin to flush, and your heart begin to pound, you joked, “Oh, we’re on last names, are we Barnes?”
“Denna.”
“Sorry. You know, we could just go slow. Like ultra slow. Like, Steve playing Grand Theft Auto slow.”
He ran a hand through his hair, chuckling, cheeks bright red. “Y’know, I actually kind of understand that reference. He would probably try and use turn signals.”
“Well that’s an image I’ll never get out of my head. It’s pretty funny, though.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” Bucky smiled to himself, letting his eyes wander over your face. “But I think that could work. Us. Going slow. If that’s what you want.”
“I, yes. That is what I’d like, yes.” He put his mug back on the coffee table. Your mouth turned up in a smile over your mug. “Is your tea still hot?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
“You don’t have to drink it.”
“Thanks, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
A while later, the two of you were tidying your apartment. You yawned, closing the closet door on the mass of blankets and pillows from the floor.
“Lets clean, he says. You’ll feel better, he says,” you complained as you trudged over to Bucky, who was washing dishes, and thunked your forehead on his shoulder.
The smile was all over his voice as he replied, “You will. Trust me, the worst thing for you right now is living in a mess.”
You craned your neck to look up at him, squinting in suspicion and from tiredness. “Are you calling my apartment a dump?”
He glanced down at you, smirking. “Only a little.”
“It’ll be fun, he says.” You turned clumsily to bobble over to your couch, then flopped unceremoniously onto it facedown.
“Are you admitting defeat?” You only groaned in response. “It is well past midnight.” You groaned louder.
“Shoot,” you said into a cushion, “Do you have to drive all the way back?”
“Not if you let me sleep on your couch.”
You wiggled somehow into a sitting position. “You would be absolutely welcome to do that, or I can sleep on the couch, and you can sleep on my bed.”
He gave you a look. “We aren’t seriously about to have this argument again, are we? And why do I get the feeling you’ve slept on this couch every night since you’ve been back?”
“Because you’re a cyborg and a psychic?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes at you and crossed his arms in suspicion. “How many days has it been since you’ve gone outside?”
“How many days ago was Italy?”
“Okay, we are going outside tomorrow.”
“But Jimmy,” you whined, stretching back out on the couch.
“And,” he sounded amused, “you aren’t sleeping on the couch. C’mon.”
“I’m not even tired.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, I’m very tired I just don’t want to go to bed.” Bucky looked you up and down. You’d probably been having nightmares; most people would after the month you’d had, and that would explain your preference for the couch. And if they were anything like his, he couldn’t fault you for avoiding sleep.
Eventually, he sighed and uncrossed his arms. “What’d ya have in mind?”
Two and a half movies into a Star Wars marathon, you fell fast asleep on Bucky’s shoulder. When he realized you were completely unconscious, he’d smiled, turned the sound down but not off, and shifted a little to lean a bit more comfortably against the couch and let you stretch out more, slipping his arm around your shoulders. His movement didn’t seem to rouse you in the slightest.
He himself nodded off there for a few hours, until all your muscles tensed against him and he was called out of sleep.
Your brow was furrowed, mouth scrunched up and face paled in what seemed like vertigo, and your hand shot up to grab a handful of Bucky’s shirt. His hold on you tightened slightly on instinct.
You mumbled a string of names: Steve, Ra, Wanda, Sharkbait, Bucky.
Neurons began to crackle on your fingertips.
Oh boy.
“Nope,” Bucky mumbled, “Den, wake up, doll.” Your eyes flung open, glowing a soft yellow in the darkness. Once you processed who you were laying on top of, you released his shirt and relaxed into him.
“Sorry.”
“You were talking in your sleep. You okay?”
“Been better,” you blinked, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, “What was I saying.”
“Uh, a lot of names, actually. Ra, Wanda, Steve, somebody called ‘Sharkbait,’ me.”
“That would make sense”
“You know your eyes glow when you do that?”
“Do they? Huh. I did not know that. Great.”
After a moment or two of silence, Bucky nodded to the kitchen. “Tea?” You shook your head, burying your face in his side. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Carefully, you nodded, coming up for air. “I was on this spinning plate thing, and I kept making people jump off. I don’t know what they were falling into but it wasn’t good. A-and after I did Ra, and Wanda, and Sharkbait, and you... and Mr. Stark, my parents, my boss and I think every other person I’ve ever met. After I had them all jump to their deaths I looked up, and there was Tiffany Strucker and some henchmen, for lack of a better term, and she had me on puppet strings.”
He’d be lying if he said that didn’t sound familiar, but it wasn’t as if you’d made a habit of playing into Hydra’s hands. He told you just that.
“How can we know that?” you asked. “Everything that’s happened has been so, just, off. I don’t know. Why would she expend so much to capture you, capture me, and then put us in a room together when she knows full well what I’m capable of and didn’t even try to disable it. I just don’t get it. And she tortured you for hours, for no reason?”
“Okay, that’s a fair point. I honestly don’t even remember all of it, but I think... please tell me you couldn’t hear...” You nodded. “God, Denna, no one should have to... Should we restart Return of the Jedi?”
You sat up abruptly, shaking your head. “It’s like six in the morning, you probably want to sleep.”
“Nu uh, come back here.” He pouted at you, arms outstretched. “If it’s six in the morning, that means in forty odd minutes we are gonna have a great view of the sunrise through that window.”
Smiling gratefully, you lowered yourself back into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Okay,” you said, “but no yawning when we go outside.”
“Who could yawn with you around?”
“Oh, hush.”
It didn't take long for you to fall asleep again, and looking down at your peacefully sleeping face, beautifully illuminated by the rising sun, he just couldn’t help himself.
“Denna,” Bucky whispered, “You’re asleep, right?” Your toes twitched, and he had to stifle a chuckle. He pushed a feather-light kiss to the top of your head.
He waited another moment, then began, “I think going slow is gonna be harder than I thought. You’re just so damn, I don’t even have a word for it. I just don’t know how to any of this anymore. I dunno, maybe I never learned. But I want to give you everything, ‘cause you deserve more than me. And I’m too selfish to tell you that when you’re awake. And I think it’s because I’m falling in love with you.”
In all his rambling, Bucky hoped a little, somewhere in him that was secret, that you could hear him. But you were, in fact, sound asleep, and would be until eleven that morning.
But there were no more nightmares, so that was something
Genoa, some time ago
Tiffany Strucker made her way deeper into the earth beneath the facility, the area of her abdomen where Denna Reese had kicked her only slightly hindering her progress. She’d been trained to withstand worse, much worse, after all. The tunnels under the facility had been built during the war, but they hadn’t served much of a purpose until now.
She reached her destination, a dusty but functional lab, breathing heavily. She wasted no time; she strapped herself into the chair in front of a console that whirred, inserting IV drips into her veins.
Jason and a very tall woman joined Strucker soon after.
“I’ve brought the nymph, ma’am,” Jason said.
“Thank you, Jason,” Strucker started, when one of the many screens in front of her switched on, displaying the unhappy face of Hydra’s newest director.
“Strucker!” the man growled in anger, “Just what do you aim to accomplish here?” A medium sized man, of medium build with a medium ranged voice, was extraordinarily unremarkable except for his abnormally long thumbs.
Still fiddling with the rest of the monitors, Strucker replied, “The Avengers have always been an impedance, sir, but once I get the Reese girl on our side, no one will dare go against us.”
He scoffed, “You had Sergeant Barnes in custody and you let her escape with him - hell, you’re compromising two score of our special operatives for this girl.”
“I will not fail,” she said through gritted teeth. Feeds from the security cameras appeared on the screens. The Avengers’ Quinjet had just landed on the beach.
“For your sake, Tiffany, you’d better not.” Without another word, the director’s feed blacked out, and was replaced with another of Strucker’s office.
Jason spoke up, “I believe he is beginning to suspect... something.”
“If he has just now begun to suspect, then he is more of a fool than I thought.” Strucker swiveled around to face the woman, the nymph standing in the corner. Her hands folded in front of her and a shock collar hung on her neck. “What of you, Egeria? Has your vision changed?”
Egeria gave a thin smile, wondering why she’d let these mortals capture her. “As I’ve told you, visions do not often ‘change,’ as you put it. Reese and yourself are still the sides of a single coin. What that coin is, I couldn’t tell you.”
Strucker nodded curtly and settled back into her seat. “Jason, when the building blows, take her to the facility in Quebec. I’ll meet you there shortly, and then, what we discussed? Good. Now, they’ll expect me to wake up soon. I need to concentrate.”
#bucky#Bucky Barnes#james buchannan barnes#bucky x reader#mutant!reader#MCU#avengers#dear god#happy new year?#fanfiction#fluff#kinda#oc kinda#excuse me#Star Wars should not be watched chronologically#okay#fight me
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Who’s Number 1?
I realized I never put this older fic up on here. *reads it over* No wonder…
Heh. Well, anyway… It’s Sherry x Negan smut. 7,261 words. (Why the fuck is this so long? Editing is your friend, you long-winded idiot.) Possessive Sherry/ switchy Negan. (and comic-based as per usual for me. It’s also set in my ‘Days of his Wives’ timeline but you don’t need to read that.)
And yeah…my smut is about as clunky and unsexy as a pair of granny panties.
Sherry’s hair was tousled and she’d thrown on a wrinkled t-shirt and a short skirt with sneakers. She wasn’t meeting her polished Negan’s wife standard, and she didn’t care.
Negan gave her a disapproving look as she descended the stairs to Sanctuary’s main level. But he kept his mouth shut and loudly drew a few random Saviors over to watch him play ping-pong.
She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, what a great pass,” she said sarcastically as Negan missed and the ball hit the ground inches from her feet.
“Lucky shot,” he mumbled.
She crossed her arms tighter. Shit, it was cold down here. Outside, the snow was flying. She could barely see the fence through the factory windows, and the chained walkers were unmoving blobs. The cold slowed them down, made them sluggish.
It’d been cold in her bed last night too. She’d been about to tuck in for the night, dragging another blanket from Negan’s closet. He followed her into the girl’s room.
“Something you want?” She flopped down the blanket, giving him a sour look.
He was peering at the sixth bed in the room, which Nova had turned into a junk pile. “You girls…uh…don’t use that bed…do you?”
She looked up from making her bed, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”
“I’ve been thinking-”
“No.”
“What?”
“What you’re thinking, Negan. And the answer is no.”
“But I didn’t even say anything…”
“I know what you’re going to say!” Her voice rose. “You are not bringing another woman in here!”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” He tried playing the innocent card. It backfired, as always. He was the polar opposite of innocent.
“Who?” she said. It didn’t matter. She was just laying out her kindling all around him. Ready to strike a match and burn him down.
“No one…” He shrugged, picking at the hem of his shirt. He sent her a doleful smile. “Well. I had a conversation with one of the new chicks. Charlotte-”
“That red-headed slag? I should have fucking known.”
She’d seen the new Savior girl come in last week. Been a witness to Carson passing her off to old Molly to show her the ins-and-outs of Sanctuary. And Sherry knew Charlotte was just the sort of girl Negan would want to have ins-and-outs with. Long red hair, freckles dappled on her face and arms like a little wild pony for him to tame.
“I wouldn’t describe her like that…” His lips quirked. “She-”
“Conversation, huh?” She sneered. “How ever did she manage to speak when her mouth was full of your cock?”
“Heh. I wish…” Negan shut up in mid-chuckle and backed away from her. His hands up as she came at him with clenched fists. “Whoa, whoa…wait a minute.” He deflected a blow to the crotch. “You crazy bitch, watch where you’re fucking aiming!”
“I am watching!” She kicked him in the shin.
“C'mon, Sherry.”
“Don’t ‘cmon, Sherry’ me!” She screamed. “You think this shit is funny?! We have to devote ourselves to you, and yet, you’re out sleeping around, bringing home who-knows-what goddamn diseases.. and you just fucking brought Amber in!”
And that was it, most of all. She was pushed back to fifth place. Bumped out of her throne by Shanda and Jazzi and teenage jailbait and little Miss Can’t-Do-Wrong Amber…and now? He wanted to shove her into sixth.
Her throat burned with bile.
Negan gave her puppy-eyes. “I’m just fucking with you! Look, I’m not adding any more. Seriously! Sherry, it’s just a joke…”
“You’re always going on about how you want to fuck a redhead.”
“I didn’t sleep with her. I’m not going to. I think she wants me to…but I’m not gonna do that shit! I fuckin’ promise!”
“She wants you to…” She forcefully fluffed her pillow. “You are so goddamn full of yourself. You fucking pig. Get the hell out of my room.”
“Yeah, get out.” Nova’s voice came from behind Negan’s bulk. “You’re in my way. Dickhead.”
The girl shoved past him, her face sullen. She must’ve overheard.
“Fine…” He snorted. “And I fucking mean it. Last thing I need is more goddamn nagging harpies on my ass. In fact, maybe I ought to downsize.”
“Get out.”
He remained rigid. “Get out? This is my fucking house, Sherry, and I don’t have to ask your fucking permission on who’s going to live in it-”
“Get out!”
He slammed their door behind him. Nova and Sherry exchanged a disgusted look, before each retiring to their beds for the night.
He was already gone when she got up in the morning. She had a feeling he’d crash in one of his men’s room that night or make an excuse to hit the road for a few days.
Fucking weak-ass douchebag.
She was even more annoyed that, despite the cold, Negan had taken off his leather coat. His white shirt clinging to his muscles, leather gloves crinkling around the racket. It wasn’t just her eye that was being taken by his attractiveness.
Charlotte was standing on the other side of the table, sandwiched between two elder Saviors who were frequent observers of ping-pong matches. The old man, Orson, was also their door sentry. Charlotte’s long hair was buffeting him in the face repeatedly throughout the match. For every time Negan glanced in her direction, her hair would toss, her lip bit between seductive teeth. Then she would coyly flit her eyes away, flush spreading across her freckles.
A dimple showed in Negan’s cheek every fucking time.
Sherry’s eyes were dark. She knew that smile of his. That look. ‘I’m going to bend you over and fuck you raw, honey.’
Another hair toss. Orson finally stepped away. Charlotte was definitely down for that. She clapped along with the elders when the predictable end of the match came. Negan set down the racket and gave a little curtsy to the weak applause.
“Thank you, thank you. You may resume your daily scheduled tasks.” Such a gracious leader, for letting them stop work just to watch him prance about, feeding his already bloated ego.
How fucking generous.
The crowd broke up as he strutted away. Her vision was blocked by Saviors going this way and that, but she swore she saw a flash of red hair…heading down the same hallway Negan had taken.
You fucking scag. You’d better not even try it.
She was already playing the scene in her mind. Charlotte telling him how great he was at ping-pong! Him pulling her into a storage room and pushing her to her knees. Fisting her red hair, making her choke on him. Telling her he always loved a little fucking ginger.
Firecracker. That’s what’d he call her. Mmm…little firecracker, taking my cock like a pro. Don’t tell my wives…
She growled, but inwardly berated herself. Charlotte was an opportunistic tart, surely, but Negan was no saint in the matter. He encouraged it. It was silly to lay blame solely on the girl. And yet. Her fingernails turned to claws, as her possessive heart disregarded reason, as it filled with rage. Her territory was being breached.
She followed the trespasser, and Charlotte followed Negan. The bitch was tailing him, moving down all the same corridors. Sherry kept back at a discreet distance, letting the beacon of the fiery hair guide her. When he stopped, so did Charlotte, and so too did Sherry. The girl made pathetic attempts to look busy when he chatted up fellow Saviors. Waiting for the opportunity to pounce when he was alone.
Sherry ducked behind a large pipe as Negan stopped towards the entryway of one of the foundry’s many vast rooms. There was a storage closest on the far wall she was quite familiar with, and the sight of its rusted door never failed to get her juices literally flowing. It was a place she and Negan had met in her days prior to becoming his first wife. Trembling with the thrill of discovery, savoring the secrecy of it.
You gonna start another tryst in there today, Neegs?
Charlotte squared her shoulders and approached him. Closer…closer…and then Tara came through the doorway and nearly collided with him. He shoved her lightly, she shoved him back, and they engaged in their typical vulgar banter. Charlotte’s shoulders slumped…mistaking their verbal jabs for flirtation. She quickly turned and headed back down the hallway towards Sherry, trying to look nonchalant.
You dumb bitch.
Sherry slid into the shadows behind the pipe, her fingers trailing it. They came away coated with soot. She frowned and rubbed them off on her wrist…it looked like a bruise in the dim light. Charlotte was getting closer, her feet scraping the ground. Sherry held up her dirt-stained wrist, a sudden idea sparking.
Negan and Tara disappeared through the doorway, still yammering at each other. Charlotte ceased her casual walk and let out a sigh.
“Psst,” Sherry said, peering out from around the pipe.
“Oh! You scared me.”
“Come over here…”
“Um…is something wrong?”
“You don’t know me.” Sherry scrunched her neck into her shoulders, her green eyes wide and flitting fearfully about. “But…I noticed you were following Negan.” She swallowed hard.
“Oh…” Charlotte shook her head. “I wasn’t-”
“I’d stay away from him. He’s bad news.”
“I’m not following him. I was just…walking in the same direction.”
“Yeah. You were.” She sniffled. “I’ve seen it before. Lots of girls want to be a quick side fling. Think they’ll get favors or extra points.”
“What I do is none of your beeswax. And I wasn’t going to-”
Sherry talked right over her. “He’ll fuck you, sure, but that’ll be it. He won’t give you anything else. Might rough you up a little. He uh…tries to go easy on us…because we’re his wives.”
Charlotte stared at her.
“Doesn’t want it to come out how he hurts us. Our ‘husband’…wants to come across as generous and loving. It’s an 'honor’ to be with him. So…he holds back. Girls like you? You don’t mean shit to him and none of you will ever speak out against him.”
The redhead glanced back to the doorway, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re…a wife?”
“Yeah. Worst mistake of my life.” She peered out from around the pipe, gnawing at her lip. “But uh…I didn’t say that.”
“…You guys look like you have it so good.” Charlotte’s eyes dropped to Sherry’s wrist, where it was clutched tightly across the brunette’s chest. “And Negan seems… nice.”
Sherry laughed. “Nice? He just wants to fuck you. Use you.” She shifted her arms, faking a wince of pain. “Please. Just stay away from him.”
The girl’s eyes were still on her faux bruise, and then they trailed along the sooty pipe. Her chin suddenly jutted out. “That…that’s just dirt. And I saw you earlier… your arm wasn’t like that.”
Sherry smirked, stepping out from behind the pipe. “Well. Aren’t you the observant little bitch. You fucking got me.”
The corridor was abandoned. She reached out, grabbing Charlotte’s collar with both hands, and twirled her about, slamming her into the wall behind the pipe. Charlotte gasped.
“Hey!”
Sherry bared her teeth. “I’ll admit it. I got a little theatrical.” She drew the girl away from the wall, slammed her back again. Charlotte grunted, smacking her in the face. Sherry returned the blow, but it was with a closed fist. The redhead yelped.
“But believe me when I tell you…you fuck with Negan…and you will be fucked up.”
“By who? You?” Charlotte panted, her hand curling into a fist.
“Ah-ah-ah… don’t even. You know what happens to people who touch one of Negan’s wives? I say the word and half of your face is gonna be char-broiled.”
Charlotte’s lip quivered as Sherry smiled, a slow cruel spread of the lips.
“Just look at Dwight. You’ve seen him around, yeah? Guy with a burnt face?” Her stomach twisted guiltily, but she ignored it. “He used to be my husband.”
The girl’s fist loosened.
“That’s right. You be a good girl and keep your slutty hands away from my man…and your life will be fucking splendid.” She patted Charlotte’s flushed cheek. “Got it?”
“Y-y-yeah…” The girl fled as soon as she was released. Sherry waited until she was gone until she bent double, stifling laughter in her hand.
Oh my God. That was awesome. That is probably the bitchiest thing I’ve ever done!
She straightened up, shifting her thighs together. Something hot and heavy was curling in her stomach, and it wasn’t her earlier guilt. Oh no…it was something much different…gripping the entirety of her body and darkening her eyes.
Time to mark my fucking territory.
She tracked Negan down. He wasn’t far from the doorway, still bantering with Tara. When he saw her, he dismissed his female lieutenant.
“Next time I see you, you’re gonna be walking with a limp…” Tara smirked, giving Sherry a nod. Negan grunted.
“Get the fuck out of my sight.”
Tara mock-bowed. “Of course, sir. I’ll be sure to add a bag of ice to my scavenging list.”
“Bitch.” He grunted as Tara made her exit. He heaved a sigh and turned his eyes on Sherry. “Ice. Right. Because that’s what you’re fuckin’ here for, right? To bust my goddamn balls?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh, fuck me sideways – don’t say that. You know how much I dread those four fucking words?”
“In private.” She grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Come along, mister.”
“Sherry, I’m fucking busy.”
“Walk.”
He grunted again, following her back into the hallway.
“Get in there.”
“What the shit, Sherry. Can’t you wait until later? When I’m home?”
“You aren’t coming home. You’re gonna hide tonight.”
“Yeah…and you know why. I don’t want to be walking with a limp.”
“I promise I won’t touch your balls.” That was a lie. But he didn’t have to know that.
Once he was in the storage closet, and the door shut, she turned to give him a severe look. There was a small casement window that let in dim, dusty light. Dust motes floated above their heads. Memories of stifled moans and sweat flooded back to her.
Negan shifted his weight. “Heh. Isn’t this our closet…?”
“Yeah.”
“I see.” He looked away from her. “You brought me in here to fucking tell me you’re leaving, right? Like, where we started is where you’re gonna end it-”
“That Charlotte chick was following you.”
“She was?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me, you big fucker.”
“I didn’t see her, and fuck this bush-beating shit, Sherry. Just get to your fucking point.”
“Yeah. Sure, Negan.” She drew closer to him; and his eyebrows raised in apprehension. She noticed his hand was creeping around towards his belt, poised to protect his fragile cojones from her. He yelped as grabbed his lapels with both hands, yanking him down to her.
“Sherry, what the- mpph!”
His words were cut off by her vicious mouth. She batted away the hand at his belt, and began to unbuckle it.
“Mmmph…” He said through her kiss. His eyes went wide as she pulled on his bottom lip with her teeth. She growled, yanking his opened pants down, exposing the curve of his hip. Another yank, and there was his delicious happy trail.
“Sherry…?” He was stock-still, even as she gave another hard yank, leaving him standing with his boxers around his thighs and his junk hanging out. “What…”
“I need your dick in me. Now.”
“Uh…” He grinned like a moron. He took a step back, hiking his pants up. “…this is a trick, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, Negan!”
“You’re mad at me. I don’t want you near my dick.” He started to button up, and she flew at him, shoving him to the wall. Her hand thrust down into his boxers, gripping him in her first. Sliding up, down, her thumb rubbing under the head of his cock.
He shuddered, his hands fluttering in the air, unsure of what to do.
“Sure, I’m mad at you,” she hissed. “When am I not? So, how about we fuck and make up? Extra hard, so I can get all this irritation out of my system.”
He bit his lip, his eyebrows flinching as she continued to rub at his sensitive spot. She knew it was a bit too much stimulation out of the gate. But he was definitely starting to stiffen up. He pried her wrist away.
He nodded towards the door. “People will hear us.”
“Then keep your mouth shut.”
“It ain’t my mouth I’m worried about.”
She pulled off her wrinkled t-shirt and threw it at him. “Gag me, then.”
His eyebrows shot sky-high. His dick was definitely coming to life now. She saw it stir under the denim fabric. She came towards him, eyes glinting. Fuck, she was wet, and she shifted her hips. Swollen, aching.
He took a bandanna out of his pocket, discarding her shirt. “This really isn’t a trick, Sherry? You’re not gonna rip my balls off? Please say you’re not fucking with me.”
“I won’t be fucking with you if you don’t shut up!”
He just stood there like an idiot. She took his hand and pulled it up under her skirt. His breathing quickened when he felt her panties, when he crept one finger inside her slick wetness. She gasped slightly, pressing his hand more firmly against her. “Still think I’m lying to you…?”
“Ok. Ok. Fuck… Shit.” He fumbled to pull the bandanna around her mouth, tying it in a loose knot behind her head.
There was a table against one wall. She remembered that table well. It was solid and sturdy and didn’t make a lot of racket when two people were doing indecent things upon its metal surface. She gasped as Negan suddenly turned her, bending her over it with a rough motion. Equally rough, he yanked her panties and skirt down to her knees. His voice a growl in her ear. “How am I gonna know if it’s too rough for you…?” Her body jolting as he entered in one hard, deep stroke, and she cried into the gag. “Guess I won’t…”
“Mmmmpphh!” Her knees bent inward, her legs quivering. Her hand clawed ineffectively at the metal table. Pain sparked as he stretched her with his thick girth, as he filled her to the hilt.
“Ohhh…you’re so angry at me, Sherry.” He nipped her ear. “I’m gonna really have to fuck this animosity out of you.” He gave her a few, slow easy thrusts to start, letting her adjust – but not for long. Moments later, he had one hand wrapped her throat, her toes nearly leaving the ground with each hard thrust. His thighs connecting with her ass, the smack-smack of his balls against her. She saw stars.
And he was right – she was still filled with animosity. Because this could be Charlotte right now.
“I like you like this…” That deep voice, rumbling through his chest and into her. “Your fucking mouth shut? You should wear this fucking thing all the time.”
Asshole!
“Yeah. You talk way too fucking much. You don’t know your goddamn place. But you know it now, huh, Sher? Bent over and taking my fucking cock!”
You fucking asshole! She screamed through the gag, and he laughed. His hand came down with a loud smack on one of her ass cheeks. She jolted in surprise, screeching into the gag. Another slap to the other side. She shook her head, yelling reprimands into the bandanna.
“Stpphht!”
“Huh? Shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Sher-Bear. That’s bad manners.” *Whack*. That big hand was gonna leave an imprint.
“Nggggnn!” She writhed under him. He leaned forward, pinning her with the weight of his body. She could hardly breathe.
“Don’t think I’ve gotten all that aggression out of you yet, babe.” He smacked her ass mercilessly. She writhed and struggled, her skin burning. Tears rose in her eyes, and she whimpered.
“Ngggn…stph…stphhh!”
“You gonna be a good girl?” He cooed into her ear, and she nodded. “Huh?” His teeth grazed her neck.
“Y-yessssh.”
He chuckled, leaning back to allow her space. She breathed in hard through her nose. He took her breath away again as he renewed his aggressive thrusts, his arms wrapping her torso and holding her to him. She moaned, the gag wet with spit. Her insides thrumming as his cock hammered into all the right spots. Her eyes rolled back. Fuck! This was heaven.
Ok…maybe I won’t bust his balls. She nearly laughed.
“Good girl,” He groaned. “There’s no need to get so fuckin’ riled up, babe, but fuck me if it ain’t flattering. I ain’t ever gonna risk losing this pussy.”
And… back to wanting to bust his balls again. He was such a scoundrel. Yeah. She liked that. Scoundrel. He’d get a kick out that endearment.
“You like that?” He cooed into her ear before licking tenderly along the column of her neck. She nodded.
“Mmmhmm.”
“Feels so good, huh?”
“Mmhmmm.”
“Yeah. You wanted my cock so bad you fuckin’ tracked me down. You know how fucking hard that makes me? You feel it?”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, aren’t you?”
She snorted. His attempts at dirty talk were always laughable. She didn’t have any spare breath to chuckle. She delved a hand between her legs, rubbing two fingers on her clit. Sparks of pleasure travelled her spine. She wouldn’t last long at this rate.
He roughly grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”
So much for marking my territory. Her damn territory was marking her! She growled and wrested her hand away. He let it go, but only so he could punish her ass with another stinging slap. She squealed. He grabbed both ass cheeks, digging his nails in and pounding her so hard the table slid several inches across the floor. He let out a deep groan.
She gasped under the onslaught, arching her back, wiggling her hips, squirming to get him in just the right spot to -
“Mmm. Sherry. Your fucking ass is so hot! Can I switch holes?”
She shook her head.
“What was that? Speak up, I didn’t hear a fucking thing you said!”
Another frantic head shake.
“Oh…I think I’m gonna,” he rasped. “I want to hear you screaming through that thing. But just think…no one else will be able to hear you…”
His finger teased her backdoor. She whimpered and tried to rip the gag off. “Nggn! Nnnn!”
He patted her butt with a laugh. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, babe. I ain’t ever gonna sneak in there without express permission. Well… not my dick anyway. I might still give you a little surprise…”
She jolted as his spit-slicked thumb pushed inside her rear. Then he was fucking her again, using the buried thumb as a goddamn handhold. Her head tilted sideways, as she moaned around the strip of cloth in her mouth.
He groped her breasts, gripped onto her thigh. Smack, smack, their bodies collided loudly. Gag or no gag, people would know exactly what was occurring in here. She hoped Charlotte was nearby. Listening, with an ear at the door. Her face as red as her hair with sheer jealousy.
“Hrrddrr,” She groaned through the gag. The metal table was slippery with her sweat. He took hold of her hip and obeyed; her body shunted back and forth.
“Fuck yeah,” he hissed. “You like it rough, huh, you jealous little bitch? I know that’s what this is allll about.”
She growled.
He took hold of her hand and roughly guided it between her legs. “Now you can touch yourself. I want you cumming before this fucking minute is up.”
Who the fuck is in charge here?
Well, it obviously wasn’t her. Her legs quivered as her fingers twisted between her legs. Fuck! His thick finger in her ass…his thrusts rocking her, her swollen nub twitching under her touch…
“You don’t cum soon, and I’m gonna start fucking your ass, Sherry. You want that? I fucking want it, so believe me, I ain’t got shit to lose.”
That thick cock sinking into her ass! Her insides twisted in dread, and anticipation… Her clit twitched under her fingers. Even with the gag, her whimpering cries rang off the walls.
“You’re running out of time, baby.” He bucked against her hard, his breaths ragged. The big motherfucker wouldn’t last long enough to fuck her ass anyway!
She pulled the gag down. “…this ain’t… hard enough…”
“Hey…” He tried to wrest the gag back in place, but it was too much effort. “Alright, babe. How’s this?”
The metal table ground against the floor as it slid forward several inches. She braced herself against it with both hands. Her bones rattled from the impact. He fisted her hair in one hand, yanking her head back, leaving his mark on her neck.
Yes. Give that bitch something to look at!
“Yes…yes…Negan…” She praised him in whimpering moans, and he responded with even more effort to please her.
Pressure built in her core, and she writhed on the table, her hands clenching onto the edge with white knuckles. His balls slapping her, loud delightful smacks, oh, how she loved that sound! The wet sloppy sounds of their sex. His deep, breathy grunts. His fingers leaving bruises. “Fuck, Negan! Right there…” A sobbing cry left her. “Right there, baby, right-” She couldn’t speak any more.
Her climax hit, hard and merciless, taking her breath away. Her walls clenching around him, her clit pulsing under her fingers. Negan chuckled in smug satisfaction.
“Holy shit…” She sprawled slack on the table, struggling to regain her breath. Every cell in her body was flooded with warmth, a firefly glow. Wetness oozed down her thighs. Negan was still grinding away, his breath laboured…he was only a few thrusts away from flooding her further. “Negan…” she said, through her heavy breaths. “Stop.”
“I’m almost there, babe,” He grunted. “…just…a little longer.”
She reached back and shoved at his thigh. “I said stop!”
He grunted again, a slight whine squeaking through his teeth. His thrusts slowed slightly, but he still wasn’t stopping. She clenched a fist and punched him in the hip. “Get off me, Negan! NOW!”
“Fuckin’ fine!” He yelped, and she was left empty on the table as he jolted backwards. She turned to see his face torn between annoyance and desperation.
“You did come in here to fuck with me,” he whined accusingly. “…and I’m so stupid I fell for it-”
“Yeah, you’re stupid,” she said, “but don’t pout just yet, you big fucking baby.”
“I don’t have time for this…” He reached down to grip himself, but she slapped his hand away.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?” She pulled the bandanna from off her neck. “Put this on. You stay quiet like a good little boy…and ole Sher-Bear will make you feel real good.”
He looked doubtfully at the gag.
She leaned back against the table, running a hand seductively between her breasts. “Put it on, Neegs.”
“It’s all… fucking… spitty.”
She licked her lips. “You want my spit on your dick? Then put the fucking thing on.”
It was a wicked delight to watch him tie the gag around his obnoxious mouth. His eyes followed her movements as she folded her t-shirt on the floor… a nice cushion as she sank to her knees. Her cheek pressed alongside his thigh, a sly look thrown. She wasn’t going to tell him…but he was adorable. His brown eyes wide, his big stupid mouth shut.
If only he could be like this all the time… She chuckled aloud.
“Now, you’re going to listen to me, Negan, or I’m going to leave you here with blue balls. You got me?”
He nodded.
“Touch yourself.”
He closed his big hand around his cock and stroked. Groaning through the gag. His hand picking up speed, his hips rocking into his closed fist. Thumb rubbing under the swollen head, circling the slit, smearing his arousal shiny and wet over the tip.
“Yeah, that’s it.”
He breathed harder through the gag, his eyebrows knitting together. His eyes squeezed shut.
“Stop. Don’t you fucking cum yet.”
She smacked his hand when he didn’t listen. He moaned and reluctantly released himself.
She breathed gently on the head of his dick, watching it twitch. Her hands crept up his inner thighs, then cradled his sack in her hand. “I lied…” she said. “I’m touching your balls.”
He laughed.
She rolled his sack in her hand, gently massaging and his shoulders lifted in a sigh. She leaned forward, sucking one ball into her mouth, her tongue caressing the tender flesh. He sighed again, and she felt him shiver. Her hand pressed his dick to his belly and she trailed her tongue along the underside, until she reached a particular spot. A sensitive little gem where his foreskin connected to his shaft – a spot that drove him fucking crazy. She licked upon it, and he jolted in his boots. The gag was no match for his loud groan.
“Mmmm, yeah.” Her tongue slathered all over his head, then back to that spot. He breathed hard, his hands kneading into her hair. His dick twitched against her lips, the salty taste of his arousal was on her tongue. “You like that, Negan?”
He nodded. Oh, he more than liked it.
She smiled, placing a sweet kiss on his tip. “I got a question for you, Neegs. Did you jerk it thinking about her?”
He shook his head, but she knew that was a lie. She could picture him in the bathroom, bracing one hand against the wall while he stroked himself, thinking about Charlotte’s red hair, thinking about how he had plenty of fluids to douse that 'firecrotch’ of hers!
She frowned, placing a finger on the tip of his dick and moving it in slow circles, his cock moving with it. “Now, now. You know what good boys don’t do, Negan? Good boys…”
She drew her hand back. “Don’t! Tell! Fibs!” Each word was punctuated with a sharp, stinging smack to the head of his cock.
He yelped and stepped away from her. Swiftly, she grabbed hold of his balls. He froze in place, his eyes wide.
He pulled down the corner of the gag. “You…you fuckin’ said you weren’t gonna hurt my balls-”
“I never said that.” She stroked a thumb along his scrotum, still keeping a firm hold. “I said I wouldn’t touch them, and well… I already broke that promise, didn’t I?”
“Sherry-”
“Shut up, and put that thing back on.” She tightened her grip, and he flinched. His fingers touched her wrist, and she hissed. “Get your fucking hands off me, Negan.”
“Bitch, you hurt me and-”
She gripped even harder, and his shoulders cringed, a breathy whine of pain came through his teeth. “Don’t you threaten me. You do what I say and your boys will be just fine. Put the gag on.”
He did.
“Tell me the fucking truth this time. You blow your load thinking about her?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. I knew it! How many times?”
He raised a finger.
“You are full of shit!” She tightened her hand, and he hastily put up two more fingers.
She stood up slowly, still clasping his sack in a tightening grip. Her lips pressed to his chin, and she purred. “You are such a lying motherfucker.”
“Ididnkeepcount-” he spoke through the gag.
“That’s a more honest answer, you goddamn pervert. I almost believe you. Well, you can wrestle little Negan all you want over her… but if you put one finger on that little slut…” She tightened her hand, and he shook his head frantically.
She chuckled and slowly slid back down to her knees, releasing her tight grip on his balls and gently rubbing the affronted flesh. Another chuckle. “Oh Neegs…you love getting your balls busted, don’t you?” His dick was dripping precum like a leaky faucet.
He didn’t answer that one. She touched her tongue to his tip, lapping up the dripping arousal, and pulling away to stretch it between tongue and head. Her green eyes peering up at him. The string broke, splattering wet on her chin. She wiped it away, and dipped her head to take him as deep as she could. Just brushing the threshold of her gag reflex.
He moaned. She couldn’t take his entire length like Shanda, and she rarely tolerated face fuckery the way Nova or Amber did. A hand slid under his tshirt, her fingers curling on his belly. Fuck! His deep groans, muffled… his muscles tensing under her fingers, the gag pulled taut between his perfect teeth. She couldn’t blame Charlotte for trying. Her man was hot as fuck.
She set her hand on his thigh while she bobbed her head, feeling the quivers go through him. He wanted to thrust, she could tell, and his hand was trembling too as he clenched it onto the back of her head. She drew back, cooing, “You’re being such a good, good boy, Neegsy…”
“Mmmmhmmm,” he agreed through the gag.
“You wanna cum so bad, don’t you?”
“Mmmhmm!”
“Heh.” Slowly, she circled her tongue around his head. Kneading his balls in both hands. His muffled sounds were making her throb, and she drew a hand down to curl two fingers into her wetness. They were a poor substitute for his cock, but it felt good anyway. His breathing was getting heavier and heavier. His hips jerking in sporadic, twitchy motions. He was close, and she teased him right to the edge before pulling back. His hand went iron-rigid in her hair, trying to hold her against him, and she gave a sharp, startling nip to his foreskin.
A yelp was muffled into the gag, and his hand sprang away from her. She laughed as she leaned back to catch her breath. “Bad boy!”
“Sowwy,” he mumbled.
She smiled cruelly. “Awww. You were so close, huh? Poor Neegs, he wants to blow his load sooo bad. I wonder how long you would’ve lasted with ole Charlotte in here? Thirty seconds before you were painting her face?”
He scowled, then shuddered as she blew a stream of warm air against his aching cock. “We wouldn’t want to get cum all in that pretty red hair of hers, would we?”
She chuckled as his look of annoyance deepened. She withdrew her fingers from herself, slick from her arousal. Her eyes on his, she sucked them into her mouth.
“Take that gag off,” she whispered as she plied her fingers into her lower lip. “I want to hear you when you blow.”
He pushed the bandanna down. “You better start fucking sucking then…”
“I didn’t say you could talk.” One wet finger trailed feather-light up the underside of his dick, and she scraped her fingernail ever-so-lightly across his frenulum. He shivered, gritting his teeth.
Her other hand was delving between her legs again, her fingers slick and wet and warm, and then feeling their way up the back of his thigh and to his ass.
He yelped as she pressed one finger inside him. “S-s-shit!”
His cock twitched and his ass clenched around her finger. She chuckled. “Oh my.”
“Fuck, that hurt, you goddamn bitch! Maybe warn me next-fucking-time?”
“Ok. I’m warning you.” She grinned evilly, before working another finger in alongside the first. He jumped like a lit firecracker.
“Shit! Dammit, Sherry…oh…ohhh. Fuck!”
Her finger curled inside him, finding that treasured spot, stroking upon his prostate. And her mouth, hot and wet, latching onto his swollen head, tongue flitting against the underside. Her hand gripping him and stroking as she worked her mouth up and down.
“Fuck…fuck yeah…” he moaned. Panting, his head tilting back.
“How’s that feel, big boy?”
“Feels fuckin’ amazing…” He grit his teeth, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Er… but don’t tell the other girls. Um.. about the fingers in the butt thing and all.”
“Gimmie a break, I know Nova and Shanda have stuck bigger things than a finger in your poop chute.”
His cheeks went red, and she snorted in laughter.
“Just…just suck my dick. I got shit to do.”
She ignored him, thrusting her fingers harder inside him. Her hot breath a tease on the swollen head, which had turned a dark, desperate red.
“C'mon… put that dick in your mouth!”
She merely teased him with light touches of tongue. Little licks and taps here and there. His dick was like granite, the veins standing out rigid. “You wanna cum? You want ole Sher-Bear to suck your balls dry?”
“Uh huh, Sher. I wanna cum.” He grit his teeth. “Please…”
Oh, she loved when he begged. She sucked on his sack, leaving a round stinging mark. He jolted and moaned, and his ass tightened around her thrusting fingers.
“Fuck!”
She narrowed her eyes up at him, her grin devilish. Her lips dragged slowly along the side of his dick. Nipping gently at each rigid vein.
“Sherry, Sher-Bear…c'mon.” He whimpered, and activated his most epic set of puppy-dog eyes, his lip jutting out in a pout. “Please…please…I need your goddamn mouth on me.”
She snickered. He was so pathetic she almost wanted to get up and leave, letting him jerk himself to an unsatisfying end. She pressed a finger hard into his prostate and he shuddered, a whine in his throat. Grinding himself into her fingers, his hips thrusting in weird, sporadic jerks, like he’d get some kind of friction from the very air.
“Oh, big boy is so desperate, isn’t he?” She cradled his cock alongside her cheek. “Ok. Since you asked nicely…”
“Yeah…fuck yeah…” He shuddered and kneaded at her hair as her mouth encased his dick, slurping and bobbing along the hard length. She didn’t protest when he gripped harder, rocking himself into the depths of her mouth. She gagged slightly, drawing back.
“Shit. Sorry…”
She ignored him, swallowing his tip again, her hand pumping his shaft in time to her hard suckling. Driving her fingers more aggressively into him. His moans were raining down on her. If Charlotte was outside, she was surely rooted to the spot, her ears ringing with his ecstasy… the ecstasy Sherry was bringing him.
Negan’s hand tightened in her hair, and she felt his dick getting harder in her mouth. Quickly, she pulled back, leaving his cock quivering in mid-air. He whimpered through panting breaths. “S-Sherry…f-f-fuck…don’t stop…not now!”
She leaned back, stilling her fingers inside him. Her gaze locking on his. He was sweating, his eyes panicked. Locked right on the edge of orgasm, every nerve twinging like a live wire.
“You think that hussy can do you like I do?” She hissed. “You want to run around, fucking every pussy you see?”
He bit his lip, afraid to answer, and she hissed again. “You gonna bring that bitch home?”
“No! I already said I fuckin’ wasn’t!” He tried to wrest her head back to his cock. She jerked her head away and he released her hair.
“No? You gonna fuck her? You gonna bring her in here and hump her dirty little mouth?”
“Fuck no. Look, I ain’t-”
“Tell me, Negan,” she purred. Leaning forward, enclosing her lips softly around his cock head. Tongue flitting over salty, silky smooth skin. Her finger stroking inside him.
He moaned low in his throat, his dick twitching upwards several times.
“Careful, Neegs. You’re gonna cum and it’s not going to be any good…” She smiled, and the motion of her lips made his cock twitch again. His entire body tensed.
“Sherry, please…”
“I want to hear you say it. Tell me. Who’s your number one?”
“You.”
“Louder.”
“You are!”
She pulled his cock up, tapping her tongue on his sensitive underside. He shuddered, his hands clenching and unclenching helplessly, his teeth grit. A whimper squeaking out between his teeth.
“Fuck…fuck…I’m gonna cum…!”
“Who’s your number fucking one, Negan? Who’s the one who makes you cum the best? Huh? That fucking slut…?”
“You, Sherry!” He moaned. “You’re my number one!”
“If I asked, you’d get rid of all of them, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded. “Uh-huh. Yeah!”
“Right…” She snorted and tightened her hand around his base. A tight squeeze. Fitting the silken head into her mouth. And then she bombarded him with fierce pleasure – sharp, smooth strokes to his cock, her mouth caressing him, taking him deep. Her fingers dug into his ass and fucking him relentlessly.
“Fuck!” he cried. He gripped a fistful of hair, his hips rocking feverishly against her face. She let him, let him breach her gag reflex, let him choke her, his sweaty stomach smearing her forehead, his body quivering under her, his scent overwhelming, and then hot, relentless gushes of fluid flooding down her throat.
Tears were running down her face when he stumbled back, her fingers pulled from him. He flopped back-first onto the table in a big, sweaty, panting pile of man.
“Oh s-s-shit!” He gasped. One of his big hands flopped onto his heaving chest. She stood up, her legs quivering. Coughing into her hand, the taste of him in her mouth. Her throat felt a bit sore, but overall, there was a wicked glow all throughout her. Seeing him sprawled out like that, spent and red-faced and his dick turning into a limp noodle… and knowing she was the cause of all that exhaustion?
She stepped forward, running her hand up his thigh, and took hold of his softening cock. Her thumb traced circles on the head, still wet from her mouth. He flinched, his hand pushing on her wrist.
“Fuck! You know it’s too sensitive right now, Sher.”
She grinned, pushing his hand away. “You seem to be mistaken about who owns this dick, Negan.”
He sat up, frowning down at her. Her other hand came up and rubbed at his well-spent balls.
“Who owns it?” She gave a light squeeze, and he grunted.
“Easy on the balls, huh?” He tried to pry her wrist away, but she tightened her grip. “Come on, Sher! You know Tara isn’t going to find any fuckin’ ice out there!”
She laughed. “Fucking answer me!”
“You do, babe. You got my dick thoroughly pussy-whipped.”
“Yeah, that’s right, you scoundrel.”
He started to laugh, and she pressed a finger to his lips. “And don’t you forget that. You remember that when you’re jerking yourself over that red-haired hussy. You remember the woman who’s going to put up with you and your shit. When everyone else would just leave you alone to keep jerking it forever.”
She let go of his junk, and he slid off the table to put himself together. Her tshirt was even more wrinkled than before. She slid it on, pulling up her disheveled skirt and panties. She walked out of the closet knowing she smelled like sex, and knowing the glow was all upon her. She didn’t come out like the old days, furtively peeking and scurrying out of the sight of prying eyes.
“Well… guess I should get back to work.” He looked as well-fucked as she did.
She smirked. “Yeah. Guess so. You coming home tonight?”
“…only if I’m forgiven. I’m fuckin’ forgiven, right?”
“You’re fucking forgiven.”
“See you tonight, then.”
They went their separate ways. Sherry headed back the way she’d came. And as she passed the pipe along the wall, she noticed a quick movement.
Charlotte, hiding back there. Her face as red as her hair.
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Rocky Mountain High
Bayfield, CO
We’ve slowed down on stopping to take pictures of every wow moment, this being our 4th or 5th trip to Colorado and the New Mexico region, but not on repeating WOW! to one another. Our house-sit to Bayfield, Colorado was the best yet in terms of comfortable, clean home, easy pets, and centricity to hikes and sightseeing. We missed being able to watch their horses. They were pastured at a neighbor’s, saving us the hassle of seeing to them. Grrrr!
We hiked a mountain creek during pour-off in New Mexico before we ever reached our destination. In a very quaint and picturesque cemetery in Cimaron, New Mexico, there was a marker stating that the inhabitant, a preacher, was assassinated in 1875. Being a large monument, I trust he was respected.
Our first day in Colorado, we drove to a true ghost town, Pagosa Junction. Being in the Ute Indian land probably accounted for its unmolested condition – not even any graffiti! We were respectful. The route also took us to the community of Allison, giving us a couple abandoned churches to add to our collection.
Our last Colorado trip was to Gypsum with two major fires not only consuming nearby forests but smoking the place up and restricting us from several travel experiences. This house-sit in Bayfield, we received extensive instructions regarding potential evacuation in the event of a new fire: move 5 vehicles to designated area, watch for neighbors and relatives to come get vehicles and equipment, crate up the pets (expect resistance), make phone calls, meet at … blah, blah, blah. It’s a 42-acre horse ranch at the 7000’ elevation mark in a pine forest.
The biggest difference among our several house-sits in Colorado was the heat wave in place when we arrived in Bayfield. Yikes, it’s famously fabled that drier and higher air is more comfortable even when the thermometer spikes, but that’s just not true, folks, and I wonder who started that vicious rumor! This high-elevation, dry heat envelops, melts and assaults. But in the early morning before the day of 99 degrees, the temp was in the 50s! Good luck with your wardrobe, travelers!
On the Continental Divide Trail: “It’s perfect weather for a hike,” Wayne said as they neared the 11,000 feet elevation mark. “I’d like it to be 5 degrees warmer,” Debbie replied. Wisely, Wayne said nothing. We let three male hikers pass us. The two younger ones were carrying openly. We wondered if they were taking the third, an oldster out to shoot him. Wayne, unwisely, piped up, “You never know when you might wanna shoot somebody.”
And speaking of graves and cemeteries, one of our eccentricities, we found where Bob Ford was buried. Yup, the Robert Ford. Recall in past blogs we found Clifton Clowers’ grave on Wolverton Mountain, William Bonnie at Ft Sumner, Kit Carson in Sante Fe, Buster Brown/Tom Thumb in the Missouri bootheel, and Absalom Fowler in the locally famous Holly Cemetery in Little Rock. And of course, we’ve been to JFK’s eternal flame in Arlington as well as Abraham Lincoln’s tomb in Springfield, Illinois. But even after all our graveyard treks, we still don’t know who’s in Grant’s tomb. Oh, and Bob Ford? “Well that dirty little coward,” (to the tune of ??) “that shot Mister Howard, he done laid poor Jesse in his grave.”
Crossbucks are a “thing” out in the wild wild west. Every style, from humble to grandiose.
Creede, Colorado, a town named after a man who bought the right, was a mining town that survived the ore: silver, copper, lead, zinc, amethyst. Bat Masterson was a deputy for a bit there. Returning to modern times, the move The Lone Ranger was filmed, in part, in Creede, particularly the train scenes. At the start of the Bachelor Loop, a drive through the mining region, you pass the local fire department where they park their vehicles inside the mountain in old mines. The cavities are huge. The ghost town of Bachelor, the city in the clouds, where over a thousand people lived is but an empty meadow, the remains of one lone fallen-down building at the forest’s edge. There’s a plaque with a photograph of the once-upon-a-town. Amazing that it’s just gone, as are so many of the west’s ghost towns. Some exist only as residential neighborhoods, the town no longer to be. Some, like Peppersauce in Calico Rock, Arkansas, are completely surrounded by the new town, the old abandoned structures still in place.
Silverton and Ouray were just as fun as our last trip there, though not as picturesque due to the smoky sky, the result of fires further west, California, Idaho, Oregon. What we do know for sure is that it appears that Texans have annexed the Rockies, but who can blame them? (besides Wayne)
The Four Corners Monument is controlled by the Navajo Indian Nation, since it’s on their land. Covid-19 restrictions limit visitors to 50% capacity causing an hour, or longer, wait. Wayne’s been there, Debbie not, but since both have been all around it, we opted to pass on standing on the exact dot at the cost of $20 per car after a 2-hour drive. A modern, more sophisticated survey would prob’ly move it a mile or so anyway.
We hiked the Colorado Trail, well, part of it, enough to have enjoyed it a lot. The views were, of course, fabulous.
On a second trip to Silverton, with much better visibility due to recent rain and the Oregon/Idaho/California fires smoke blown on a different course, we travelled to Eureka, another ghost town where there were huge mining operations. The Animas River is beautiful, as well as the many streams feeding it. I have to wonder, though, how clean they were during the peak of the mining days. Environmental concerns were decades in the future.
Walking the dog Zoey on the property (42 acres of pasture and pine), a flock of wild turkeys made their way up the hillside not fifty feet from us. They seemed half again larger than the Arkansas wild turkeys. The squirrels appear different than Arkansas red fox or grays. These are sort of mottled with a silverish belt around their neck area. And I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an Arkansas squirrel sit/stand erect like a ground hog. Research indicates it may be a ground squirrel.
We found a really exciting, back-of-the-mountain road, two actually, that led through ghost towns, naturally. Colorado is truly wondrous, especially when you can get away from the tourists, a difficult process in mid-July.
We found a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, one of our favorite travelling pleasures. The Blue Sky Café in Bayfield. Not being able to decide among the foo-foo descriptions, Wayne settled on a hamburger and sweet potato tots. They were AMAZING! Telling the waitress brought the owner/cook to us – she whispered that she added a mild cajun seasoning. Never had any like it. Their breakfast menu extremely enticing, we were there the next morning at their posted opening time. Nope – a brand new handwritten notice stated that they would be closed on Saturdays. Disappointed, we slunk back to the house for bowls of cereal.
Thus ended our most recent foray into a beloved area of the country. I cannot imagine tiring of this land of exceptional beauty. It’s the eye-candy state!
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(Update) My(m18) Parents yelled at me because I don't want a graduation party at my house during Covid, so they're gonna invite 40+ people from church instead via /r/atheism
Submitted April 20, 2021 at 03:57AM by Throaramagazine
(Via reddit https://ift.tt/3dzh6Sc)
(Update) My(m18) Parents yelled at me because I don't want a graduation party at my house during Covid, so they're gonna invite 40+ people from church instead
Hey guys. I wanna try to keep this shorter than last time, so I'll get straight to the point with some very brief recaps for anyone who didn't see the first post I made. I don't like celebrating myself (in parties), and that goes back for years. When I used to have birthday parties, my mom would tell me to invite whoever I wanted, but she would use these parties to "examine" my friends and later tell me which friends I'm allowed to keep and not keep, and I've lost many friends because of her over the years, all because she hates people who disagree with her decision to homeschool me. At the end of many parties, she would sit with me with a notebook of things that she jotted/overheard, and tell me a bunch of things that she didn't like because they were "worldly" (her favorite word), and she'll also nitpick at other things such as their language or the topic of their conversations, only to say that I'm no longer allowed to hang out with them at the end, and I've lost many friends because of her
She's forced me to cut off friends I met at sports (clubs) after talking with other parents and hearing an opinion she didn't like, saying that I'm not allowed to hit with them (I played tennis) simply because they have an opinion that is different than hers, and she's even insulted her extended family who disagree with her decision to homeschool me for 12 grades and stopped going to Thanksgiving with them because of their different opinion, the same way that she cuts off all of my friends and their parents from my life/childhood/early teen life when I was too young to do anything about it. The main reason my extended family disagree with her decision to homeschool, is because our great grandma walked with MLK, and they said that "choosing to homeschool us after everything he fought for, is a disgrace to what he fought for by allowing us to go into public schools"
Extended family has also gone as far as to say that that she is "not black" because she didn't vote for Obama in 2008 and 2012, something she says she didn't do because she accused them of "only voting for him because he was black and not because of his policies" because she believes that policies are more important and that actions can't be overlooked because of a race, but they didn't like that, and mom then cut them off in some ways
In 2016, she advertised to them that she was voting for Carson to get back on their good side per say, but after he exited the running, she switched over to voting for the 45th, and extended family didn't really like that much either, and she would vote for him both times in 2016 and 2020, even going as far as to hang a 45th banner on our living room wall and outside of our home and buying us all hats that she wanted us to wear
I'm getting to the update, but I just want to add a few small things that I didn't last time, things that bothered me and made me think that I'm crazy or that there's something wrong with me when I was growing up, and then I'll get to the stuff that happened since my last post
Some more important details
Something I often struggle with, is wondering how smart I am, compared to others in my same grade, since a lot of my classes under her don't really seem like classes to me, and here's what I mean. A lot of the classes I had, were just simply agreeing with her opinion on politics and watching election speeches that she claimed "the news wouldn't show us because they were corrupt", along with purity as a substitute for sexual education
For purity, she used a book called "Passport to Purity", and it featured a bunch of cheesy songs and demonstrations like squeezing toothpaste out of a container to illustrate how once you get someone pregnant, you can't get it back, along with an example of a man walking closer to a cliff with footsteps, and each footstep being labeled with something like "level 1: holding hands, level 4: kissing, level 10 (off the cliff) intercourse) and other things like that that just made me feel really weird
When they talked about masturbation, they said that masturbating would "ruin your commitment to the future wife that God gave you", and they also told me that masturbating would make me lose my virginity because "sex is supposed to be between two people", and that did a number on me for a very long time. As mentioned last time, I was even ashamed of sleeping on my di__ and sleeping on my back, because the thought of any pleasure just made me feel like sh__, and they had this "alternate health class" with me on my 12th birthday, and I just felt humiliated and embarrased the entire time
Before we had the class, my dad invited his men's group from church to pray for me at my house about the things regarding sexual purity that they would teach, and I remember just feeling weird and very grossed out by the whole thing, something I later learned should be kept private (purity) instead of advertising it to people from a church, and one of the old men even drew a d__k on a piece of paper and tried to illustrate how it got "harder" which was just weird and told me to "think about something else" whenever that happened. And whenever my mom would find remains of me trying to masturbate in the months after the purity talk (usually from her doing my laundry or searching my room without telling me, although she says she didn't have to because it's her house), she would get really angry and yell at me and call dad who was at work, and when he got back, he would yell at me too. We'd go into their room where they just yelled at me for hours on numerous occassions, and they'd make me reread the purity stuff until I just cried and just kept apologizing, something some people at work (when I was 18) said that I apologize way too much for everything including things I didn't do wrong, but I want to keep this moving, so I'll stop there for now. Masturbation just scared me a lot growing up, until I reached about 14 or 15 and just got better at hiding and finding online resources to learn more about it, but the worse moment of my life, were those nights of being yelled at and watching them cry because I was masturbating, to the point where I felt like I had really don't something wrong, when it was normal all along
I'll keep the rest short and sweet and to the point. Whenever I asked my mom why we weren't going to Thanksgiving or about how she was pressuring us to wear 45th attire, she would always tell me that "I'm not proud of being black" for some reason because I grew up playing tennis, what she calls "a white man's sport" and let it rub off on me too much... when in reality, she would slap me when I was younger for "talking like a black person" when she hated extended family, but now that she wants to appease them by saying "I planned to vote for Carson", she tells me that she wants me to "talk more in slang" which just seems fake and then she says that to me, but I'll leave it at that. My brothers starting to play basketball (something I was never really good at) as they entered their teen years (they were homeschooled too) maybe also sparked her change, but to me, I don't like her flip flop and then blaming it on me
As I've grown older and started to talk to my brothers about some of the things I've disagreed with (only for them to not believe me and often take their side), my mom would get angry, because it was the same as whenever someone had another opinion than her. So, she would start to put voice recorders around the home in various places; behind the DVR box, behind picture frames, etc... and then she would talk to us in her room and punish us for anything we said that she didn't like, and she also raised my door up from the ground too, in addition to standing outside of my room whenever I'm on the phone and sometimes with a voice recorder too, and whenever I wanted to go outside to talk to someone else away from her on the phone, she'd get angry and yell at me and ask "what I have to hide" and other stuff like that
The Update
I really needed to get that off my chest, to also give more background to why I don't like celebrating myself and having parties, but here's the update. I didn't want a graduation party because of past experiences of how she told me to invite friends as a trap to "evaluate" them and then cut them out of my life. So, when I told her that I didn't want a graduation party, she said that she was going to throw herself one instead, and invite our church's homeschool group (that we're in) instead to celebrate her and that I had to be there. Covid was another reason why I didn't want to have something at our home, but she's going to invite 40+ people anyway, and dad wants me to say a few words about her at "her celebration"
After my last post, I decided to talk to them again with some of the advice I had received, although a lot of it was around getting a full time job and getting out from under them, but I still wanted to try and talk to them anyway. I started my addressing the concerns about covid, but just like our church that's allowing 70 percent capacity (and the people are coming from our church), she said that she doesn't care and that they're "coming anyway" and that "covid was created by the Democrats to blame and use against the 45th in the election", and I didn't even try to reason with that one
I then told them that I didn't want to attend and didn't plan to attend either, and when dad asked me why, I told him how the only friend I have said that she is "abusive" and has been for her entire life, something I've told him before many times, and that he said that I can hang out with him instead and that it was selfish to make the day about her when I didn't even want to celebrate it myself, and I'm the one graduating
My dad got offended and told me that "he's tired of hearing me complain about my upbringing" and that "I should go talk to someone because I need help" and to "stop insulting mom", and he yelled that so loud at like 1am in the morning that I'm sure my brothers heard it, and it just killed me inside. He also told me that "there's something wrong with me" and that "I need mental help", and I can't stress enough how much I hate him because everything that's been said to me about being sheltered and "not up to speed" from others, have come as a result of them and their choice to homeschool me, and he yelled at me in front of everyone and said that there's something wrong with me, and I just can't take it anymore
Whenever I think of this party, it just makes me really angry, and whenever I have friends, they always try to turn me against them or, if I won't listen, insult their parents so that they won't bring their kids to hang out with me, and dad keeps asking "who are you listening to", and whenever I try to address their decision to homeschool, mom just gets so insulted and tries to reason with me about how she's right and the world is this and that
Back to the party, she said that I "don't have to live here" if I don't abide by their rules or "choose to be disrespectful", and by that I assume means not attending the party, and dad said that he would punish me "if I told him about anything else my friends said", and he's also banned numerous friends from our home over the years too. Mom also said that no one will be wearing masks at their home, and I don't even know what to do at this point, other than take the advice about preparing to move out, because they just make you think you're crazy, just like the masturbation stuff and guilt from many years, but I don't know how to skip it, since they're kinda threatening to kick me out if I don't go, and that's what I'm wondering now
TL;DR: I talked to my mom, but dad yelled at me and said that "there's something wrong with me" and that "I need mental help" for not agreeing with their decision to homeschool, and he's also threatening to maybe kick me out if I "continue to disobey and not be grateful", and mom said that there won't be any mask wearing at the party
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Through The Valley - Chapter 16
AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10075958/chapters/28547156
Tags: @luke-vaughn @embracetheapocalypsewithme @kinkozan @lupienne @theblack-wolf @lovingzombiechaos @jmackie1983 @dragonracer @miiraal
Pairing: Negan X OFC
Chapter Summary: Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better
Chapter Warnings: Angst, Gore, Violence, Mention of rape
Word Count: 3983
A/N: I’m terribly sorry that it took me so long to update. Real life got in the way and I am all the more grateful for your continuous support and for every kind word you lovely people have sent my way.
Negan didn’t know where he was going until he saw light coming from the infirmary. He burst into the room where Fisher was leaning over the stretcher, working on the body in front of him.
The doctor stepped to the side and Negan nearly screamed.
If Carson hadn’t told him that it was Lilly who had been brought in, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She might as well have been a biter. She wore only a thin t-shirt and panties. Both must have been some shade of gray at some point, but were now stained dark red. At least where they weren’t ripped. Her legs were either covered in blood, or in blue-ish green bruises.
The worst was her face, though. The entire right side seemed mutilated. Her eye was swollen shut, her upper lip bleeding, adding to the blood coming from a cut over her brow. The way her hair was plastered to her skull, wet and shiny, told him that she had at least one more head injury.
Lilly seemed disoriented and had obvious difficulties speaking. That didn’t keep her from trying to shove Fisher off her, though.
“Go away! I’m fine,” she mumbled through clenched teeth, her right hand flopping around aimlessly in an attempt to shoo the doctor away. Fisher ignored her and kept prodding and poking, taking advantage of her weakened state and remaining exceptionally calm during his examination.
Despite the lack of panic in the infirmary, Negan felt the cold claws of fear creeping up and down his spine. He still stood in the doorway, jaw hanging open, hands gripping the door frame, eyes frantically scanning the stretcher and the area around it. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t even know where to start.
“Boss…?”
Negan spun around. Carson and Andrei stood in the hallway, the former looking at him expectantly, awaiting orders, the latter tired and fearful.
“What the fuck happened? Who did this?” Negan had meant to shout, but all that came out of him was something between a whisper and a growl.
Andrei ran a hand over his face and sighed. “I don’t know any specifics, man. I got to the outpost real late. Look, I know we’re not supposed to be out there after dark, but…” Negan waved a hand at him impatiently to show that he didn’t give a fuck right now. “Anyway… I got there late and everyone was already asleep, but Carson had told me that you want me to look after her, so I went to her room and she wasn’t there. I went looking for her and heard noises coming from the basement and that’s where I found those two degenerates all over her.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know Negan. I shot them, grabbed her and got the fuck outta there. Took a car, too. Couldn’t bring her here on my bike. It’s still at the outpost. I’ll bring the car back tomorrow and go get my bike. Shit, man, I thought she’d die on me on the way here. Thought she was bleeding out or something. I’m sorry about those guys, boss, I didn’t know what else to do. She was kicking and screaming and they were punching her. I just pulled the trigger, I didn’t…”
“Stop it,” Negan interrupted Andrei’s ramblings, “You did the right thing. Did me a big fucking favor, too. Otherwise I would have had to drive all the way back there and fuck those fuckers up myself.” He turned back towards the door and watched with furrowed brows as Fisher set up an IV.
“Sir?” Carson piped up behind him. “Do you want me to wake up Jax?”
Negan hoped that Jax would wait with killing him until they knew if Lilly would live.
“Yeah… yeah. Go get him. Laura, too.”
He listened to Carson’s receding steps as he ran down the hallway and tried to focus on the situation in front of him again. His mind seemed to slip away whenever his gaze came to rest on the bloody figure on the bed. He vaguely registered Andrei talking about a delay at the western outpost and how he was sorry that he hadn’t been at the northern one in time to prevent this mess.
Fisher cleared his throat, trying to gain Negan’s attention. He looked up at him, hoping for the doctor’s sake that he had good news. Negan didn’t know what he would do if he got told that Lilly didn’t have long. He couldn’t take out his rage and guilt on the actual culprits and he couldn’t guarantee not to shift the blame elsewhere.
“She’s asleep now. I gave her a hefty dose of morphine.”
Negan stepped into the infirmary, his eyes back on Lilly’s now still form. Fisher had covered her with one of the coarse gray blankets they kept for newcomers who couldn’t afford better sleeping arrangements. Negan made a mental note to get her something more comfortable. Standing in front of the stretcher and with her eyes closed and her face still, he could now see the true extent of her injuries. Bruises started to bloom underneath the crusted blood. Negan felt the overwhelming urge to punch someone. Instead, he lightly grasped her hand sticking out from under the blanket.
He wanted to ask Fisher how she was doing, but the sound of thundering footsteps running up the hallway announced Jax’s arrival. He and Andrei entered the room together with Andrei recounting what he had already told Negan. Where Negan had gotten quiet and withdrawn at the sight of a bruised and battered Lilly, Jax seemed to switch into let’s-get-busy mode, after drawing in a sharp breath at the first sight of her. He couldn’t quite hide the look of horror at the sight of her injuries, though.
“Okay, so they’re dead, right? What now? Fisher, how is she?” Jax turned his attention to the doctor, conveniently ignoring the elephant in the room that was the entirety of Negan’s presence. Fisher had positioned his chair at Lilly’s head and was busy using a thread and needle on her.
“Well…” Fisher sighed. “She got beaten up pretty bad. I’m gonna put stitches on those wounds over her eye and on the back of her head. She’s got at least one broken rib and a broken nose, maybe her jaw, too. The thing is… there could be internal bleeding. Her blood pressure is okay for now, but I can’t be absolutely sure without an ultrasound. I’ll just have to monitor her for now.”
Jax looked stricken at the news and Negan knew that he probably mirrored his expression, but any further enquiries were delayed by Laura bursting into the room and subsequently into tears when she caught sight of her friend lying on the stretcher. Seth and Connor were right behind her and the room was now packed with people.
“Oh God! Lilly! What happened?”
Another round of people explaining what had happened and Negan’s mind started to wander again. She would need a blanket and pillow, water to wash off the blood, fresh clothes and then soft food. He’d have to talk meds and equipment with Fisher and then maybe organize a run to get everything Lilly needed to get better.
He became aware of the fact that he was still holding her hand, lightly stroking her fingers, when he heard the word “rape” coming from Jax and his attention was catapulted back to the here and now, feeling as if all air had left his lungs.
“What did you say?” Negan focused on Jax standing on the opposite side of the bed.
“I asked Andrei what exactly they did to her. Lil told me about the lewd comments and I’ve warned you that those assholes had it in for her.” Jax’s look was one of pure blame, before he turned to Andrei again.
“I don’t know, man. Everything happened so fast. But I didn’t catch them with their dicks out and their pants around their ankles, if that’s what you mean.”
“She only mentioned the beatings,” Fisher added, “She couldn’t tell me much, obviously, but she didn’t say anything about sexual assault. I’m reluctant to examine her without her consent. I’d recommend to wait until she gets better and then talk to her.”
Negan was a second away from giving the order to burn down the entire outpost when Lilly moaned something unintelligible, twisted her head and brushed her finger over Negan’s hand.
“Is there anything we can do for her?” Laura asked from the foot of the bed. She wasn’t crying anymore, but Seth still held her by her shoulders as if she was close to having a breakdown.
“Not really. She needs rest and observation. I’ll stay with her and you can all go back and try to get some sleep,” Fisher offered, packing away the suture tools.
“No.” Negan had finally found his voice again, despite it sounding foreign in his ears. “She hates sleeping in a room with people she doesn’t know well. I’ll stay with her. Anything happens, I’ll come get you, Fisher. The rest of you, go back to sleep.”
Laura looked like she wanted to protest, but Seth gently steered her towards the door, whispering reassuring words to her. Connor followed with Andrei and Fisher knew better than to question his leader’s orders, after his fuck-up with the Hilltop.
Only Jax didn’t move a muscle, staring intently at Negan.
“I know I fucked up. I’m man enough to admit it. But she needs us now, so do me a fucking favor and save it for when she’s better. I won’t leave, Jax, no fucking way.”
“I wasn’t suggesting you leave. Watching over her is the least you can do.”
Negan felt relieved. There was no way he would let Lilly out of his sight, but fighting with her best friend about it was something he would gratefully avoid. He let go of her hand for a moment to get a chair from the corner and positioned it right next to her bed. With a sigh, he carefully sat down. His experience with flimsy hospital chairs told him not to move too much in his seat. “Well, plant your ass in the other chair, or get back to your room, I don’t give a shit.”
Jax seemed reluctant and watched as Negan took Lilly’s hand back in his, before looking towards the door. Connor was probably waiting for him, but Negan was too tired and fresh out of fucks to give to even turn around and acknowledge him.
“I’ll try to get a couple more hours of sleep. To be honest, it’s hard to see her this way, but I’ll come back first thing in the morning to relieve you.” Negan almost scoffed and thought that Jax could try, but he was determined to not leave her side. “Listen, Negan…”
“I told you not to start fucking bitching at me tonight, Jax.”
“I wasn’t. Listen…” Jax leaned over Lilly’s sleeping form and lowered his voice. “Fisher said that we would have to wait until morning. That he can’t tell how bad she’s injured with the equipment he has and that she might have internal bleeding. You know what that means, right?” Negan nodded, not taking his eyes off her face. “Lilly and I have a pact. Made it a long time ago. That if possible, we’d try everything we can to not let the other turn. If you want to stay here, you have to promise me to do it. I know she’s tough. I know she can make it through this shit. But if something happens… You have to swear that you will end it before she comes back as one of those things.”
Negan looked up at the other man. Jax’s eyes were fearful and desperate, exactly the way Negan felt.
“I promise.”
Negan heard the door shut behind him and the Sanctuary plunged into silence again. It felt weird to know that all those people around him were sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware that the woman he cared so much for was possibly fighting for her life.
He stood up again and walked over to the counter and cabinets, opening and closing drawers until he found a scalpel with a blade that was hopefully long enough to reach the brain when stuck through the eye. His expression grim, he sat back down on the rickety old chair and carefully placed the scalpel under his seat, before taking Lilly’s hand again. The movement was a familiar one, more comforting for him than for the person lying in the hospital bed.
His other hand ran through his hair and the sigh that followed almost turned into a sob.
“I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn fucking sorry, Lil. This is just one of about a thousand different reasons why you have to wake the fuck up and get better… that you are going to have the fucking privilege of kicking my stupid ass all the way to Michigan for being the world’s biggest idiot.
“I could go look for your family while I’m there. You never told me why you never went looking for them. Though it was probably because of the distance. And the odds of finding them, and finding them alive, are pretty fucking slim. Yeah… would have been stupid to try to go there. And you’re far from fucking stupid. Unlike me.
“Listen to me fucking rambling. I do that when I’m nervous. But you already know that, don’t you? You could see through my bullshit from day fucking one. Just… just don’t let this be the last day, okay?”
He couldn’t stop looking at her face. He felt that if he stopped talking, he would break down completely, so he just kept going.
“Jax and Laura wanted to rip me a new one just now. Pretty sure they’re far from done. Maybe you can put a leash on them once you get better. Or not. I mean, I know I fucked up. I tend to do that with the women I love. And then they end up in a fucking hospital bed.”
A chuckle rose in his throat, rendered hoarse by the occasional tear spilling from his eyes.
“There you fucking go. I can finally admit my fucking feelings and you’re not even awake to hear it. See? Another reason you have to get better. I’ll tell you everything when you wake up. About the wives, too. I mean, I don’t expect everything to be fucking perfect and for us to live happily ever after or some shit. But living would be nice, for a start. And then we’ll work on the happy part.”
Negan took a shaky breath and watched Lilly’s face. Her brows were furrowed. He hoped that she didn’t feel too much pain. Lifting her hand, he brought it to his lips, brushing them over her knuckles. He closed his eyes for a moment. The whole weight of tonight’s events started to bare down on him and he felt ten years older, hungover and tired.
“I promise, I’ll try not to fuck it up this time, Lilly. I won’t make the same mistakes I made with Lucille. You’ll see. Just get better, okay?”
His eyes grew heavy and he felt himself dozing off every few minutes, waking up with a start any time Lilly moved or made a noise in her sleep. He had promised to take care of her if the worst happened, but would he have the guts to do it this time?
“You better not die on me, Lil,” he mumbled as his head sunk down on the mattress next to her thigh.
He woke up again to someone nudging his shoulder and he groggily sat up and turned around to find Jax standing next to him. Outside, the sun made a feeble attempt to rise out of the gray and rainy clouds. Fisher was up and present, too, already working on Lilly, who he could now see had her eyes slightly open. She looked weak, but alive.
Negan rubbed over the stubble on his cheeks, fighting the urge to lie back down and get back to sleep.
“Her vitals look good,” Fisher said after removing the stethoscope from his ears and the blood pressure cuff from her arms, “I’m going to give her more pain meds. It’s all we can do, really, at the moment. If some cuts and broken ribs are all she got, she just needs to rest for a couple of days. ”
“You mean aside from the emotional fucking trauma she’ll probably have from getting the shit beaten out of her?” Negan snarled.
“Shhh, hey! Calm down!” Jax said in a low voice, “We’re gonna deal with that when we have to. For now, Fisher is right. She needs rest. And you, too.” he motioned to Negan.
“I just took a fucking nap when I shouldn’t have.”
“And I bet that was really comfortable and refreshing. Come on, I told you I would take over. Looks like she’s fine for now and you won’t be of use to anyone walking around like a biter. Go get some more sleep.”
Negan didn’t want to. The thought of leaving Lilly, even with Jax and Fisher staying, filled him with dread. But Jax was right. He still had a community to run, even if all he wanted to do right now was stay with Lilly until she could be by his side again.
He reluctantly got up and told Jax to get him if there was any change in her. Jax seemed much less hostile this morning and even thanked him for watching over her.
After checking one last time with Fisher that Lilly was stable and seeing her asleep again, he made his way to Carson first. Negan gave him instructions about running the Sanctuary in his absence and placed an order for blankets, clothes and warm water with his assistant and told him to make sure the infirmary wouldn’t be swarmed with concerned Saviors come breakfast. The lieutenants, Jax and Andrei were allowed inside her room. No one else. No exceptions.
While he climbed the stairs up to the Penthouse, he heard the Sanctuary come to life below him. People making their way to the cafeteria or the showers and he shut them all out by closing the door to his room. The busy murmur downstairs, while still audible, was now drowned by the heavy rain that had set in over the course of the morning.
Convinced that he wouldn’t be able to sleep for even a minute, he still took a quick trip to the bathroom and then settled down on his bed, fully clothed and over the covers. Apparently, Lilly’s improved health had been enough to relax him a little, since it didn’t even take two minutes for him to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he woke up again, the light outside told him that it had to be afternoon already and a quick glance to the clock over his fireplace confirmed it. He had slept for six hours straight and he felt refreshed, grateful, anxious and furious, all at the same time. Negan tried to convince himself that if something had happened in his absence, someone would have come to get him..
He still felt nervous when he made his way back downstairs to the infirmary, stubbornly ignoring the rumbling coming from his stomach. He needed to check on Lilly first, before he could sit down in peace for a meal. Maybe he could have a late lunch in the infirmary, preferably with her awake and trying to have a bite, too.
When he turned around the corner into the hallway where the infirmary was located, he could hear low voices coming from the room. One of them was clearly Lilly’s. His heart grew three sizes. If she already felt well enough to have a conversation, then she would surely be okay, right?
Feeling much more optimistic at the thought of having lunch with a conscious and talking Lilly, Negan peered into the room. She was still lying on the stretcher, but covered in a soft and warm blanket now and wearing fresh clothes. What he could see of her face, neck and hands was clean, albeit still shockingly bruised and, in the case of her eye and lips, swollen and sporting grisly wounds. Negan grimaced at the sight of her injuries, which stood out more prominently, without the blood and grime hiding them. Jax and Laura were sitting on either side of her, listening to her talking, all three smiling slightly at whatever the topic of their conversation was.
Negan put on a grin and stepped into the infirmary. “Well, someone looks about a thousand fucking times better than last night. You nearly gave us all a collective heart attack.”
The atmosphere in the room changed immediately. Lilly, Jax and Laura turned silent and their faces fell, each of them avoiding his gaze. After a couple of awkward moments, Jax got up and cleared his throat. “We, uhm… we’re going to give you guys a minute or two. We’ll be back later with more food, Lil.” Lilly looked like she wanted to protest, but Jax turned to Laura and motioned for her to come with him. Laura followed him out of the infirmary, but not without shooting a glare at Negan that was clearly meant to try to make him drop dead.
Negan took Jax’s place at the side of her bed, still keeping his grin firmly in place and pointing a thumb behind him. “What’s up with those two? Looked like they have to pee real urgent.” His attempt at humor didn’t seem to go over well. Lilly merely regarded him out of her healthy eye, her expression rendered nearly unreadable by her injuries. “What? Did the same cat get your tongue, too? Because I just saw you talking a second ago.”
Lilly averted her eyes, her face now unmistakingly grim. “What do you want me to say, Negan?” she finally said. Her voice was thin and her speech a little slurred.
“How about you start with how you feel, work your way up to what Fisher said and end somewhere along ‘It’s good to be home’?” Negan tried to make eye contact with her again, but she kept staring out of the window. He thought that maybe she tried to come up with some witty answers to his questions, until he noticed the tears running down her cheeks. “Oh shit. Babe, are you okay? Do you need more pain meds? I can go get Fisher…”
“No, Negan. I don’t need more pain meds.”
“Well, what is it then? What do you need? I’ll get you any-fucking-thing, just say the word!”
She turned her head to look him straight in the eyes and his smile faltered at the intensity of her gaze.
“I need you to leave.”
“Wh-what?”
“I need you to go and leave me the hell alone.”
“Lilly, come on…”
“No.”
“Look, I’m sorry…”
“No! I don’t want to hear it. I begged you, Negan. I fucking begged you not to send me away. You knew Sherry and Amber planned all this. And you still sent me away.” Lilly strained to talk through the obvious pain and her tears still hadn’t stopped. Negan dropped his gaze. “No! Look at me, Negan!” He obeyed. “Look at my face! You did this. This is your fault.”
“I know. Believe me, I fucking know, Lilly.”
“I need you to leave. Now. And stay the fuck away from me.”
“Okay…,” he whispered before standing up and walking out of the room.
He wandered aimlessly through the Sanctuary. At first he felt completely numb, and then an increasing need for a bottle of Scotch.
He never heard the wrecking sobs coming from the infirmary.
#negan#comicnegan>#comic negan#negan fanfiction#negan fanfic#the walking dead fanfiction#twd fanfiction#negan x oc#negan x ofc#through the valley
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Dear Doctor
A series of letters between Thomas Barrow and Richard Clarkson, written while Thomas was at the Stiles’s. These were written with no aim except to help with a short piece I’ve been wrestling on and off with for over a year now.
Ultimately, they failed, but I’m posting them anyway to keep myself from picking at them and trying to turn them into something.
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters: Thomas Barrow, Doctor Clarkson
Relationships: General
September 30, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
As per your request, I am writing to let you know I arrived safely in Driffield and am settling into my new home. While Driffield itself is about the same size as Downton, the house is, needless to say, considerably smaller. It is actually about on par with the Dower house, both in size and population. My employers, Sir Mark and Lady Stiles, are both elderly and inclined to quiet living. I've spoken to the cook, Mrs. Jenkins, and the maid, Elsie, and am not expecting there will be much in the way of entertaining.
On the bright side, I suppose this means there won't be too many people poking into my private affairs. That will make things easier.
I look forward to having a lot of time to read. If you have any recommendations, feel free to share them.
Sincerely,
Thomas Barrow
-
October 5, 1925
Dear Thomas,
It was good to hear from you. Thank you for writing. I am glad to hear that you've arrived safely and that your new circumstances, if not as busy as they could be, should at least allow for plenty of relaxation. Hopefully your new coworkers, while few, will prove lively and make good friends. It is, after all, better to have a few good friends than a lot of bad ones.
I'm afraid I don't have much time for reading, outside of work, so my list of suggested books would be either very short or very dry. I could recommend some very good medical journals, if you like. I don't know how strong your interest in medicine is, now that the war is over.
Sincerely,
Dr. Richard Clarkson
-
October 8, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
Life is settling into a routine, as it does, I suppose. Unfortunately here the routine is a lot of nothing much. I have about a half day's worth of work and an entire day in which to do it. It's funny. I remember back before the war, Bates going on about how I'd like nothing more than a position where I had nothing to do but stand around. I can now say quite firmly that he was wrong. I'm about out of my mind with boredom.
That's not to say I'm about to do anything stupid or drastic. I'm not, I promise. It's just a bit...I suppose frustrating is the word. I had more to do as an underbutler. I had more to do as a footman. It seems that every time I think I'm actually moving forward in life, I'm somehow moving backwards instead.
I've already read through a small stack of books from the library. Admittedly, I'm a fast reader, but at this rate I'm going to have read everything in the house before I've been here a year. At least when I make it back to visit, I'll be able to give Molsley a run for his money.
Needless to say, I would very much appreciate any medical journals you might recommend. No need to waste all of that war training, after all.
Sincerely,
Thomas Barrow
-
October 13, 1925
Dear Thomas,
I am sorry to hear that things are not working out as well as you'd hoped. I can understand how feeling you're headed in the opposite direction of the one you want would be frustrating. I can only suggest that you give it time. You've been there less than a month, after all. You may discover there are local events that add a bit more interest. In the meantime, I am sending a list of recommended medical journals, along with a copy of this March's edition of the British Journal of Surgery. Somehow I received two copies, so there's no need to worry about returning it.
You said that your new house is about the size of the Dower house. I know you're not fond of asking for advice, but have you considered writing to Spratt and asking him what he does in his free time? I understand that Lady Violet has more visitors than your current employers, or she seems to at any rate, but Spratt is still likely to have more free time than Mr. Carson.
You might also ask some of your former coworkers. I met with Miss Baxter yesterday and she mentioned receiving a letter from you. It's good that you're keeping in touch with people here, for your sake and theirs. I'm certain you've been told this, but you have been missed.
If you're ever coming this direction, please let me know. I would enjoy being able to have lunch or tea together.
Sincerely,
Dr. Richard Clarkson
-
October 18, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
Thank you for the reading material. I think I will take out a subscription to the British Journal of Surgery. Found it very interesting. Elsie, the maid, found it interesting that I was interested, so it made for an evening's conversation as well. That was nice. Elsie's a pleasant enough girl, I suppose, although we don't have much in common. Nothing I feel comfortable admitting to, at any rate.
Sir Mark and Lady Stiles were invited up to Sledmere House for the day earlier this week, leaving me with almost an entire day to myself. I took the opportunity to go out to Bridlington for a couple of hours. It's a miserable time of year to visit the sea. It was raining, but the change of scenery was nice. Had lunch at a very nice little tea house. At least I'm earning a butler's salary, so I don't need to worry about treating myself occasionally. I suppose I never worried about it before, but it's the one thing about being in charge of a house that's living up to my expectations.
I wrote and asked Spratt about what I might do in my free time. All he said was “get a hobby”. I am not writing back and asking what sort of hobby he had in mind. I think Miss Denker mentioned he collects stamps at one point, but that doesn't sound terribly exciting, and I don't trust her word as far as I could throw it anyway. I think I'll stick to reading about the proper way to sew up a wound.
I hope you are well.
Sincerely,
Thomas Barrow
_
October 22, 1925
Dear Thomas,
While stamp collecting is a fine hobby, inarguably, I must confess I have never seen the appeal. I will not, therefore, blame you for passing on the opportunity to start. Reading seems a more enjoyable past time. You might also consider writing. While many people find writing reports and similar paperwork to be tedious, I've always found that it helps clear my mind and settle my thoughts. It seems like the sort of thing that might be well suited to your temperament.
I have not been to the sea for years. I remember loving it when I was a boy. Perhaps when the weather clears up I will find an opportunity to visit. If nothing else, I could stop off in Driffield on my way, if you have time for a visit.
If nothing else, I will need the holiday after this whole hospital merger nightmare. Fortunately things are settling down with the board, but these sorts of procedures are never as neat as they should be. I hope everything continue to go smoothly for you and that Christmas time, at least, has a bit more interest.
Sincerely,
Dr. Richard Clarkson
-
November 19, 1925
Dear Thomas,
It has been nearly a month since my last letter and I've not heard back from you. I would not be overly concerned, except that I bumped into Andrew this morning and he said no one at the house has heard from you either. I hope that you have simply become unexpectedly busy and that all is well. Do write, though, when you have time, and let me know if anything is wrong.
Sincerely,
Dr. Richard Clarkson
-
November 21, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
I'm sorry for the long stretch between letters, truly. I am. I have already written up to the house and assured everyone that I've simply been too busy to write. That is mostly true. The rest, I couldn't tell Baxter. It would worry her too much.
The truth is, I had a bit of a bad spell.
My employers had been talking about visiting relations the first week of November. It was their nephew's birthday, so they were going to be gone for at least three days. I had thought to surprise everyone by visiting Downton, unannounced. I'd have taken a room at the Grantham Arms for a night or two and had plenty of time to see everyone.
Two days before they were scheduled to leave, Lady Stiles started coughing. It was nothing but a bad cold, in the end, but at her age a bad cold can become bronchitis or pneumonia so very easily. There was no question of their making the trip. I hate to say that it wasn't so bad while she was ill, but I was busy. The local doctor had us watching her like a group of hawks (is there an actual term for that? I feel there must be, but I don't know it) and Sir Mark had us waiting on her hand and foot. Elsie was the one providing direct care, of course, but I was still busy.
Once she recovered, I started to feel off. I am still bored here. There's nearly no one to talk to. I think there are cemeteries that are more lively. And having lost that one opportunity to come and visit, particularly with the promise that the Stiles's will be staying home for Christmas, I began to question if I'd ever be able to visit. That's part of the reason I wanted to stay in Yorkshire, after all, so I could still see everyone. Here I'd been gone over a month and hadn't had time to more than write. I understand that a month isn't a very long amount of time, but it suddenly seemed like a year.
I was home sick.
There, I've said it. I don't know when Downton became home or when the other staff became more of a family than the one I grew up with, but there it is. I miss the children. I miss Baxter and Andrew and Mrs. Hughes and Anna. I even miss Mr. Carson going over my work like a Sergent, while Mr. Bates could get away with murder.
I'm lonely.
I was only starting to really pull myself out of it when your letter arrived. I'm sorry to have worried you, again, and thank you for caring. I really do appreciate it. And don't worry, now that my head's cleared a bit, I know I'll make it back to visit at some point.
I wish you the best, always.
Sincerely,
Thomas Barrow
-
November 21, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
Unfortunately the post had gone out before I'd had time to regret that last letter. I hope this one catches up to it.
I'm certain it sounded like I've spent the better part of the past month simply moping. I haven't, I just really haven't had the heart to write is all. I've continued to read. I did take out that subscription to the British Journal of Surgery and looked into a couple of your other recommendations.
Elsie and I actually went to the pictures together. We went to see the newest Chaney film. Turns out she likes scary stories. It was well done, although I preferred the book. This played up the horror a bit much for my taste. Left out the mystery and I didn't feel as connected to the characters. It was worth seeing, though, if you have time. It really is amazing how Chaney can do that to his face.
I hope things have been as dry in Downton as they have here. We all nearly froze on Guy Fawkes day, but at least the local events weren't rained out.
Sincerely,
Thomas Barrow
-
November 25, 1925
Dear Thomas,
I've some business in Beverly in the first week of December. I thought, if you had the time, that I might make a long drip of it and come for a brief visit.
I thank you for responding as quickly as you did to my last letter, but I will not pretend that they weren't concerning. Loneliness and homesickness are perfectly natural, of course, but they should not be left un-tempered if possible and there are only so many films released per year. I should like the opportunity to visit anyway. I have been curious what your thoughts on the last Journal were.
Sincerely,
Dr. Richard Clarkson
-
November 28, 1925
Dear Dr. Clarkson,
I can be available between the hours of eleven and one any day of the week, if you can provide one day's notice. I look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely,
Thomas
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Knock, Chapter 9
Simon leaves to pick up what you need.
Simon/Reader
Words: 2712
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8
When you woke up Simon was gone, leaving you alone in his room like you truly belonged here. Like you stayed over all the time. What was weird was it didn’t feel weird. It was comfortable, familiar even or at least it was more familiar than the countless places you’d slept since you’d left your home to face the end of the world.
You hooked your leg around the sheet, rolling over to check the time and gasping when you realised it was after ten. You couldn’t believe you’d slept so long and as you nuzzled your face into the scent of Simon’s pillow you couldn’t remember the last time you’d woken up without any idea of how you were going to spend the day. Dr Carson had prescribed you bedrest but what did bedrest mean anyway?
An entire day in bed would drive you crazy and even if you didn’t have work there were always other things that needed doing. Laundry, cooking, taking a shower; things that had once been so easy were now chores that had the power to consume your free time.
Laundry was the worst or at least it was for some people. The Sanctuary didn’t want to waste power running machines so everything had to be done the old fashioned way. You could barter with someone to do it for you but if you were honest you enjoyed the monotony of it and you liked the way it filled the endless hours of a day without Internet. As the idea of laundry crossed your mind you spied Simon’s pile of dirty clothes and snorted, you weren’t that desperate for amusement. Not yet.
You sat up, your head already starting to spin like you’d spent the entire night riding roller coasters and suddenly bedrest seemed like a great idea afterall. You would have laid back down if it wasn’t for the simple fact that you were starting to stink and even if you didn’t have any intention of getting closer to Simon you weren’t trying to repulse him either.
You wanted to at least brave a solar shower before crawling back into bed and just as you were about to put one foot off the mattress there was a gentle knock on the door.
For a split second you considered it might be Simon before deciding that he wouldn’t have knocked. Maybe it was Carson? Regardless, you slumped back against the pillows, temporarily defeated by the way the room was swaying as you called, “come in.”
The door opened slowly, too slow. You wondered if the person might have changed their mind when two wary brown eyes finally peeked out.
“Come in,” you said again and with trepidation that was frustrating to watch a young girl finally shuffled into the room although she looked like she might shuffle out at any moment. You didn’t know her name but you’d seen her around, mostly in the garden, usually with her head down pruning or doing whatever it was you did to help the plants flourish.
“Are you looking for Simon?” you asked, surprised that he would know this girl and curious as to why she might be here.
She shifted uneasily, her hair falling over her eyes and her gaze darting around the room, searching, exploring, uneasy.
“Well, are you gonna tell me why you’re here or not?” you said, your tone a little sharper.
She sucked her bottom lip, barely breathing as she pulled a slip of yellow paper from the back pocket of her jeans. She stepped towards you in considered steps, her hand slightly shaking as she held out the paper.
You snatched it with a weary sigh, unfolding the creases to see a handwritten note, the penmanship lacking but legible.
‘This is Daisy. She’s going to help you while I’m away for a couple of days. Be nice.
-Simon’
You turned the paper over searching for more writing, more information, anything really but that was all. Not only had Simon gone he hadn’t said goodbye, not properly anyway. You didn’t quite know how to feel about it but you did feel something, it weighed heavily in the pit of your stomach and with a forced smile you pushed the feeling away, focusing on Daisy.
You were just about to think of something to say when she scurried into the hallway, returning quickly with a large box which she set on the foot of the bed.
The box was filled with your belongings, mostly clothes but as you dug down you found a book that had been on your nightstand. Suddenly your cheeks were red, mortified by the idea of Simon finding what had been in the drawer of your nightstand. The only thing worse was the idea of Daisy seeing it. “Simon packed this?” you said quickly.
Daisy nodded, her face giving no suggestion that she had found you battery operated friend and you breathed in relief. If Simon had found it then he’d at least had the grace not to pack it, hopefully he’d have the grace not to mention it either.
“How old are you, Daisy?” you said, mentally changing the topic that was still leaving your cheeks red.
Daisy stared at her sneakers, her fists bunching into the pockets of her hoodie as she considered her answer like you’d asked her the secrets of the universe. When she finally spoke she was like a mouse, a tiny stuttery squeak that barely carried the four feet that stood between you. “Seventeen.”
You remembered being that age, sneaking out of the house, your first boyfriend, the summer you’d had your first part time job. It was a special time. Daisy stood before you like a stranger to your 17 year old self. She was terrified, of you or maybe everything. You couldn’t blame her, you’d seen enough to know to be terrified too. “You don’t have to do this. Look after me, I mean, I can manage on my own-”
Daisy’s eyes grew wide, her face losing colour as she rushed towards you, falling to her knees like she was at your mercy. You knew Simon wouldn’t have frightened her into doing this for him which made you realise he’d had probably offered her the world or as close to it as she could get, points, and here you were threatening to take the chance away.
“Okay,” you said softly, softer than you’d been in a long time, “you can stay.”
She smiled, watching you with her big brown eyes and waiting for you to tell her what to do next. It made you uneasy, it was hard enough letting Simon help you. “I want to go for a shower,” you admitted eventually and Daisy might not have said much but she did more and even if you didn’t want to believe it, you needed the help.
When you went to sleep that night Simon hadn’t returned and Daisy took his place on the sofa, curled into tight ball and for the first time, relaxed. You hardly slept. Being a Savior was easier than this. The waiting, the wondering, knowing Simon was out there and there was nothing you could do. You hated it.
When Simon didn’t return the next night didn’t sleep at all and in the morning you found yourself in Negan’s parlor, slumping on his sofa and watching as he ushered his wives from the room.
“Shouldn’t you be tucked up in bed waiting for your dear devoted fiance?” he mocked, taking a seat opposite you and smiling with the same smug smirk he always had. “Because if you’re here looking to share a bed with yours-fucking-truly then I’m gonna tell you, my dick is off the table. I don’t like fucking girls who might puke on me even if I was into fucking pregnant women.”
You had half a mind to say the sort of smart assed remark that would make Simon grin. Instead you said, “I wanna know where Simon went and who he took.”
“He didn’t tell you?” even Negan looks surprised.
Your heart sank, you could almost feel it sliding from your chest and sinking to your feet. More than anything you don’t like the way Negan’s looking at you now. “Where did he go?”
Negan stands, walking to the window where he can pretend to be interested in the view. “He took a group to Saint Mary’s.”
“Saint Mary’s?” you repeat, almost wishing you hadn’t heard it. St Mary’s was one of the closest hospitals to the Sanctuary but it was overrun and blacklisted by Simon several months ago. You’d seen it with your own eyes, you’d heard Simon say it with your own ears. ‘Too many dead ones to make it worth the risk.’
You can’t help yourself, you can’t stop yourself, your lip wobbles and tears roll freely down your cheeks while Negan watches you with a vague look of remorse. For once he might actually be uncomfortable and you find your voice filled with venom as you demand, “why did you let him go there?”
“I didn’t let Simon do anything doll. He’s a big boy, he knows the risks and he took them anyway. You should be fucking grateful.”
“Don’t tell me what I should think!” you spit, pulling yourself up from the sofa and wiping the tears from under your eyes. You’re embarrassed for about a hundred different reasons and terrified for a few more. Your hearts pounding, your stomach’s churning and all you can think about is getting away. You don’t want Negan to see you like this, hell, you don't want to see you like this.
Negan holds your shoulder as you try to leave. “Arat’s with him,” he says like it changes things, like knowing she’s risking her life might make you feel better. It doesn’t, you feel worse than ever. You don’t want to know the names of the people who are risking their lives to get medicine for you. You’re ashamed to be such a burden.
Soon an entire week has passed and with your nausea only getting worse and dark circles carved under your eyes you’re starting to consider stealing a truck and heading to Saint Mary’s yourself. As you form the plan you realise how crazy it is just as you realise how much you already care about Simon and finding out what has happened to him.
You’re sitting on the end of the bed, slipping your feet into your shoes and considering asking Laura to join your fools errand when the door opens. You look up expecting Daisy but find yourself dazed when you realise its Simon. Simon, here, safe, strolling into the room like nothing has happened. Your mouth hangs open, words lost on your tongue.
He’s wearing his leather jacket, his face and nose marked with what looks like ash. He smiles when he see’s you, dropping the bag he’s carrying onto the floor and throwing out his arms to scoop you into them. You can hardly breath or think as Simon holds you, the smell of fire filling your nostrils and the zipper of his jacket uncomfortable against your skin yet none of it bothering you. Your heart is happily hammering, welcoming his return and the way it makes you feel to have his arms wrapped around you.
“A little bird said you were missing me,” he whispers, loosening his embrace just enough so that he can look at you. “A bigger bird said you’d been worried about me.”
You’re drowning in butterflies and you’re not sure you like the sensation as you squirm for escape from his solid embrace. “I was worried about everyone,” you say coolly and he lets you slip from his arms just like you wanted except you don’t want it now.
“I’m sorry you were worried about… everyone,” he says turning away from you and sliding his jacket from his shoulders. “Everyone is okay and I think we found what you need.”
“You did?”
He glances over his shoulder, “I said I would, didn’t I?”
“I thought St Mary’s was impenetrable,” you say, watching him hang his coat on the back of a chair, a smile crinkling back into his face as he turns to you.
“It is, was, at least for some people anyway.”
A moments silence lingers between you before he begins unfastening the top buttons of his shirt. You wonder if you should look away but can’t seem to take your eyes off him, watching his fingers tiptoe down his chest. The soft downy hair that covers his tanned skin calls to your lips like a swan song. You’re almost caving into desire before he turns to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer and almost toppling over your box of clothes.
“I’ll make you some space, you don’t have to keep all your things in here,” he laughs, sliding the box back into place and grabbing himself a change of clothes.
You watch in silence, imagining your clothes in the drawer next to his and your scent on the pillows as your lives merge into one. Then you imagine the sleepless nights wondering where he is, if he’s safe, if he’s coming home or if you’ll have to empty his side of the drawer and forget what it was like to smell his skin.
“You don’t need to,” you whisper, bracing yourself against the way he looks at you. “You said yourself you’ve found what I need. I have Daisy so I see no reason why I can’t move back to my room.”
For longer than a heartbeat neither of you move, neither of you breathe as you wait for him to say something. He doesn’t say a word, his lips press together, an aggravated hand running through his hair as a breath of air huffs through his nose. When he slams the dresser drawer you flinch and suddenly you’re both still again.
You don’t know how long you both stand there in silence but after a while you can’t bare another second of it. You don’t even try to grab your belongings you head right for the door.
“You’re as cold as goddamn stone,” he says, his words stopping you in your tracks, your fingers lingering on the door handle.
You’ve never been accused of wearing your heart on your sleeve and if you’re cold now it's because you’re too far gone, too broken. “I told you-.”
“I know what you’ve told me.” He laughs dismissively, “if you need me you’ll ask, right?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, your heart pounding. You’d spent the past week worrying, picturing the unimaginable happening and for all that you were trying to do to protect yourself this felt just as bad. You wondered if you were doing the right thing but you couldn't seem to do anything but just stand there, frozen.
“You should get your things,” he says, moving to the door and stepping out into the hallway. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
Simon leaves you standing in his room feeling deflated and you kick the door shut as a tear rolls down your cheek. You’re about to grab your box when you spot the bag he brought back with him and without too much consideration you pick it up, upending the contents onto the bed and feeling even more emotional when you realise what they are. It’s a baby hat and a matching blanket, the kind you get in a hospital, the kind you’d seen in every first baby picture your friends had ever shown you.
You hold the tiny items, staring at them as your thumb brushes over the soft cotton. It's already too late to protect yourself from the things you’re afraid of. In a few months you’ll have a new life that’s depending on you and you’ll have all the worries that come along with it.
You shove the hat and blanket back into the bag before quickly picking up your box only to hesitate as you stand in the doorway between Simon’s room and the rest of the world. Even now, even after everything you’ve decided and everything you’ve said, you can’t decide whether you want to stay or leave. What will you do?
Thank you for reading! A few of you suggested keeping some tension between them and I’m all about that but at the same time what do you think you would do if you were her! Some of you also mentioned baby scans/baby shopping that kind of thing so I was thinking of having a time jump next chapter and maybe finding out the gender of the baby. So with that in mind I’m gonna let you guys decide. Tell me if you’re enjoying this series and tell me if you want to have a baby boy or girl :)
Tagging those who requested:
@doyouhaveavacancy // @pathetically-inlove // @lucifers-trash-stash // @ladylorelitany // @vizhi0n // @kijilinn // @starshinesupergirl // @megan-monroe // @myheart4ever47 // @kellyn1604 // @genevievedarcygranger // @xokamisama // @mwesterfeld1985 // @jemstonewrites // @collette04 // @heal-the-broken-hearts // @cltex84 // @nanpereirab // @gothica123 // @thatgingefromtheinternet // @notice-me-senpai-sama // @daintyunicorn // @devilishcreature // @fullyoriginalruins // @b-asiacoquum // @probably-inside // @alyisdead // @hellogracebarnes // @maliadestiny
#Simon TWD#Savior Simon#Steven Ogg#Simon the Savior#Simon's Thirst Squad#simons thirst squad#TWD#The Walking Dead#Reader Insert
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