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quaranmine · 1 year

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The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter Three)

In which Grian is not immune to the good times, and both fire and watching happen.

Chapter Three: 8,718 words

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hiiiiiii! welcome to chapter three! this is the other half that i had to split off of chapter two and as you can see by its wordcount, i probably could've split it again if there was a place to do so. lots of firewatching related things in this one, so it was fun to write!

CW: mild conversational talk of past injury, conversation/story involving alcohol/drunkeness. Continuation of the themes of loss/grief. This chapter may contain spoilers for Top Gun (1986)

May 1989

It’s a sunny day, like the day before it and the day before it. Summer is creeping into the mountains, slowly taking the frigid edge from the wind that whips around Grian’s lookout tower. And although temperatures often still dip below freezing at night, the stream in Thunder Canyon is fuller and fuller with each passing day as the snow melts off the southern slopes of the peaks.

There’s wildflowers on the alpine meadows in the distance, dotted between fresh green grass. There’s birds in the trees. When Grian steps outside, he hears the sounds of running water wherever he goes–little trickles of ephemeral streams borne from the snows of the winter.

Grian is cleaning his tower today. It’s a day he’s working, so his process goes a little like this:

Sweep part of the floor. After a minute, look up and scan the horizon. Go back to sweeping, sweep the dust out the door, start to scrub on the dirtiest parts of the floor, and realize you’ve got no water.

Go fetch water for cleaning, and haul the heavy bucket up the four story tower from the spigot on the ground. Do an in-depth scan around the tower since it’s been a while since the last time you looked. Work on the floor some more, get bored, set the bucket aside and begin organizing shelves and supplies. Stand up every so often to look again.

You get it. Grian’s not fully sure yet what the best rhythm for looking is–he doesn’t want to miss anything, but surely there isn’t much opportunity for changes if he does it every few minutes. It’s a little jarring to have your attention so split between tasks, but that’s the job. You can do whatever you want in the tower as long as you remember to look. The looking is the reason he’s paid, and as distracted Grian may be, he still intends to do this job with a determination to make Mumbo proud.

Grian is just about to set out to clean the windows when his radio goes off again. It’s Scar. He sets down his supplies to go pick up the radio.

“Good morning, Two Forks,” Scar greets breezily. “What are you up to this fine morning?”

“Are you feeling separation anxiety already?” Grian snipes back. “We only spoke an hour ago when we did morning weather reports with the rest of the Forest Service.”

“No! Can’t a man be curious?”

Grian rolls his eyes. “I’m just cleaning. It’s amazing the amount of dust that gets blown in here.” Or tracked in here from his boots every time he ventures into the forest, oops.

“Hm. At least that’s something to do,” Scar says, before complaining: “I’m bored.”

“I don’t think this is the job for you if you’re bored,” Grian says.

“Hey!” Scar cries. “I’ve done this job a lot longer than you have. I’m allowed to be bored. Rookies aren’t allowed to be bored.”

Grian’s been here for three weeks, but he’s already accepted his fate that he’s now Scar’s go-to person to talk to when he’s bored. He wants to ask if Scar has ever tried to strike up friendships with the other lookouts in the area, or if he always talks this much to the lookouts he’s supervising, but he feels like that question will only put Scar on the defensive. And really, he doesn’t mind the guy–it’s just this is nothing like what he anticipated when he took the job.

For some people, the isolation of it all is precisely the draw.

Grian starts to clean the windows, sticking the radio in his pocket for easy access since Scar’s in a clearly talkative mood again. The windows must always be clean, lest some spot or smudge on the glass make it difficult for smoke to be spotted in the distance.

After a minute or two of silence, Scar speaks again. “Do you like movies, G? What’s your favorite movie?”

“I don’t know,” Grian says. “I don’t have one.”

Movies were always Mumbo’s thing, not Grian’s. He hasn’t paid attention to anything that came out in the past year or so. It just wasn’t important anymore.

He smiles a bit though, remembering how Mumbo was always dragging him to the theater near their university back in England. They’d try to sneak into movies without paying sometimes, and had gotten kicked out on three separate occasions. But the owner of the theater had liked Mumbo, with his endearing smile and nervous habits, and had never tried to ban him from the theater. When Grian thinks back on it, he wonders if sometimes they had just been allowed to stay.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a favorite movie,” Scar says. “My favorite movie is Top Gun! Did you ever see it?”

“Um, no,” Grian says, although he remembers the name. It was everywhere, for a while. Entertainment about the American military didn’t exactly spark any patriotism in him though, dual citizenship or not.

“Oh my goodness,” Scar says. “Not only do you not have a favorite movie but you’ve never seen Top Gun! You’re in worse shape than I thought, G-man.”

“How will I ever survive,” Grian says.

“It’s only the greatest movie of all time,” Scar says.

“Uh-huh,” Grian says. If he plays this right, he’ll be able to finish cleaning the windows without having to reply at all. “What’s it about?”

“Wait, you’ve never even heard of it? You don’t even know what it’s about? Top Gun? It was like the biggest movie of the year?”

“I guess you’ll just have to tell me about it,” Grian says, and ah–that’s done it. He’s bought time.

“Oh my goodness,” Scar says, and Grian can’t help but smile ever so slightly at how excited he seems. “So it opens with this amazing synth score, and like–the score on the whole movie is incredible, really. And it opens with the great music, and the whole intro is just the jets flying around–it’s about Navy pilots–and they’re real planes! They actually filmed in F-14 fighter jets–”

Grian sets the radio on the deck and carefully steps around it, cleaning the outside windows, sun warm on his back. When it’s time to step inside to look again, he picks the radio up and takes it with him, carrying Scar’s voice along.

He’s talking about some volleyball scene that’s apparently iconic, although Grian had been under the impression this was a plane movie, not a sports movie. He also talks about which actors were his favorites in the film–some Grian has heard of, others not so much. Mumbo’s probably heard of them all, though.

Grian frowns at the streaks on the window. He thinks that next time he’s asked to report any feedback, he’ll ask if they can supply his tower with a new squeegee, since the rubber on this one is very worn. He’d been a little surprised that such a specific tool had been in his tower at all given the distinct lack of other amenities–like running water, for one–but it made sense for a room surrounded on all sides by windows.

The next time he tunes in, Scar is giving him a demonstration of that highway to the danger zone song he’s heard all over the radio. Grian stops what he’s doing and puts a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter, as if there’s anyone around at all to hear him laugh. The thing is, Scar wouldn’t be half bad at it if he was taking it seriously but this rendition of the song is…distinctly not. It has no right being as charming as it is.

Grian lets him ramble for a long time. The exact length of time doesn’t matter, because a location like this lays the very nature of time at your feet, rippling out infinitely along with the hills. There’s just the warm spring sun and cool spring breeze and the clouds in the bright blue sky and the cry of birds and the whisper of wind in the trees and the sound of Scar’s voice. They’ve got forever and a day out here, where Grian measures the passage of time by the length of the shadows on the deck.

“You have to watch the movie,” Scar concludes his spiel with.

“I feel like I’ve seen it already,” Grian says, and he isn’t exaggerating.

“No no no,” Scar says. “Something like this has to be seen with your own eyes! Experienced! Felt! It’s about the atmosphere, the music, the feelings! You gotta go rent it whenever you go home.”

“And if I don’t?” Grian says. He’s walked back inside temporarily to scan the horizon once again. There’s no little wisps of smoke to be found. “You’ve done such a good job explaining the plot to me already.”

“Then you aren’t allowed to come back as a lookout next summer,” Scar says petulantly. “I will remember, you know. I’ll ask you every time until you see it. Eventually it’ll get so annoying you’ll have to watch it. ”

And it’s–it’s at this moment where the reality of this hits Grian once again. The wind feels colder than it did a moment ago. Scar thinks Grian might come back next year. And maybe that’s some of Grian’s fault, because he’d played up how much he wanted this job when he was interviewed for it. When he answered the newspaper ad with his resume and application, he’d asked for placement in Shoshone National Forest as his first and only preference. He’d emphasized this location specifically. They must all think of him as particularly enthusiastic for fire-watching.

But the only thing that mattered about this location, this national forest, this tower, this job, was Mumbo. He just has to get close. He was sent home empty-handed last time, the search parties had eventually turned from “rescue” to “recovery,” searches were altered and stopped due to fires and eventually stalled altogether when the weather finally turned in the fall. So he just…he has to get close, because Denver is too far away, but as long as Grian is right here it’ll all be fine and he can fix it.

Grian has plans to skip town the moment he finds Mumbo.

“Do you think I’m coming back?” he asks quietly.

Scar seems to interpret the question a little differently than Grian meant it. “I think you’re doing great G-man,” he says. “You’ve learned everything so quickly. I don’t see why they wouldn’t hire you for next summer. You’re so thorough and determined to get things right that the Forest Service would be dumb if they weren’t glad to have you.”

“Uh,” Grian says, a little unclear on how to accept a compliment. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Scar continues, “as your supervisor, I can report any issues I see with you, so you’d maybe wanna think about seeing Top Gun. Wouldn’t want me to mark you as deficient, of course.”

“This is manipulation,” Grian says. “I’m telling everyone that this is an unsafe workplace. I’m being coerced! Coerced into seeing a plane movie!”

“Grian,” Scar cries, scandalized. “How could you possibly call it a ‘plane movie’ after everything I’ve just told you! Were you even listening?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Grian says. “Synth, danger zone, F-14s, motorcycles, need for speed, volleyball. Is that all?”

“There’s so much more than that! But, well, maybe that too. It’s a lot of fun.” Scar pauses for a moment, and Grian uses the space to try and think of something else to banter back with, but before he gets a chance Scar speaks again, softer this time.

“I liked Goose’s death,” he says, before quickly walking that statement back into something a little less shocking. “Or–I didn’t like it, it made me sad but…things happen, I guess. It was an accident. It was preventable. It wasn’t Mav’s fault. But he was still…guilty, when he grieved. And we watched him grieve.”

“Oh,” Grian says, and he doesn’t really know what else to add to that. “That sounds nice.”

“It is. I told you it’s my favorite movie.”

“Maybe I should watch it.”

»»———-　　———-««

June 1989

Some hikers stop by in the early morning, just after Grian makes his weather report of the day. They are the first people he’s actually seen since he started not quite a full month ago, although Scar told him there’d likely be more as they got deeper into the summer. Particularly, he said, there might be more tourists this year since people want to check the extent of the damages from the severe fires last year. A lot of people had been concerned that the whole Yellowstone area burned to the ground after the media firestorm, you see, and wanted to see it for themselves.

The hikers are keenly interested in the tower and happy to ask Grian questions about it, which he answers to the best of his ability. He lets them briefly tour the lookout tower–it’s a small room so there’s not much to see and it’s cramped with three additional people in it. They look out the windows at all of the country they’ve been hiking through and trace their paths along the mountains. Grian points out Jonesy Lake, the place they’d been camping, to the west.

It feels like being put on the spot though, to answer all these questions with so little experience in the job, so he’s happy when they decide to get going a few minutes later.

“I saw some hikers,” Grian says into his radio, watching them hike away until they disappear into the forest again.

“Are they on their way out?” Scar asks.

“Yeah,” Grian says. “I told them about the storm this afternoon and they said they knew about it and were heading back.”

“Hm, that’s good at least,” Scar says. He sighs. “They were leaving on your trail?”

“Yeah.”

“That trail is difficult,” Scar says, and Grian agrees–it’s one of the reasons he’s opted to not go back into town on his days off. It’s just too much trouble. The other reason is that his days off are already preoccupied with a more important activity. “Maybe you should contact the rangers and give them a heads up that these people are on the trail.”

“Like what?” Grian asks. “You don’t think they’re going to make it?”

“They might,” Scar says. He sounds tired. “They might not. Last thing we need is a couple of drenched wet freezing hikers on that trail. If you give the rangers a heads up, they might be able to check the trailhead to make sure they got back to their car on-time.”

“Copy that,” Grian says. “I’ll be back.”

He flips the radio back to the official frequency, the one that broadcasts forest-wide, and calls in. He always feels a little self-conscious on this line, never quite sure of who can hear him. It goes out to dispatch, fire crews, other lookouts, rangers, and any hobbyist who might know the frequencies to listen in on. There’s dozens of unknown ears listening to his every word.

He waits a moment, making sure he isn’t interrupting any priority call taking place, and proceeds when the channel is silent.

“Dispatch, this is Two Forks.”

“Two Forks, proceed,” comes the response.

“Reporting three hikers that stopped at the tower this morning around 9:30 am,” he says. “They were traveling from Jonesy Lake onto the Thorofare trail back to the trailhead. It’s a long hike and I’m concerned they might get caught in the storm this afternoon before they make it back so I’m giving a heads up.”

“Copy that,” Dispatch says. “We’ll check the trailhead after the storm to make sure they made it back. We’ll be able to find their permit too. Pay attention this afternoon, Two Forks, it’s officially fire season now.”

“Affirmative,” Grian says.

He flips his radio’s frequency to the now-familiar channel he and Scar use exclusively.

“I reported the hikers to the Service,” he says. “They said they’ll check the trailhead later to see if they made it back. I didn’t know their vehicle, of course, but I doubt there’s any others there right now besides mine.”

“Oh, good,” Scar says.

There’s something brushing the back of Grian’s mind today. Scar just sounds different. “How are you this morning, Thorofare?” Grian asks. “It’s been so long since we did the weather report an hour ago.”

“I’m fine,” Scar says with another sigh, which really isn’t like him at all.

“You sound bad.”

“Thanks, G-man,” Scar says sarcastically before admitting: “It’s the storm. The weather changes always make everything hurt more.”

“Hurt more?” Grian asks. It’s something he’s heard people complain about, but nothing he’s ever experienced.

“It makes my joints hurt,” Scar says. “More than usual, I guess.”

“Do you have any pain medicine in your lookout?”

“It doesn’t really help,” Scar says. “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Grian says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it,” he says, but the slight edge in his voice is telling Grian that used to it doesn’t mean can’t feel it.

“Why does it hurt?” Grian asks.

“What do you mean why?” Scar replies. “Like, in general? No clue. Weather changes seem to make it worse. It’s also worse in the winter but I’m not in this tower in the winter so I’ve got a little more control over how I deal with it then. But as for why me, it’s because of old injuries.”

“That sounds awful,” Grian says. “Can I help? I mean, I don’t know how since I’m all the way over here but…if you think of anything.”

“You could talk to me,” Scar says. “It’ll either distract me or overwhelm me but we could try.”

“Okay. Um, what do you want to talk about?”

“Tell me a funny story from England,” he says.

Grian stops for a moment to think. What’s a good funny story? He probably has many of them, but it’s hard to pick one specific scenario out, so he narrows it down to his university years and immediately remembers a good one.

“Right,” he says. “I had a lot of friends in university.”

“Showing off?” Scar says. “Mr. Popular?”

“Shush,” Grian says. “I’m telling you a story. A lot of people I knew in college, and even a few from secondary school went to the same university as me so I basically already knew them.”

Grian slowly spins around in his tower, giving the hills near and far a glance over. There’s no smoke to be seen, but he can already tell that big clouds have built on the horizon. They won’t all be storm clouds, but the weather is clearly right for it. He goes back to his story.

“I had this one group of friends: Timmy, Martyn, and Joel. Most of us were studying different things but we had some overlapping time and liked to hang out after class. Joel had made really close friends with a girl named Lizzie, and we’d ended up spending a lot of time with her too. Anyway, in this story though, we’d gone to the pub without her.”

“I don’t think anything has ever gone wrong at a pub,” Scar says solemnly.

Grian laughs. “Yeah, alright, we all got super drunk at the pub. It’s 11 pm, we’re all drunk, and Joel announces he wants to confess his love for Lizzie. And this is like, the best idea we’ve ever heard, because Lizzie is super cool, maybe even cooler than Joel is. So we’re like, let’s go now.”

“Oh no…”

“Have no fear, Scar,” Grian says. “I told you it was a fun story.”

Grian continues. “We leave the pub and decide to go find her flat near campus. We got turned around once or twice because Timmy’s awful at navigation and the one person who actually knew where she lived, Joel, was too busy trying to come up with poetry or something. I don’t know. It was nearly midnight when we finally found her flat, but her light was on so we knew she was home.”

“Did you guys throw rocks at her window?” Scar asks. “Like a modern Romeo and Juliet?”

“I thought about that actually,” Grian says. “But she had a ground floor entrance so Martyn just said we should knock on the door instead. Which was probably a smarter option, honestly.”

“Did she answer?”

“Her roommate did, actually, but she just rolled her eyes and went to go fetch Lizzie. The rest of us stood back while Joel presented her with a gift, which was actually just some small yard ornament he stole off of someone’s front garden a little down the street. I didn’t actually remember that part, Lizzie told it to me. She made him go put it back the next morning.”

Grian sighs and shakes his head a little, a smile on his face at the memory. They’d been so dumb, but he’d give anything to be back there right now. Back then, he had all his friends–now, they were all either across oceans or in different countries, or both. Or…or they were missing.

He shakes his head again, this time not at the thought of his previous shenanigans, but to dispel the darker thoughts from his mind before the cloud out the funny memory.

He continues, “When she answered the door, Joel had some great speech planned. Well, I don’t know if it was actually great. I did mention we were all pretty drunk. It sounded good to me, though. He said he was in love with her and she was so smart and so pretty and he wanted to go on a date with her. And then she started laughing, so hard she almost started crying.”

“What?”

“We were all confused too. But then she wiped her tears and said, and I remember these words as clearly as if it was yesterday. She said, ‘Joel, we’ve been dating for three months now.’”

“Wait, really?” Scar says. “They were already dating? Did you just not know or forget?”

“Dude, I don’t think I could have defined what was going on with the two of them if I tried. I'm not convinced Joel knew how to define it either until then.”

“That was a good story,” Scar says. “I gotta know, though! Did it work out?”

Grian grins. “Well, they got married a few years later, so I think it did.”

"Aww! I love a fairytale ending," Scar says.

"Did you go to university?" Grian asks. "We were all so stupid then. I’m not convinced we’re any less stupid now, we just know how to act like we aren’t."

"Uh, no," Scar says. "I did some work in landscaping though. Before all this."

"I was an architect."

Grian wonders if that career is all but shot. It’s an unexpectedly painful thought to have, but it had been his dream job for so long. He'd only been just done with certification and doing his own clients during the time they'd been in Colorado. He wasn't exceptionally experienced or anything.

He hadn't left the job on good terms either, with a string of no-shows, subsequent disciplinary actions, and a final letter of resignation wherein he specifically wrote he planned to take this lookout job because "nobody believed in Mumbo but him."

He winces. All his past coworkers probably thought he was insane. Maybe he was.

"Ooh, now that's a fancy job," Scar says.

Grian wants to move on from this discussion, before Scar has a chance to ask why he's here instead of at that fancy job, so he quickly says: "It's your turn for a question now. Ask me anything."

It occurs to Grian after he saysvthis that maybe telling Scar to ask him anything didn't exactly save him from the potential of awkward questions and just opened him up to a wider world of awkward questions. He's already tossed the ball back to Scar though, so now he just has to wait.

Scar is silent on the other end of the line for a while, and when he speaks again there's a more somber quality in his voice.

"What's the worst pain you've ever felt?" he asks.

Yeah, he should have just asked Scar to trade another funny story instead. Because he just…can’t answer this. He sucks in a breath, trying to steady the way his heart rate spiked with just that one question.

It’s a question that pulls him back into that black hole that threatens to break open his chest everyday. He's circling the event horizon. They should've stuck to funny stories.

Grian scrambles for a safe answer, one that doesn't involve the marked up topo maps in between the books on his desk–hastily slotted out of view from the earlier hikers–or missing posters. An answer that keeps his head above water for this conversation.

There’s just, there’s just a certain kind of whiplash from talking about funny experiences with his friends in university –friends who weren’t even Mumbo–and then being reminded of the elephant in the room once again. He carries that pain with him wherever he goes now.

He isn’t the person he used to be in university in England, or when he was an architect in Denver.

He looks down at the radio in his hand that demands his immediate reply, and his attention flicks to his forearm.

“I broke my wrist two years ago,” he blurts out. “It’s a funnier story than it sounds, I promise.”

This is a safe memory. It’s even a safe memory of Mumbo, because even though the edges of it are vignetted with pain, the memory still sticks out brightly as something that makes Grian smile. It still hurt, of course. Grian didn’t enjoy breaking his wrist. That wasn’t why it made him smile.

It’s just that the memory of Mumbo following him around their flat like a puppy for a week apologizing to him sticks out more than the white-hot shock of pain when it happened. It’s Grian calmly navigating them to the ER because Mumbo was the one who was almost too freaked out to drive, something Grian teased him about endlessly.

“Ouch,” Scar says. “I sure know that feeling.”

“I fell off a bike,” Grian says. “Well, that makes it sound too simple. It was more like I lost control on a steep hill, drove it off trail, crashed, and my poor wrist took the worst of it when I tried to catch my fall.”

“Oh no! Did they do surgery?” Scar asks.

“No, it healed by itself, fortunately,” Grian says, and decides to tell the rest of the story anyway since it makes him smile. “I’d gotten my roommate a mountain bike as a gift, since he was really interested in that stuff. He loved it–although we actually had to take it back and get another one ‘cause he was too tall for the one I bought, but he said it was the thought that counted. He was so excited to try it that he made me come with him and rent my own bike.”

“Which you then immediately crashed?”

Grian sighs. “Pretty much. You should’ve seen his face, though. I think he was panicking more about it than me. I was like, okay, we’ll just walk back to the car and go to the ER, you can help me walk the bike up this hill. But I thought he was going to pass out!” Grian smiles. “I got a lot of leverage out of that, though, since he’s the one who talked me into it.”

“Oh, I have no trouble believing that,” Scar says. “So no biking for you?”

“No,” Grian says. “I’ll just walk, thank you. Besides, I had to pay for repairing that rental!”

“Mm, more options for hiking trails that way anyway.”

Grian scans the horizon again, eyes lingering on Scar’s lookout just a little longer than necessary. “What’s yours?” he asks. “The worst pain, I mean.”

Scar doesn’t answer for a moment. It’s not a long enough moment to assume he didn’t plan on answering at all, but right after Grian speaks it hits him. He wants to slap himself. “Oh. It’s the old injuries you mentioned earlier. The ones that still hurt right now.”

“Something like that,” Scar replies.

“What was it?” Grian says. “Can I ask?”

“I was in a really bad car accident a few years ago,” Scar says. He’s miles away but sounds more distant than usual. “It nearly killed me, actually. I broke a lot of bones, spent a lot of time in the hospital, recovered for a long time, you get it.”

“That’s awful,” Grian says. “I’m really sorry.”

“Well,” Scar says. “It happened, I guess. Nothing you can do about that.”

“For what it’s worth,” Grian says, “I’m glad it didn’t kill you.”

When Scar speaks again, it’s quieter than before. “I don’t know if I always felt the same,” he says. “But I think I do now, these days.”

Oh. Grian doesn’t even have words to say to that, but he doesn’t need to, because Scar is still holding his radio’s button down. Still on the line, preventing Grian from responding.

Scar sighs. “Listen, it’s been nice chatting with you G, but I have to go feed Jellie and do a few things before this storm hits, so I gotta let you go.” His voice is brisk now.

“Um, okay,” Grian responds. “Do you feel any better? Did it distract you?”

“It gave me something else to focus on,” Scar says firmly. “But now I need to go. Talk to you when the storm hits, okay?”

“Okay.”

»»———-　　———-««

The National Weather Service in Riverton has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for Park County in Northwestern Wyoming, Teton County in Northwestern Wyoming, Fremont County in Northwestern Wyoming, Hot Springs County in Northwestern Wyoming until 6:00 PM.

At 4:26 PM, a severe thunderstorm was located over Yellowstone National Park moving west at 40 miles per hour. Hazard…60 miles per hour wind gusts and quarter sized hail. Impact…Hail damage to vehicles is expected. Expect wind damage to roofs, siding, trees, and/or power lines.

Locations impacted include Yellowstone National Park, Canyon Village, Shoshone National Forest, Wapiti, Cody, Powell, Teton Village, Jackson, Meeteetse, Dubois. For your protection move to an interior room on the lowest floor of a building or get inside a sturdy structure and stay away from windows.

Along with large hail and damaging winds, continuous cloud to ground lightning is occurring with this storm. Move indoors immediately. Lightning is one of nature’s leading killers. Remember, if you can hear thunder, you are close enough to be struck by lightning…

The message ends with a harsh beeping tone, and Grian turns the volume down before it can repeat itself. The message had cut in and out with static the entire time, probably due to the distance and the mountains, even though it was being transmitted from Cody. A moment later, Grian flips the channel from the National Weather Service frequency back to the one he and Scar use, which is surprisingly stable.

Grian steps out onto the deck surrounding his tower. The sky is dark blue to the west, and the tops of the trees are already being picked up by the wind. It’s a little disconcerting, actually, to be way up in the top of the tower. The thick wooden support beams still allow a little bit of sway when the winds are strong enough.

There’s suddenly a CRASH from rolling thunder, and Grian flinches involuntarily. Right. The radio had just said that if he was close enough to hear thunder, he was close enough to be struck by lightning. Grian decides that he should step inside, instead of standing around outside.

Although, if he’s being honest with himself, inside doesn’t seem much better either. All this talk about moving to the lowest floor of a building and staying away from windows doesn’t mean much when your only shelter is a four story wooden tower on the highest mountain top around, encased on all sides by windows.

But that’s the job, isn’t it?

He doesn’t get to take shelter–if there were a place for him to take shelter in the first place–because his job is to watch from this perch. He’s supposed to be noting and locating every lightning strike he possibly can and looking carefully to see if any of them start fires. Lightning causes even more fires than humans, typically.

He’s been provided a wooden stool with glass feet to use during the storm since both of the materials are not very conductive, but that isn’t really sparking a lot of confidence in him. And there are some lightning rods and other protective grounding measures, but it’s still a little…disconcerting.

Grian’s glad he turned his radio back to its normal frequency, because Scar calls in a moment later. “Here she comes!” he cries. “I know you heard that thunder too.”

“It’s getting so dark,” Grian says.

The lights aren't on right now–although he doesn't normally need them midday anyway–so the rapidly approaching weather fills the tower with almost palpable shifting gloom. Earlier Grian had switched off the generator at the bottom of the tower and covered it with a tarp in preparation for the storm.

“This might be an interesting one,” Scar says. “We might see some of the first fires of the season in this area today.”

“That’s what they said this morning when they reported the fire risk. And what the ranger told me after I reported those hikers.”

“Lightning starts most of our fires out here,” Scar says. “They might let it burn if it’s a lightning based fire, but I’m not sure after how bad it was last year. They might want to suppress it to keep the public happy. Generally though, human-caused fires get suppressed but natural ones might be allowed to burn.”

“Yeah, you told me a few weeks ago that the ecosystem needs fire or something.”

“It gets along pretty well by itself without our help,” Scar says. “We just…like to keep the pretty parts to ourselves. Don’t wanna see ‘em get destroyed.”

“I get that,” Grian says. He sighs. “Do you feel any better?”

“Um,” Scar replies. “Not particularly.”

“Oh. I thought you sounded better.”

“Thanks, I’m good at that.”

"You shouldn't have to be good at that."

"I'd never get anything done otherwise," Scar says.

Grian turns to watching the leading edge of the storm roll in. It’s really beautiful up here, on his little perch. The sky is a dark blue-black to the west and clear to the east. The thunderhead is high and lofty. Grian can see the slopes in the distance disappearing in a curtain of rain, the same blue-gray color as the clouds.

“Keep an eye on that cloud and right around it,” Scar says a few minutes later. “We might lose visibility when it passes over us but it’s close enough now for us to count the lightning strikes.”

Just as Scar speaks, Grian spots the first one in the distance, darting down quickly to the ground and branching as it goes. It’s beautiful too. Grian quickly lines it up in the sight of his firefinder, spinning the circle around until it’s pointing directly at the strike area. He marks down the general area with a pencil on the map in the center of the disc.

Just after he finishes doing that, thunder claps and it feels like it rattles the whole cabin. Grian decides maybe it’s time for him to stand on the stool, just in case.

When the storm draws closer, the lightning will probably be too fast to keep up with. Grian’s already having issues finding them in the firefinder before another strikes. For this reason, he has a profile map of the area around his tower too, with the peaks drawn exactly in the way he can see them from the center of his tower. He marks little X’s in pencil on the areas of the slopes the lightning strikes.

“This storm has a lot of lightning,” Grian says into his radio. “How do you keep up?”

“Just try your best,” Scar says. “The profile map helps. We’re mostly trying to just remember the areas where it struck, so that later we can keep an eye on them for fire.”

“Do you think it’ll cause a fire?”

As soon as he lets go of the call button, he spies another strike, way off near Scar’s tower to the North. He dutifully marks it down. It dances down from the sky, landing somewhere in the mountains between them.

“We might not be able to tell until after the storm,” Scar says. “And sometimes it’s hard to tell right after because of fog and stuff. You’ll figure out what real smoke looks like soon enough.”

“Doesn’t the rain put these fires out?” Grian asks.

“Sometimes,” Scar says. “Sometimes they smolder for a while. We might need to keep an extra eye on these lightning strike locations for a few days in the future, which is why we're marking it down."

The thunder continues to rumble all around him, and soon rain starts to fall. They're big fat drops too, and it takes no time at all for the deck outside to be completely covered. They start to hit the windows too, so Grian squints around them as best he can. Sometimes the lightning just flashes all around him, no discernable ground contact in sight.

"I'm losing visibility," Grian says into the radio.

Scar replies, but the words are lost in the background noise of the rain and the wind and the thunder.

It's pouring buckets now, and Grian sets down his pencil. He can't see anything but rain now, and maybe the softest outline of the next closest hill, so there’s nothing to report. Experiencing the storm in this little glass cage is unique. It’s chilly, with the wetness and the clouds bringing the chill back into the normally sun-warmed cabin. It’s also very loud–the rain hitting the glass and the wood and the thunder rattling the window frames nearly drown out Grian’s own thoughts.

Grian shuts his eyes against the sway of the tower in the wind, as if he can keep it grounded by willpower alone.

The air feels charged and buzzing. Grian’s fingers feel a little tingly, and the hair on his arm starts to stand up with the static. He’s got enough presence of mind to think huh, that’s weird, before–

CRASH!

There’s a horribly loud noise all of a sudden, and Grian flinches so hard he nearly falls off the stool he’s standing on. It’s accompanied by a flash of bright light that he instinctively closes his eyes against. It’s blinding even against his eyelids. When Grian blinks them open and steadies himself, heart beating wildly out of control, everything just looks…normal. The tower is fine, and so are the misty treetops he can see closest to the tower.

It must have been lightning, it had to have been. Maybe not on the tower or in his obscured sightline, but close enough to nearly send Grian to an early grave from a heart attack. He feels horribly shaky now, and it takes him a few tries to firmly depress the button on the side of his radio.

“S-Scar,” he says. “I think there was just–there was lightning.”

He can barely hear Scar, but he thinks he says, “Did it hit the tower?”

“No–no I don’t think so,” Grian says. “But it had to be close.”

“As long as you’re okay,” comes the muffled reply.

It isn’t long before the rain begins to taper off. It isn’t long at all, actually–it’s sort of surprising how quickly the worst of it passes, but the storm had been moving quickly according to the weather service. Through the mist of rain, he can once again see the Thorofare Lookout through his northern window. With the visibility restored, he goes back to marking down lightning strikes. His map is full of them now.

“It seems like it passed,” Grian says, once the rain is just a sprinkle. “What do we do now?”

“For the rest of the day? Probably not much–the ground is really damp. But we’ll keep an eye out on the lightning strike areas for the next few days for smoke. They might send planes to inspect the forest after the storm.”

“Planes…” Grian says. “You know, it’s a wonder they still hire these jobs with all that technology available now. Why don’t they just use planes, helicopters, radars, and satellites?”

“Well, they do,” Scar says. “This is kind of a dying job? But–the difference with us is that we’re here all the time. You and me, we can get more familiar with this area by looking at it everyday than a pilot could from a couple of flybys. They’ll still need us, for a while at least.”

“For a while,” Grian repeats. “Until they replace the jobs with something cheaper.”

Scar laughs. “I’d be shocked if they can find a piece of technology cheaper than my salary,” he says.

“God, if that isn’t true,” Grian says. “I don’t know how people afford anything. My roommate wants a computer so bad but they’re, like, all a million dollars so we couldn’t get one. He’d be good at it though, he was learning computer-aided design at work. Best in the office!”

“Maybe you’ll get one eventually,” Scar says. “Not on this salary though.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Grian says. “I didn’t choose this job for the money, that’s for sure.”

The sun is breaking out behind the clouds now. Everything looks fresh and shiny and bright, glittering with illuminated raindrops. There’s a steady drip-drip from the lookout tower’s roof. With the strength of the sun, it’ll be no time at all before it’s all dry. The sky is still a deep blue to the west behind the storm, and the golden sunlit trees against the dark sky make a pleasing contrast.

Everything feels just a little new, a little fresh. He basks in the feeling.

»»———-　　———-««

It’s 11 AM. The sun is bright and the sky is blue.

"I see smoke," Grian says. "I know I was wrong last time but I'm not this time."

The smoke is rising, thin and wispy, from a forested section on the southwestern flank of Trout Peak.

"Confidence, I like that," Scar says. "Go on and give me the reading, then."

The motions are getting familiar now. The firefinder is a disc that sits in the middle of the tower on a small table. The edge of the circle, its arc, is covered in little degree markings. The firefinder is a type of alidade, which is a turning board that allows someone to determine line of sight for triangulating locations. They date back to ancient times–astronomers used a version called an astrolabe for navigation, telling time, and to locate the position of celestial bodies.

It's fascinating how, when surrounded by emerging technologies, we can turn to the very tools humanity has been using for millennia.

The disc has two sights opposite to each other: an upper sight with a peep hole and a lower sight with two crosshairs. Grian spins them around the arc until he is in the vicinity of the smoke, and then looks through the upper sight. He marks the degree that the opposite crosshair has landed on around the arc. That’s the azimuth of the fire. The azimuth is the horizontal angle from a cardinal direction–this fire sits northwest of Grian’s tower, and its azimuth is 321°. For a more precise measurement he takes the minutes off of the vernier, another set of markings that rotates around the base of the firefinder. His final reading is 321° 45’.

Then he looks at the map that is permanently fixed to the center of the disc. His lookout tower is situated in the middle. Grian can estimate the distance on the map from a metal tape that stretches across. Given the scale of the map, two miles is represented by an inch–Trout Peak is 5 inches on the map, so it is 10 miles away.

The upper peep hole has markings that are used to determine the vertical height of the fire, but which ones to use are dependent on if the fire is above or below the lookout. This fire is below Grian’s perch on the mountaintop, so when he looks through the sight to the crosshair on the opposite side of the firefinder, he uses the bottom crosshair.

It’s measuring -8°, so Grian does a little math. He knows the height of his lookout, he knows the distance of the fire, and now that he knows the vertical angle he can determine how much lower the fire is than him. Once he gets the number he subtracts it from his own elevation. Now he knows the fire is at an elevation of 7,150 feet.

So to recap: he’s got a fire northwest at 321° 45’, 10 miles away, at 7,150 feet above sea level.

He relays this information to Scar on the radio.

“Excellent!” Scar cries. “Here, I can see the fire so I’ll give you my measurements too. Where our azimuths cross will be the exact location. With all of this information, they’ll definitely be able to find the fire.”

Scar already has the numbers ready, indicating he did his own measurements while waiting for Grian to complete his. Scar probably made them faster, too, but Grian’s choosing to be proud of himself instead. This work is a lot more complicated than he expected it to be in the beginning. He writes down Scar’s information on a stray piece of paper nearby.

“Do you want to make the report?” Scar says. “I mean, you sighted it so it’s yours. It’ll look good for you.”

“Alright,” Grian says, “talk to you in a bit.”

He goes back onto the official channel and reports the fire to the Forest Service. He gives both his and Scar’s measurements, along with a general description of the area and nearby landmarks. He includes information on the probable cause of the fire–lightning from the storm two days ago–and the sort of landscape it is burning in. He gives an approximation of the size of the fire too. It’s a small one.

They thank him for his report and promise to give updates through the official channel. Scar’s got a second radio tuned to that all the time, so Grian flips his channel back to the one he and Scar use exclusively.

“I did it,” he says.

“Good job!” Scar says. “And good eye to notice that smoke.”

“I don’t know if I have good eyes,” Grian chuckles. “I wear glasses, you know. The Forest Service wasn’t very happy with that but I passed the eye test as long as I could wear them so they just made me bring two pairs in case one gets broken.”

“Aw, you have glasses? Are they those big silly ones? I hope they’re those big silly ones, you’d look good in them. So fashionable."

“Scar, you have no idea what I look like.”

“I’m correct though, aren’t I?”

Grian rolls his eyes. “No comment.”

“By the way,” Scar says. “You did good reporting those hikers earlier in the week.”

This snags Grian’s attention immediately. “Did they get lost?” he asks.

“I don’t think they were lost, but they were definitely unable to get back to their car before the storm hit. A ranger went up the trail after the storm passed and found them part of the way down, soaking wet. He helped them warm up and get back.”

“They must have been cold,” Grian says. “It’s warm out but not warm enough to be caught in a thunderstorm.”

“Oh for sure,” Scar says. “It’s possible they would have made it back fine but it’s also possible that being wet and cold could have slowed them down enough to be in big trouble. It just got colder over the evening and they might not have been able to start a fire with all of the tinder being wet.”

“It’s weird how badly everything can go wrong,” Grian muses. “And how quickly.”

“You did a good thing, though,” Scar says. “You helped someone. That’s what we’re here for.”

“I’m glad they’re safe,” Grian says, and for some reason he has a lump in his throat again. It’s like he can’t get away from it, this pain that rubs against his every movement. He can’t even be happy with a compliment to his work, or proud of himself for spotting a fire, because it always boomerangs right back into despair and self-pitying.

It’s a hole he can’t escape. He helped someone, but he can’t help himself, can’t help Mumbo.

He hopes Mumbo is somewhere warm, right now.

»»———-　　———-««

There’s nothing but the soft wind in the trees and the crunch of Grian’s boots in the gravel as he steadily climbs the hill to his lookout. The late afternoon light slants on the ground, throwing shadows across his path. But it’s well into summer now, and the sun doesn’t set until 9 PM, so there’s hours of warm light left.

It’s a little strange that the small cabin feels like home now, but after sleeping in a tent for three nights that’s exactly what it feels like. Grian’s work schedule grants him days off just like any job–sometimes he works 10 days on for 4 days off, like he did this week. Further into fire season, his hours will probably lengthen.

Most lookouts go into town on their days off for a taste of civilization, but Grian doesn’t. His reasons are twofold. First, he’d rather not sacrifice two days of his break just to hike that difficult trail in and out.

Second, he’s still not lost sight of his original goal: finding Mumbo.

He spent most of the last few days searching an area on the edge of his lookout territory called Deer Creek. On paper, it’s a perfect spot–there’s a year-round water supply close by, some sheltered areas between rocky outcroppings and forest, and perhaps even some very old structures from historic homesteads or ranches.

Of course, he’s coming home once again empty-handed. He saw several hawks, an elk, a fox, and some deer, and no Mumbo.

As he approaches the tower, the generator is turned off, so Grian goes to turn it on again. The Forest Service had assigned a temporary volunteer lookout to cover his shift while he was gone, but that person had left early this morning in order to get back to the trailhead. They must have turned off the generator before they left to save propane.

Grian will have to ask Scar if the volunteer was as interesting to talk to as he is. He hasn’t spoken to Scar in several days, in order to save the battery on his radio. His radio’s charger is plugged in at the tower, although he has extra batteries for emergencies.

The first thing Grian notices when he walks up to the base of the tower is that there’s an object leaned against the stairs. It’s a bicycle of some sort. He first wonders if it’s something the volunteer lookout left behind, but that doesn’t make any sense. It’s too perfectly placed for him to find it.

It’s too…familiar?

It’s a bicycle of some sort, except that when Grian really looks at it for the first time he freezes, because it’s the sort of bicycle that Grian recognizes instantly. Grian stops in his tracks, and suddenly his heartbeat is loud in his ears. His eyes dart all over the bike, taking in every tiny detail.

It’s painted in what was once bright green and yellow, but the color is faded from the sun and rusty from exposure. There’s scratches on it, and the chain looks clearly messed up.

It’s a lot worse for wear than the day Grian bought it, but he’d never forget what it looked like. He’s been looking for it for a year now.

Why is Mumbo’s mountain bike leaned against the Two Forks tower staircase?

<< Chapter Two | Masterpost | Chapter Four >>

#hermitcraft #grian #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #hermitcraft fanfic #quara fanfic #hc_firewatch_au

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galaxywhump · 1 year

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Thunderstorm

[An Immortal Among Stars Masterlist]

Alternate prompt for Day 4 (Captivity Whump) of @whumpawoman's Whump Girl Summer event.

contents: lady whump, immortal whumpee, past captivity, death, starvation, isolation.

~~~

Karita woke up to new sounds.

Well, maybe not entirely new. She knew this sound, but she hadn't heard it in ages. Maybe it was a sound from an era long passed, like many. It was always startling to realize that some sounds and smells and flavors had disappeared completely after being present in her life for years, but… this sound was different. She could swear she used to hear it constantly, no matter the decade.

She pushed herself up from the couch and immediately stumbled. She felt weak, which was nothing new - she was starving, she was going to die soon, come back to life feeling marginally better, and the cycle would be repeated. At least she had access to water; she’d gotten used to the odd earthy taste, and it was her lifesaver, a way to temporarily cheat her hunger pangs.

The sounds continued, rhythmic tapping outside, and they filled her mind with longing for home, even though she hadn't had one in ages. She refused to call this prison home.

Looking around, she saw the same thick white fabric she'd always seen, a lounge, a kitchenette which had been stocked with food at some point, but she couldn't even remember what that was like. There were also hatches leading to two bathrooms and two bedrooms with bunk beds, but she'd decided to sleep in the lounge instead. Being the only person in a bedroom meant for eight people made her feel even more lonely than usual. Besides, most of the time she had been chained to her bunk at night. That was never pleasant, and not something she wanted to mentally go back to.

The tapping continued, but the dull pounding in her head made it hard to think. Her steps shaky, she walked over to the sink to drink some water. It helped, a little bit, and when she turned it off and watched the stream get thinner and thinner until it turned into occasional dripping, her eyes went wide with realization, confirmed by the unmistakable roar of thunder.

It was raining. It was storming.

Momentarily overcoming her weakened state, she ran towards the exit of the domed tent. The wait for the door to open felt endless, and she wasted no time getting outside and looking up at the sky.

The rain on her face felt incredible, refreshing and so new after the grim routine of the past several years. She opened her mouth to catch some raindrops, and for the first time in ages she couldn’t help but smile. The rain tasted so different to the water she usually drank, the barren planet was suddenly more alive, the rain mixing with the omnipresent dust, the temperature brought down slightly. Karita's heart was beating fast with excitement and joy, and she foolishly wanted to get lost in it, having forgotten what rain meant here, why she hadn't heard it in so long.

When she remembered, she couldn’t breathe.

"It only rains here every fifty years or so. That's why we need this bad boy." Zax slapped the machinery set on the ground, which was already hard at work, digging deep to reach the water reserves hidden far below the surface. "This and the condenser. Without them we'd be fucked."

"And when was the last time it rained here?"

"Three months ago. Talk about unlucky."

"Fifty years," she whispered. Her legs gave out and she collapsed to her knees, her eyes still fixed on the sky. "Fifty fucking years."

Forty-nine years on her own.

"Wake up! Wake up, you bastard!"

He never did, and neither did any other member of the crew. She remembered kneeling there among corpses, too shocked to cry. That would come later, way later, when no one answered her SOS signal, when she realized she was eventually going to run out of food, when she scanned the planet and confirmed that there was no-one and nothing else there, just dust, rocks, and a single base camp of people working under the radar.

She never lost hope, she sent signal after signal, arranged rocks in a cry for help, their sharp edges cutting her hands, but as more and more time passed, her hope slowly grew dimmer.

Forty-nine years. Who knew how many more to come.

Her tears mixed with the raindrops on her face, and her scream, several decades’ worth of pent up grief, was drowned out by the thunder.

#waw2023 #whumpgirlsummer #captivity whump #lady whump #immortal whumpee #death #starvation #oc: karita #oc: zax #my writing #honestly i'm having a lot of fun writing this #maybe i just missed writing shorter stories #idk just wanted to share

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kbaji · 2 years

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❝ 𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐎𝚸𝚮𝐎𝚩𝐈𝚨 ❞ FEAT. BONTEN! MANJIRO SANO

w. sfw, fem bodied!reader, no pronouns mentioned, toxic relationship, fallen out of love but to scared to leave, talks about anxiety, stress, guilt, fear, lowk a song fic but not?

n. after years i managed to finish a mediocre at best ff finally, for @xoayato’s collab—too young to die fall in love <3

LISTENING TO: FEAR OF BEING ALONE (ACOUSTIC) - LENNON STELLA

isolophobia: also known as autophobia—isolophobia, eremophobia, or monophobia—is the fear of being isolated, lonely, or alone.

the air is stale, sunlight pouring through the window as the curtains break the rays, allowing little to no light in. from the light that did make its way into the living room, the dust dances through the air, catching the reflection of the light giving it a white glow.

you sit in the bleak room, the heat from the sun making the once chilled room stuffy; the cool surface temperature from the leather sofa is the only relief as the space becomes warmer. even though the air had no substance or you had no illness in your body, it was difficult to breathe. you wanted to claw at your throat, hoping that it would help fill your lungs with oxygen, but you remained still, knowing it would do nothing.

as the day went on, it became more insufferable. the silence was ringing you out and hanging you up to dry, the air transitioning from a warm to a calmer state, and the room's color. the sun lit the room up warm, and as it set and the moon announced itself, the room became a dull blue. you hadn't moved from the spot you settled down in since mid-day, not moving until the front door opened and welcomed home your boyfriend—manjiro.

“i’m home,” he kicks off his flip-flops from his bruised, scabbed feet, turning around and locking the door before shoving his hands back inside his pants pockets. you pushed yourself off the couch; the feeling of being lightheaded clouded your brain, blurring your line of vision. ignoring the way your body begged you to take care of itself, you made slow, steady, light strides to where he stood in the middle of the walkway between the living room and the kitchen.

his fatigued eyes gloss over you, sighing and leaning into you to give you an empty kiss. you grabbed the hemming at the bottom of his oversized shirt “welcome home, manjiro. let’s go to bed.”

the bed was cold, and although you and mikey cuddled together, it left a bitter taste on your tongue.

your head was spinning; the overwhelming thoughts kept invading your mind while you continued to cuddle into his chest. you would think cuddling your boyfriend would help ease your mind—however—it’s doing the exact opposite.

you and mikey once had a beautiful, lasting relationship, acting like a couple where every day was their honeymoon. every day would be a new adventure, even if it were going to each other’s place to have a home date or going on late-night motorcycle rides and causing chaos among the city streets; being with him made you feel so alive, him so alive.

but as time went on, mikey grew more distant, colder. after being together for so long, being so happy together, you couldn’t help but wonder where the change of direction came from. your eyes start to blur as you stare off into your minimalistic bedroom, the moon peeking through the blinds illuminating the carpeted floor. you missed the days where you and he were happy, missed the days where things felt right. your grip tightened around mikey’s abdomen; tears started to fill your eyes.

you’re in bed with a stranger, you think. there was no love to give or receive from each other, no reason to keep enduring this pain that made your body heavy with sadness.

you loved mikey, you loved him at some point, as he did with you; but as time passed—the later he stayed out, the more violence that he accepted in his line of work, and the more bonten influenced his life—everything seemed to fade from your once colorful world—to monochrome.

the tears continued to stream down your saddened face, creating a wet, semi-transparent patch on mikey’s white shirt on top his pectoral. choking back a sob, you lift his arm that was loose on your waist over your body and onto his stomach, shuffling out of bed quietly and leaving the room to go into the living room.

the air was still, calm, and stuffy, and you found it hard to breathe despite leaving the room where mikey slept in peace. the couch engulfed your frame, practically swallowing you whole, and you dug yourself further into the leather. your lips cracked—mouth parted slightly, threatening to drool out the spit you didn’t swallow from when you were crying—eyes red and puffy, and your nose irritated from wiping the water-downed snot from your nostrils with your worn down, oversized shirt. you took a few deep breaths through your mouth, closing your eyes and feeling the oxygen invade your lungs.

why couldn’t you leave? surely he doesn't want what was once comforting, now awkward silence to stick around. you two acted like a thorn in each other’s side, small talk that only went as far as “how was your day?” “good.”

you felt as if the room was mocking you, walls and furniture laughing at your state. the room was grounded and stable, while you and mikey were the complete opposite. as you open your eyes, you stare off into the wall in front of you, the only thing decorating it being the tv mounted onto it. ease settled into your mind as you continued to stare, taking deep, shallow breaths, all before crumbling back down. the walls you once built knocked over, and being with mikey stopped you from building them up again.

it wasn’t love that made you stay, no, but rather what would you do if you left? if he left? where would you go? who would be waiting for you?

no one, you’re all alone.

it wasn’t the love that made you stay—it was the fear of being alone.

mikey was all you were used to, and despite feeling like the world was against you, you feared what new things awaited you if you left. the guilt would eat you alive if you just up and left. how would he react if he came back from work and you and all your belongings just disappeared? he would be sad, right? you couldn’t just give up on what you had. you’ve always been told that at the end of the storm, there’s a rainbow, but how long until you get to see that rainbow? soon or maybe never?

your heart rate is beating a thousand miles a minute, eyes flickering over the blank walls and floor, struggling to stay still as you start to panic, realizing that you couldn’t leave, you can’t go.

it’s the fear of being alone that has you staying put in an endless cycle of empty feelings, numbness, and most of all, has you not letting go.

NAVIGATION, MASTERLIST ⋆ REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!

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scneuro · 2 years

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On Friday, the sky had brightened up and I made the mistake of leaving the new dormitory in shorts and a t-shirt; the gray drapes closed again and the temperature dropped the lowest it had been in weeks, and I could already tell while drawing in the fifth story of the library that the walk back would be awful. But I needed to get out of the new dorm for a while.

Earlier that day, I went up and down the road six times across four hours with the dolly a friend had lent me for summer to get my things to the new dorm. I thought I had broken my mini-fridge while I was walking down the flight of stairs to the elevator — my building had elevators only on every second floor, and you guessed it — but it turned out to be my fatigue talking, because of course the ice in the fridge was simply melting through the door. I was grateful, nonetheless, for the generosity of my friend to lend me the dolly; I was also grateful for the box Abdul gave me, even though my bedding now had a strange box smell and I was going to have to wait for them to all come out the laundry before I could sleep. It was a bad week to be broke, with how much help a few more boxes would’ve been. I wanted to throw myself through the window when the fridge seemed broken, which in acquiring had used up the last paycheck from my term-time tour-guiding and forced me to need change at the CVS and be unable to visit the U-Haul for some extra boxes. Now the people who had depended on me to move out this week, and some of who had burdened me with extra things to look after for the summer, but whom I had depended on even more to move from my room, even though they hadn’t physically helped me to move at all, but rather through a smile-creased box and a drunk dolly, were gone.

After finishing the drawing, and writing for a while, I braced myself and went toward the exit. I nodded to the security guard on the way out. He nodded back and it felt cool. I had to cross the ___ which dependably had a stream of traffic and while standing at the crossing, the exhaust of a Chevrolet truck spluttered an arid combination of smoke and sediment in my face. I was used enough to my pipe that it did not scratch my throat as I breathed it in as much as I expected, that I thought I ought to. It succeeded in making me think about smoking, however. As dependable as the traffic, it was an assured route to de-stressing. Summer should not be so stressful.

I found a staircase behind one of the concrete laboratories, no doubt abandoned at least until summer school started up, and used the emergency stash in an old tin crayon box in my satchel; what I had grinded before leaving, I had smoked on the way to the library. Depositing the stash into my grinder, I minced it up and packed the pipe. I left the alcove and walked down the street. At the start of the semester, I would’ve been more hesitant to smoke in broad daylight down a busy street, even though the only taboo in Boston was my age, people over 21 legally allowed to carry less than an ounce. Back in South Carolina, carrying any amount at all constituted a misdemeanor. Well, smoking in public in Boston faced a $100 fine, but as long as I held it discreetly by my waist between puffs, a cop car needed to pass by mid-puff or for me to walk past a cop with the odor on me for any risk of incurring the fine. I also benefited from being white. My black friends can’t even walk into a CVS in the middle of the night wearing a hoodie like I do without a staff member being assigned to rearrange whatever aisle they happened to be adjacent to.

Although I was happy with how the drawing came out, and found the writing to be cathartic, the day felt unproductive. The sluggish imbalances in weather were to blame for this, in my eyes.

Walking down the pavement, I re-read the text my youngest sister had sent me the day before. Bracing myself, I rang. Three, four rings, and my thumb was hovering over the red cellphone icon when my sister picked up. She said, “Hi, Ellen.”

“Hi Mabel. What happened?”

“I think the text said everything. Ah, I am so over it. I finally get the school to accept me, and then Mom has to send that email?”

I said nothing.

“I heard you talked to Mom yesterday. If you were there, Ellen, you would’ve seen how she was acting. You would’ve heard all the things she was saying, like calling me ‘mentally ill,’ and saying I wasn’t smart or motivated enough to go. She had the email written out and I was talking to her calmly, like I’m talking to you now, and she got upset and sent the email in my face.”

“That’s really awful.”

Mabel started to cry. “I don’t get what her problem is anymore. She says I am obsessed with going to the UK to study but I’ve told her so many times that if it isn’t going well, I can just come back. If I need to, I’m not against coming back at all. Dad has said from the start that he is okay with me staying with him over there, and when he and I went on the camping trip we got along fine.”

“I think it’s for the best if you go. I was worried about you going too but Mum has lost sight of the alternative: you having to stay in South Carolina and not being able to do what you want to do. I’m more worried about how that would crush your spirit. At least if you go you will be motivated to do something.”

“Yeah, like I know it will be hard. This whole time, I haven’t been saying that A-levels will be easier. But Mom has only spoken to Spencer about this and her daughter obviously struggled with A-levels, but she also took math, which is a really hard subject. Doesn’t she see that I’m going to use that as advice? Why does it have to be a reason for me not to go? It’s been so bad here for the last few days, Ellen. I’m sorry to dump this all on you now.”

“It’s alright.”

“I really wanted to call you at the time. You always know what to say in these kinds of things. But Mom didn’t want to burden you, because she thinks it will make you worried if you see her unhappy.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply when I got the text. I wanted to talk to you about it, and I ran out of time yesterday. You know you can call me anytime, right? I would’ve talked to you then. I’m glad I’m talking to you now and have had a chance to think about this, though. I’m not sure I actually would’ve had anything helpful to say at the time.”

“Yeah, I think you would’ve got frustrated as well. But my point was more that you would listen, and it’s nice to vent sometimes.”

I didn’t say anything.

“How have you been, though? How is the new room?”

“My suitemate is nice. She also likes art and writing, it turns out. But she lived across the corridor in the same dormitory building last year, and I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me that whole time. She asked twice if I wanted to play Bananagrams or get dinner and I blew her off both times. I felt bad about it but it doesn’t seem like she took it too personally.”

Mabel sniffed and laughed. “But the room is nice?”

“Yeah. It’s great to have wooden floors instead of linoleum, and wallpaper instead of concrete. Definitely less prison-like than the old dorms, and the view is nice.”

“You have to send me a picture. I really want to see it.”

“Yeah I will.”

“You also need to send me a picture of all your friends. I want to know what they look like.”

I laughed. “Sure.”

“Thank you for calling, Ellen.”

“No problem. Love you, Mabel. Bye.”

“Wait, please be careful with the heatwave in Boston tomorrow. It’s going to be ninety-five”

“Eh, it gets hotter in Charlestown.”

“On the hottest day of the year! Please be careful.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, bye bye Ellen. Love you.”

#22

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 2 years

Note

Chels, how do you come up with such amazing descriptions and stories. Read the reply to yandere Billy and now I just can't get it out of my mind. Billy as Yandere is heavenly.

😌😌😌😌 it's a gift i have to take ideas and make them undeniably worse.

Dark!Billy Russo x Reader

Warnings: mentions of sex, and dark themes like manipulation and depression.

Part 1 of my Accidentally on Purpose series!

To Have and to Hold

TWO DAYS AGO:

You sniffle absentmindedly, shoving all sorts of clothes into your bag, the depression working its way through your system. Your ex-boyfriend's words rage through your head. His voice, rolling over and over until you know his words by heart. That you were too weird, too unattractive for him, that he didn't like your friends and your laugh was off-putting.

He'd made an extensive list of things he didn't like about you, and by the end of the car ride home, you were glad to have been done with it. You'd never been dumped this badly before, and definitely not by someone you really thought you'd liked.

Fortunately, a space had opened up on your sister's friend-cation to Vegas, and she'd invited you along. You weren't especially close with her, but you'd accepted anyway, knowing that a change of scenery would be good for you. Being depressed at a hotel in Vegas has got to be better than being depressed at home... right?

NINE A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME:

You had a gift for waking up without a headache after a night of alcohol. Sure, your memory was foggy and there was nausea slowly rearing its unwanted head, but no headache.

Light streams in through the blinds, lighting up the room gently. You let out a broken groan of displeasure at the chilly air, your throat aching with overuse.

God, what did you do last night?

The fluffy black sheet is unfamiliar to you, but it manages to make you feel like you're just the right temperature. Maybe you could sleep for a few more hours, and the nausea would dissipate. You turn over, and mumble in confusion when you encounter a pale back. With the way your nether regions tingle, you assume you had blissed out sex with the man beside you. Unconsciously, you wiggle toward him, sliding an arm around his torso and pressing your face to his heated back. Snippets of memory come back to you- a vision of having your face pressed into the sheets while this mysterious man fucks into you. You sigh in bliss at the memory of how thorough he'd been, opening you up easily, stretching you out, bending you into several imaginative positions, the sounds of his moans as he came.

You know you'll have to leave soon, run from this stranger that helped ease your desolation for a night. But for right now, in your quasi-drunken state, you spread your hand over the smooth skin of his stomach, and let yourself drift back to sleep.

ELEVEN HOURS BEFORE:

You'd gone from shots at the pool to shots at the opulent club down the street, dancing in a happy haze with your sister and her friends.

Jenna, who you had recently met and bonded with over stories of bad breakups, grabs your hips and pulls you into her body.

"There's a smoking hot guy at the bar eating you alive with his eyes." She says into your ear.

You giggle, shaking your head and completely ignoring the statement. As if you're interested in talking to another man after what your ex had put you through. You were done. Finito.

She rolls her eyes and spins you around when she notices your refusal to check him out.

It's hard to miss him, leaning against the bar in a black shirt, with the first few buttons undone. He's holding a glass of amber liquid in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his pants. His eyes scald you with the heat they give off when he catches you looking back.

"I know him." You say to Jenna absentmindedly.

"That's my ex's boss' boss. We've met a couple of times." You smile at him in acknowledgement, and he tilts his glass, giving you a little wave with his fingers.

"I'm gonna say hi." You say to her, and you ignore the suggestive sound she makes at you.

NOW:

When you wake up a few hours later, you find that your sleeping position has been reversed. You're on your side with his hand wrapped around you, holding you close to his naked body. You suck in a deep breath, raising your hand to cover his. Your fingertips trail over the back of his hand gently, with the intention of slipping away while he's asleep.

You freeze when you feel a small metallic band on his finger, and though you pray it's not the finger you think it is, luck is not on your side. You open your eyes slowly, looking down at the hand draped over you. Sure enough, there's a gorgeous wedding band looking right back at you.

Panic flares in your body, the horror of sleeping with someone who is already married worsens your nausea. You sit up suddenly, moving his arm off of you, not caring about waking the handsome stranger or not. You can barely even look him in the face now. You raise your hands, pressing them to your eyelids in shame, when something cold touches your forehead.

You pull your hands back in confusion, looking down at your left hand in question.

Your mouth drops open.

On the ring finger of your left hand sits a- well a ring.

A matching ring.

His ring, is thick and tungsten black, with small carvings of silver stars engraved into the metal.

Your ring, compliments his, thin and silver with black stars carved in. There are small blue sapphires dotted in, in seemingly random places.

Your heart stutters in your chest. You'd only ever showed your dream wedding rings to one person, and you couldn't imagine him telling anyone else, or in what context a topic like that would come up.

Hesitantly, you turn to look at the man beside you. He's already looking at you, with drowsy eyes and a pleased smile.

"Good morning, precious wife." Billy Russo says to you.

#hehe #accidentally on purpose married billy #billy russo #ben barnes #ask #billy russo x reader #my writings #to have and to hold #dark!billy russo

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bitsandbobsofwriting · 3 years

Text

Merlin Scar Reveal Part 2(final part)

Merlin tries to pretend nothing happened, Arthur says “that’s stupid.”

Part 1

Merlin’s nightmares last for the rest of the afternoon and extend well into the night.

The heat certainly doesn’t help, and it takes all of Gaius’ effort to keep his temperature low enough to not boil him from the inside out, but he manages with help from the knights. Mordred and Lancelot refuse to leave the servant’s side of course, but the others loiter in the corridor the entire time, and take turns sprinting to the cold store and kitchens for ice water and cloths.

It was difficult to stand there waiting, being given scraps of information on Merlin’s condition, especially when most of the scraps consist of something along the lines of “Hopefully he’ll snap out of it by the morning.”, which was certainly not helped when the occasional whimper floated out to them from the young servant’s room.

After a few hours, Leon was the one to draw the short straw to go and talk to Arthur. Whilst all of them were mildly miffed that Arthur had pushed Merlin so far, they knew that ultimately, it was all of their faults. All of them had pushed him, and none of them had protected him from being injured in the first place. None of them knew how much he had suffered, was still suffering. Considering Arthur’s... extra feelings for his servant, it was no wonder he’d reacted even worse than the others.

The First Knight agrees to go, knowing he had the best chance of talking some sense into The King, though he refuses to leave until he sees each of the others settle in their beds; it had been a long day, and would likely be an even longer day tomorrow. They all need as much sleep as they can get.

Arthur doesn’t answer when Leon knocks on his door, but the knight lets himself in after a few moment regardless, doing so quietly so as not to startle the man if he was asleep or, more likely, deep in thought.

The King was sat at his desk, chin resting on his hands, and Leon has to stamp down the surge of protective adrenaline in his lungs when he sees the dry tear tracks on the younger man’s face. He doesn’t notice Leon’s presence, not even when he very deliberately clears his throat, so the knight walks over to him slowly, rapping his knuckles harshly on the desk. That finally catches Arthur’s attention, and he looks up with a start, hands reaching for the sword that Leon knows he has hidden under the desk.

The King lets out a deep breath and relaxes back in his seat when he sees that it’s just Leon, hastily wiping his eyes before clearing his throat and looking up with a fake confidence:

“Sir Leon, what can I do for you?”

Leon just raises an eyebrow, but when Arthur holds strong and doesn’t react he lets out a deep sigh and collapses into the seat on the other side of the desk:

“Come on, Arthur. We need to talk about this.”

Arthur gulps, trying to keep his unaffected façade up, but failing and dropping it after only a few moments; something about the soft, overly concerned look Leon was giving him made him want to wrap himself in blankets and sob himself to sleep. He frowns and just about manages to keep the tears in:

“Why wouldn’t he tell me? If not about the physical scars, then about all the times he’s been hurt. Does he not think I would’ve given him time to recover? Or, God forbid, helped him?”

Leon purses his lips slightly in thought, still having to make a concerted effort not to gather The King up in a tight hug as he considers his questions:

“I don’t think it’s about you, Arthur. Merlin is... a private person by nature, and he doesn’t like worrying people. You heard Mordred, he and Lance found out by accident, and even then Merlin tried to keep them away from it as long as possible.”

Arthur stands, the guilt and sadness in his gut now frothing with anger as well. He paces around to the centre of the room and Leon stands to watch him carefully:

“He can say it’s not about me as much as he wants, but I’m The King, Leon,-”

He whirls on the knight, and Leon clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to raise a mocking eyebrow. He knew to expect anger at some point, but that doesn’t mean Arthur was entitled to it:

“-I have a right to know what’s going on in my Kingdom. I should’ve been informed of Nimueh and Morgause’s deaths, I should’ve been informed that Cenred was torturing people for information. How many other countless adventures has Merlin had that have put himself, Me, the Kingdom in danger, simply because he didn’t want people to know much about him?? None of that was his call to make.”

Leon does raise an eyebrow at that, but Arthur was too busy furiously pacing to feel scolded quite yet. The older man crosses his arms and huffs slightly, waiting for The King to calm before responding:

“Be that as it may, that’s not why you’re angry. You can lie to yourself, Arthur, but you can’t lie to me, and you certainly shouldn’t lie to Merlin. If you go to him pretending that you’re angry because he put the Kingdom at risk, and not because you’re heartbroken at him having suffered so much, then he’ll never forgive you. And when you realise that, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Arthur looks to Leon sharply, but the anger drains from his face within seconds and his whole body sags slightly, the exhaustion of the day having caught up to him. A glance to the now dark window tells him that it’s well into the evening, but he can’t find it in himself to be annoyed at the unfinished paperwork on his desk or the hunger in his stomach from not having eaten since before noon, not when he knows Merlin is being tortured by nightmares and injuries that have long since healed. Injuries that he should never have had in the first place. Leon waits patiently for Arthur to respond:

“I don’t want him to be in pain. I just want to help him.”

His cracking admission has Leon give up on holding himself back, and he strides towards The King to pull him into a tight embrace. Arthur tenses at first, but quickly falls into the older man’s affection, accepting a hug for the first time since he was a child. Leon responds softly, aware that he only had a short time before Arthur pulled away and put his walls back up:

“Merlin’s already in pain, Arthur, but that doesn’t mean we can’t now help him.-”

He feels Arthur nod into his shoulder and squeezes the man tighter for a moment before pulling back, keeping a tight grip on The King’s shoulders:

“Come on, you need to get some sleep.”

Arthur’s tired, longing gaze moves to the paperwork spread haphazardly over his desk, and Leon shakes his head, tugging Arthur’s shoulders so he looks back at him:

“No, work isn’t an option, your mind is not in any sort of state to be productive right now. You’re exhausted, Arthur, a few hours of sleep will do you some good; I hate to say it but The Kingdom won’t stop needing attention whilst we... sort through this, and you’ll need the energy tomorrow.”

Arthur shakes his head, stepping back and rubbing his eyes tiredly as he takes a deep breath and straightens his back. Leon steps back as well, re-introducing the respectful distance that should be between a King and his Knight, waiting for Arthur’s no doubt stoic response:

“The councilmen will survive without me for a day or two, if not then that really should be something I’m made aware of so I can get to replacing them. Merlin and I need to...-”

He cuts himself off and clears his throat:

“-has there been any news? Any change?”

Leon shakes his head, but catches Arthur’s wrist when he begins walking towards the door:

“Arthur. I just about managed to convince everyone else to get some sleep and you need it more than them.-”

Arthur looks back indignantly, failing to portray his Kingly Anger in his exhaustion and looking more like a scolded child:

“-You know I’m right. Get some sleep, Gaius will inform you if anything changes.”

For a moment, it looks like Arthur wants to argue, but he quickly lets out a deep, bone weary sigh, nodding before moving sluggishly towards his bed. Leon nods approvingly, muttering a soft “Goodnight, My Lord” and smiling slightly at Arthur’s hummed response before quietly exiting the chambers.

Arthur can convince himself, for a few blissful seconds, that it was all a bad dream when he wakes up the next morning.

His curtains are thrown wide open; the sunlight streams in and forces The young King to groan and roll over, attempting to shield his eyes from the brightness. Merlin’s cheery voice echoes throughout the various chambers:

“Come on, Sire, up and at ‘em!”

Arthur just grumbles a slurred “Fuck off.” before his brain wakes up and he throws himself from the bed, thankfully wearing sleep clothes but only just managing to catch himself on the bedside table before he falls over:

“Merlin!! What the hell are you- are you ok?! Did Gaius say you could get up?!”

Merlin looks back at him with the same disapproving, mocking glare he usually uses in the morning; Arthur is taken aback at the darkness in his eyes. He can’t quite decide if it made it’s first appearance this morning, or if it had always been there and he just hadn’t noticed. He doesn’t know which idea he hates more:

“I’m fine, Arthur, no need to worry about me. And for your information, I’m a fully trained physician, I don’t need Gaius telling me what I can and can’t do.-”

He rolls his eyes and turns to The King’s desk with a huff, gesturing at the mess:

“-It’s flattering that you rely on me so much Arthur, but really, this is ridiculous.”

Arthur is finally broken out of his shocked stupor, shaking his head disbelievingly and taking a few short steps towards his manservant. He goes to yell but quickly backtracks, snapping his mouth shut and taking a deep breath before trying again, softly this time:

“Merlin... we have to talk about yesterday.”

Merlin’s reaction is immediate and harsh. The quill that he had picked up from Arthur’s desk snaps in his sudden tight grip and the tension in his shoulders is painful looking. He freezes for just a moment before forcing himself to relax, casually throwing the broken quill into a waste basket before continuing to organise the desk, refusing to look up at The King:

“No, we really don’t. I’m fine, My Lord.”

The lack of sarcasm or sass in Arthur’s title worries The King greatly, but the way Merlin regains more and more of the tension in his shoulders the closer Arthur walks to him is even more worrying:

“Merlin... look at me.-”

The servant gulps, biting his lip at he stares at the desk for a few more moments before forcing himself to look up. He recoils slightly at the tears in Arthur’s eyes, but doesn’t allow himself to look away. Arthur opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the door to his chambers opening with a bang as Mordred and Lancelot rush in. They’re both red-faced and panting, speaking at the same time:

“I swear to the Gods if he snuck out of bed to work, I’ll-”

“I apologise My Lord, I don’t suppose you’ve seen-”

They both freeze as they see Merlin stood behind Arthur’s desk, paperwork crumpled in his tight grip and face fallen into a annoyed frown. Arthur throws his hands up, frustrated as he paces and mumbles:

"Just... come in why don’t you. No, don’t worry about knocking just run on in like you own the damn place.”

Lancelot spares him a quick glance but locks the door behind him and crosses his arms like an angry mother as he looks to the irate servant:

“Merlin, we’ve talked about this, you’re meant to take the morning off after a bad night, Gaius says-”

Merlin just rolls his eyes and turns away, interrupting Lancelot’s scolding as he continues to tidy around the room, his annoyance evident in his harsh tone and hurried movements:

“I’m a physician too, and I say I’m fine. I would like to just... get on with things, please.”

Arthur has to stop himself from recoiling at the way Lance and Mordred’s faces fall, the pain and grief sadder than anything he’s ever seen in their expressions before. He takes a moment to think before giving the two of them a pointed look and quietly asking:

“Can you give us a minute?”

Lancelot looks doubtful, but willing. Mordred plants his feet and crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s obvious he has no intention of leaving Merlin’s side; as much as Arthur finds that admirable on a personal level, as King it’s unacceptable. He’s normally not a fan of pulling rank among friends, but maybe that’s because he normally doesn’t need to. Perhaps this whole mess was his fault, Mordred obviously felt so, but Arthur could hardly fix it with them glaring over his shoulder. He raises himself to his full height, a good few inches above Mordred, and uses the tone of voice he normally reserves for particularly difficult councilmen:

“You forget whose presence you are in, Sir Mordred, you’d do well to remember again. You are both dismissed.”

Mordred’s eyes go wide and he takes in a sharp breath, but after a quick glance to Merlin’s turned back he dutifully bows and walks from the room stiffly. Lancelot’s postures straightens as well, and he follows Mordred after a confident:

“We’ll be in Gaius’ chambers should you require anything, My Lord.”

Merlin was oblivious to the conversation, though Arthur reckons he was deliberately ignoring it as opposed to being actually unaware, especially with the way the servant’s shoulders relax when the door shuts behind the second knight.

Arthur sighs as Merlin continues to putter around the room, refusing to look him in the eye; he leans against the edge of the desk and crosses his arms:

“Merlin,-”

His voice is soft, but the servant still doesn’t look at him, giving a non-committal hum as he clears out the hearth with shaking hands:

“-come here, please.”

Merlin freezes for just a moment, and if the problem wasn’t so glaringly the context of the situation, Arthur may have been able to fool himself into believing that Merlin was just shocked he said please. The younger man stands slowly, turning to walk towards Arthur with his gaze stuck to the floor. He stops with about five feet of space between them and Arthur sighs again, closing the gap until only a few inches separates them. The King ignores the tears gathering in both of their eyes as he lifts a hesitating hand, dropping it softly on Merlin’s shoulder only when the servant doesn’t flinch away:

“Merlin, I... you mean a great deal to me, and I know I don’t say that often enough, or at all, really. You... look after me, keep me alive and unhurt, evidently more than I had originally thought. You make me a good King, and a better man.-”

Merlin looks up at him sharply and Arthur can tell that he’s about to argue, so he squeezes his shoulder and quickly hurries on:

“-You’ve been hurt, you’ve suffered in your service to me, and that’s unacceptable but it’s also my fault; I should’ve made it clear that I would protect you from anything. These scars prove your strength, but I understand not wanting to acknowledge them, so I promise I will never ask again. You tell me when you’re ready, and if that’s never, then that’s completely fine.-”

Merlin seems surprised by the promise, and the tears slowly dripping from his wide eyes just make Arthur regret yesterday even more. After a second or two of shock, Merlin visibly relaxes, relieved with the knowledge that he doesn’t have to expect the conversation that he really doesn’t want to have. Arthur gives him a weak smile before continuing:

“-I’m sorry, but I’m also grateful. Thank you, Merlin. But...-”

Merlin re-tenses at the “but” and Arthur squeezes his shoulder again, giving him what he hopes is a reassuring smile:

“-please don’t keep doing this alone. I... I don’t expect you to ask me for help, though I would drop anything in a heartbeat to keep you safe. Even... even if it’s Gwaine, just... I don’t want you disappearing off to save the Kingdom only to never come back again because no one knows where you are.”

Merlin smiles weakly at the disdain in Arthur’s voice when he mentions Gwaine, but quickly frowns again and looks at the floor. He gaze stays lowered when he asks his one word question, his voice quiet and ragged:

“Anything?”

Arthur frowns for a second, confused about what Merlin was asking, but quickly realises, lifting the other man’s chin with his hand, his voice a whisper:

“Merlin, I would give up the Kingdom to rid you of the burden you’ve place upon yourself. I just want you safe and happy and by my side.”

Merlin once again looks like he wants to argue, but a quiet sob falls from his mouth instead and Arthur, damning the consequences and his stupid reputation, pulls the younger man into a tight hug, cradling his head into his shoulder and running a soft hand up and down his back. A few tears of his own slip free but he finds he doesn’t care that much as Merlin shakes in his arms; he presses a barely-there kiss to Merlin’s temple and begins swaying slightly on the spot, wanting more than anything to take away his servant’s pain.

Merlin’s cries slow to a stop after what feels like hours, but Arthur doesn’t let go quite yet, eyeing the unmade bed over Merlin’s shoulder with eagerness, knowing that neither he nor Merlin had slept well last night. He feels Merlin stifle yawn against his shoulder and that just strengthens his resolve; he squeezes the younger man to get his attention and then speaks quietly:

“Reckon the council can survive without me later?”

Merlin clears his throat and responds, but still doesn’t let go:

“Doubtful, but Leon and Morgana could probably whip them into shape. Why?”

Arthur nods and pulls back, frowning at the slight panic in Merlin’s eyes when he steps away but doesn’t mention it, letting his hand slide down from the servant’s shoulder to grip his hand. Merlin visibly relaxes, but still looks confused as Arthur tugs him towards the bed gently; he allows himself to be pushed to sit on the edge and looks up at Arthur questioningly. The blond stops himself from grinning widely at the trust in his expression, instead turning away to shut the curtains and lock the door as he says:

“Shoes and belt off, I fancy a nap, how about you?”

He was expecting an argument, so he's surprised when he turns back to the bed to see Merlin softly smiling as he sets his shoes and belt on the bedside table neatly. They both climb under the covers wordlessly, and Merlin doesn’t hesitate to curl into Arthur’s side when he holds his arms out to him.

The King holds his servant close, tucking his head against his chest and burying his chin in his soft hair, his arms wound around Merlin tightly. Merlin closes his eyes without issue, finding himself unafraid of the darkness or the nightmares or the firm touch against his back for the first time since his collection of scars began.

The warrior sleeps, plagued by nothing but pleasant dreams and the warmth of a protection he knows he can trust.

THE END!!

That took me FOREVER to write, writer’s block really does suck, but I’m glad I finally got it finished. I feel like it’s a little underwhelming, but I hope y‘all like it :)

@1stbonesfan asked to be tagged! <3

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uwuwriting · 4 years

Text

Kirishima, Deku, Bakugou, Todoroki and Shinsou finding Mineta in your room

Request: Bakugo, todo, kirishima, deku and hitoshi(sorry if you have a character limit I didn’t see anything about tht in ur rules) how would they react if they enter their s/os room looking for them only to find mineta going through their clothes/underwear? I just wanna see mineta suffer😌😌 thank you!! -anonymous

Ha Mineta suffering makes me happy idk why it just does.This grape’s quirk is better than brainwashing? My ASS! Anyways, I hope you enjoy and yay I’m officially back. Tonight is angst time with the Shirakumo sequel. I did something weird with that fic idk if it’s good, oh well I guess we’ll find out. LOVE Y’ALL!!!!💖💖💖

masterlist

rules

warnings: Mineta getting slapped, some swearing obvi, some fluff.

Kirishima Eijirou

-Baby shark was coming to grab one of his hoodies because well his closet is empty.

-He reached your floor and was heading to your door, key in hand when he noticed that it was already open.

- “Huh maybe she forgot to lock it.”

-But then he heard a weird scratching noise coming from inside and something moving.

-Carefully he opened the door expecting something to jump at him.

-Boy thought he was about to be attacked by a human sized rat.

-Not far from the truth but you know.

-As he stepped inside he was met with a sight he wanted to bleach away.

-There was Mineta head buried in your underwear drawer his eyes rolling back as he sniffed.

- *GAG*

-Kirishima might have died for a few seconds as he saw Mineta going through your underwear.

-He couldn’t understand how someone could be this nasty and perverted.

-He snapped out of it though and grabbed Mineta from his collar dragging him out your door and into the elevator, down to Aizawa’s office and dropping him on his teacher’s doorstep.

-Mineta was begging him not to snitch and stuff but my mans was having none of it.

-When Aizawa opened the door he was met with a really really angry Kirishima pointing at Mineta.

- “Can I beat him up without getting in trouble?”

- “What did he do?”

- “Something inappropriate to Y/N’s clothes”

-Baby had a blush on his face as he said that, too embarrassed to go into detail.

-Aizawa just looked at the grape and nodded, turning around and locking his door pretending that this agreement never happened.

-You had gone out searching for your boyfriend when you realized that he was gone for too long.

-You found him outside with Mineta, using the grape as a basketball.

-When he saw you, baby forced Mineta to apologize and dragged you to the mall for some new underwear.

-He wouldn’t tell you exactly why you needed new undies but it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

- *GAG*

Midoriya Izuku

-Okay this one pulled a +4 uno card on Mineta because he woke up to him going through your things.

-He was staying over that night, sneaking in from your balcony and having an impromptu sleep over.

-He sleeps better when he has you in his arms mainly because he knows that you’re safe and sound.

-So it’s almost routine.

-He woke up when he heard a weird whisper in his sleep.

-You would sleep talk from time to time saying all types of weird crap.

-He swore that it was the cutest sight in the world.

-But when he woke up you were just clinging to him, your face buried in the crook of his neck nuzzling into him even further as he pulled away slightly to look around.

-He thought he saw nothing at first but then he saw the silhouette near your door and he went into full protector mode.

-After placing you gently on the pillow, he pulled the covers over your shoulder and stepped onto the floor, sneaking his way to your wardrobe.

-Opening it up, green lightning already springing to life around his eyes he came face to face with...... Mineta.

-Not only that but in his hands was one of your bras.

-The grape just stared at your boyfriend for a solid minute before giving him your bra.

-Now I think that Izuku is very protective over his girlfriend so this type of violation of privacy really ticked him off.

-He grabbed Mineta by the collar and much like Kirishima he dragged him to Aizawa only he just left him there.

- “If I see you in my girlfriend’s room again I won’t be this calm about it.”

-Aizawa ignored the fact that it was past curfew and Izuku was in your room and focused more on the student who broke into your room.

-Izuku calmly returned to your room and brought you flush to his chest.

-You stirred slightly, gripping his sweatshirt as you nuzzled into his neck.

-Leaving a kiss on your forehead he tried to fall asleep, deciding not to tell you about Mineta just yet.

Bakugou Katsuki

-Ha ha he finna die.

-Prepare a funeral yall.

-I swear how he is not dead the moment Katsuki sees him in your room idek man.

-Katsuki is already furious at everything and seeing someone creeping around your stuff made him livid.

- “What the fuck do you think you are doin???”

-Mineta recognizes his voice immediately and mentally wrote his will.

-This boy hasn’t sprinted out of a room faster in his life.

-In his escape Katsuki saw what he was looking at and the moment his eyes met with that pretty bra and panties you were wearing the other day his vein popped out of his forehead.

-The whole campus heard his yelling and all the teachers became on alert.

-Legit thought that they were under attack.

-But once they reached the 1-A dorms they saw Bakugou being held down by Kirishima, Deku and Todoroki while you and a bunch of the girls were circled around Mineta.

-At first they thought you were checking on him but then they saw the furious glares you were throwing his way accompanied by a few quirks being activated and that’s where they stepped in.

-Prying all of you away from the grape they managed to get the basic story out of him before stepping aside and asking Sero to wrap him up.

-Katsuki calmed down only when you started talking to him and telling him that everything was alright.

-Of course when everyone was asleep Katsuki and Kirishima went to Mineta’s room and beat the shit out of him.

-A punishment for this time and a warning for the future.

-Boy thought he was gonna die.

-And he will the next time he pulled a stunt like this.

Todoroki Shouto

-Goes into fucking creepy mode.

-The temperature drops and almost freezes the right side of your room while the left side starts burning up.

-At first he didn’t understand what he was doing in YOUR room.

-Who gave him a key and why was he going through your laundry basket.

-It hit him when he heard sniffing and oh boy.

-Oh boy oh boy.

-He gets that cold ass stare and he nearly growls.

-His voice is so commanding as he starts threatening the grape.

-No one and I mean no one fucks with his girl like that.

-That’s pure harassment,

-Legit you have never heard Todo curse like this before.

-Mineta is trembling on the spot, tears streaming down his face as Todo is towering over him.

-It’s the only time he is grateful that he has that menacing aura that his father has.

-He’s livid.

-Would have burned him on the spot if you haven’t intervened.

-Prying Todo from his spot in front of Mineta, you placed him on your bed before going to Mineta who was apologizing WHILE eyeing you up and giving him one hell of a slap and kicking him out of your room.

- “I guess I’m throwing these out....”

-Todoroki gave you a little kiss before bringing you into a hug.

- “Don’t worry, I’ll buy you new ones.”

Shinsou HItoshi

-Sleepover time again.

-He can sleep with you around.

-So you were in the bathroom doing your skin routine while he was playing on his switch when he heard the door open.

-At first he thought it was just you getting out of the bathroom but then he heard muttering, something about “a hot little piece” and “what she wears to sleep” and he knew that wasn’t you.

-Shutting off his switch he sat perfectly still as Mineta walked into your room and straight to your drawers.

-Opening them, Hitoshi saw the grape’s mouth water as he grabbed a pair of your panties.

-Now Hitoshi rarely uses his quirk to manipulate someone outside of class but this was a special occasion.

-Letting out a very ominous chuckle, Mineta turned around slowly letting out a terrified hey which was all Hitoshi needed.

-Commanding him to walk out of your room, he made him go outside in the cold and lay down on the grass.....naked.

-Until morning.

-He told you what he saw of course and you made a mental note to change the lock.

-The next morning the indeed found Mineta in the front yard butt naked sleeping on the grass.

-Aizawa was not amused and he knew who made this possible.

-Now you and Hitoshi have to explain what happened last night and why Hitsohi was in your dorm past curfew.

-Oh boy.

TAG TEAM AY:

@iwaqchan @the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei @dnarez-mangetsu @bemorefiction

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mongooseblues · 2 years

Text

Quick ficlet featuring a twenty-five year old Cal and a canonical cold during his thanksgiving break while he’s staying with a childhood friend and his family. (Auntie here is used as a respectful term not a literal one)

- — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - — - —

It takes about fifteen seconds of being in the house again, for him to realize there’s no hope of sneaking back to the guest bedroom to pretend he never left it. Despite how carefully and quietly he managed to open and close the front door, despite the fact that Barkya must be asleep somewhere because for once she’s not barking at him, Cal is about to call attention to his ill-advised late night stroll in the least subtle way he possibly can, and he can smother his mouth with the lapel of his coat all he likes, it’s still not going to be enough to stop him from—

“BUHSHHhoo! Huh’UHSSHHhoo!”

Becoming an abrupt disruption cutting sharply through the quiet.

And Barkya, who can only hear out of one ear these days, remembers her home security duties even from as far away as she must be according to the barking—and judging from the jingling of bangles, Naveen’s mother Sangita isn’t far behind—he is after all making a complete ruckus in the entryway.

He’s also not done, and in fact just about to collapse into his waiting elbow to vocally wrestle through a violently breathy trio.

“HRUSHH! HrrRRUHHu! ...HIRRUSSszhuu!”

Sometimes when he’s sneezing really harshly like this Cal finds himself unconsciously bringing a hand to his chest as he does. He has to acknowledge how much sense it makes that anyone ever thought a person’s soul could leave their body when they sneeze—it certainly feels like his just did.

Something about the sudden difference in temperature has his nose streaming even harder than it was outside, as well as effusively tingling with that warm, fuzzy sensation that suggests he perhaps still hasn’t quite finished this little fit, and two-fifths of the Dasgupta household round the corner just in time to watch Cal’s valiant attempt to tend to his nose with the tatters of an already very used tissue.

“Caliph?!? Tum kidhar? You were outside?”

“Ji haan,” he admits sheepishly, “I was—snff!—on the phone with a friend and it was a special occasion for him so I wanted to talk to him about it.”

“Outside in the cold this late at night when you’re sick, beta? It’s below freezing,” she says, her voice carrying as she goes to retrieve the tissue box from the other room and brings it to him.

He currently possesses only partial control of his facial expressions, plucking a tissue from the box she’s just given him and hitching through a ‘Dhanyavaad’ that gets airier and airier as his lungs inflate around it.

Finally he crushes a thoroughly unsatisfying “mMMFSHH!’hu…” into a handful of tissue, following which Barkya barks one last time for good measure before wandering elsewhere.

Sangita however is not as easily put off.

“And look at you now Caliph, you’re shaking. Going out there in this condition… did you forget you have a fever? You’re talking to a friend? Tell him next time call back.”

All Cal can do is continuously wobble his head to express his respect and agreement, reduced to this physical gesture because he’s finding it challenging to verbally convey his contrition, overwhelmed as he is by the niggling need to incessantly sneeze. A battle he can feel himself losing once again, the temptation of it, teasing at his breath the way it is, too great to resist.

“Sorry, Auntie, it rhheal—real-h-hee…heeYIHHHShue! Mm, snff! It really wasn’t—snf!—very smart of me, snffffh!”

He knows scientifically, technically, that being outside for all of twenty minutes did not actively make him sicker, just temporarily more symptomatic, though really what’s the difference as far as Sangita’s concerned when he’s standing here shivering and sniffling, the textbook example of catching one’s death. He does sort of feel sicker than he did when he left the house, or at least he feels his symptoms more acutely.

Even sniffling is starting to tickle, and while he would really love to blow his nose and it might assist in his efforts to stop sneezing, it feels inappropriate to do so during a lecture—even one as gentle as this—so he’s forced to just repeatedly rub tissues against irritated, ever-moistening nostrils. “I think I juh-h?…Um, snf! I think I juhhust learnedmylesson—”

His throat suffers through a crashing “ehhhhESHHHyeuu!” with an especially nasal, vocal last syllable that inspires a sound of sympathy from Sangita.

“Ohh beta… bechara…”

“Excuse me,” he sniffles, dabbing at resulting watery eyes and feeling exceptionally pitiful now that she’s taken pity on him.

She puts a hand on her hip, sighs at length, and inclines her head towards the kitchen. “Alright, come come, we’ll make chai.”

#Cal #translation prob mostly self explanatory but ji haan is a polite yes #beta means son/child but not necessarily *your* son/child and also just an affectionate thing to call a younger person #bechara = poor thing/poor baby #aka my favorite word or phrase in any given language #hard to describe the Indian nod #nod and head shake both feel insufficient to describe the motion #it’s smooth and continuous side-to-side in kind of a figure eight sorta loop #if you’ve seen it you know it #anyway try to imagine Cal doing so as Sangita auntie scolds him #mongoose writes sometimes #Cal as Caliph #Sangita

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delimeful · 3 years

Text

Snapshot: Cleanse

snapshots: a new compilation of mini-fics taking place in the WIBAR universe! this one takes place a few days after Making Adjustments!

warnings: none! Whoops, All Fluff!

It was a few days after the Breakfast Ceasefire that Virgil decided enough was enough.

He needed a shower. Badly.

It didn’t matter that he was on an alien ship full of alien stuff, or that showering meant temporarily ditching the comfort of his hoodie, or even that two out of three aliens would probably happily see him dead at any opportunity.

He had picked up what felt like an entire football field’s worth of dirt, mud, and other muck while him and Patton were planet-hopping, and impromptu washcloth (read: a patch torn from the back of his shirt) cleaning sessions had only done so much. They only came across clean water every so often, anyhow. Most of it couldn’t be wasted on washing.

Patton had picked up on his discomfort back then— that or the smell— but the Ampen’s idea of ‘cleaning up’ was very similar to that of chinchillas’ back home on Earth: dust baths. That’s right. More dirt.

(Yes, he’d rolled around in the dirt with his friend. Contrary to popular interstellar belief, he wasn’t a monster.)

Still, it was time to come clean. Literally and metaphorically.

Patton had spent last night cuddled up to him, which meant that he had actually gotten a full eight hours of sleep (good!) and that Roman was probably sulking around (ungood!). The sense of clarity that came with not being quite so horrendously sleep deprived only made him more aware of how dirty he was. It felt like heresy to even touch any of the numerous well-sanitized surfaces in the ship.

“Patton,” he called, once the Ampen had started doing those little antennae twitches that meant he was half-awake. “Can you show me the wash room?”

The response was a little delayed, but eventually Patton startled into full wakefulness with a little chirp-peep that reminded him of a computer startup noise.

From there, he was led down the circular halls to a square room that sort of resembled a locker room shower area, complete with drainage grates in the floor. There was a ledge along one side of the room that led up to a windowbox-like protrusion, and Virgil could see from here that it was full of soft, beige dirt.

Patton paused, visibly turning his head from Virgil to the washbox, as though measuring things out in his mind.

“That’s probably too small for you, huh?”

Virgil stopped him before he could start making plans for a human-sized sandbox. “Uh, actually, Pat, I need water to wash.”

“Oh!” Patton exclaimed, more surprised than disconcerted. “Well, water we doing over here then?”

Virgil couldn’t hide a smile, and Patton crinkle-smiled back at him before waving him over to the opposite end of the room. He pointed up, where there were little circular discs with a grid of tiny holes set into the wall. “Here you go! Roman uses these to help with his slough, or when he gets particularly rough and tumble down on planetside!”

… Great. Odds were borrowing his shower was probably going to make Roman even more homicidal towards him. Virgil decided to worry about that later. For now, he was faced with the biggest challenge of them all: figuring out how a friend’s shower knobs worked.

Surprisingly, it seemed like the panel set into the wall below each disc worked similarly to the other touchscreens he’d seen set into the control room of the ship. Unsurprisingly, they were all labeled with the written form of Common, which meant he had about zero chance of figuring it out on his own.

Patton noticed his blank stare and patted at his knee, and Virgil squatted down easily so the undersized alien could clamber onto his shoulder. He rose up, and Patton’s little claws scrambled for purchase for a moment before he caught his balance, Virgil tense with preparation to twist and catch him if he fell.

“This little icon has the symbol for on, and this is how you get it hot or cold,” he chirped, leaning forwards to point at the screen for emphasis. Virgil obligingly shifted closer, trying to commit the guidance to memory. “You’re a little squisher than Roman, so you should probably change the pressure, too.”

Once he’d shuffled around so he was sure neither of them were about to get slammed by a jet of water, he tapped the power button.

A three-note chime played as a sort of countdown, and water shot out of the disc, at what was probably the appropriate pressure to powerwash muck from under tightly-packed scales. Virgil pushed the slider down until he could put his hand under without feeling any sting from the water’s impact. Then, he cranked the temperature up until it was just short of scalding.

Patton eyed the steam curling up into the air with a concerned fluff to his feathers, but didn’t protest after seeing the small, delighted grin that Virgil made as he held his hand under.

No, this wasn’t dunking his head in cold streams, or dipping his arm in a lukewarm puddle, or the humiliating icy hose downs in captivity. This was warm water. He’d never take it for granted again.

He shrugged out of his hoodie as he walked over to the entrance. “Does this… lock?”

“Any door on the ship can be sealed,” Patton replied, and bonked his head to Virgil’s sympathetically at the shudder that information sent through him. “Nobody’s going to lock anything without your permission, though, okay?”

“Yeah,” Virgil said, knowing he sounded less than convinced. “Can you guard the door, still? Just in case,” he added in English, one of the phrases he’d used a lot while they were on the run.

Patton gave him a sad look, more than aware how unsafe he still felt, but nodded firmly and dropped carefully down to the floor, taking up position just outside the door like a tiny sentry. Virgil draped his hoodie over him, and then-- checking that the others weren’t nearby to witness and freak out about it-- he gave him the world’s smallest noogie, ruffling the feathers atop his head with a knuckle.

Having preemptively twitched his antennae out of the way, Patton made one of those bird-like laughs at him, batting his hand away. “Go clean! And make sure you wash out for slippery floors!”

Virgil snorted, and carefully sealed the door behind him, trying not to think about the feeling of being stuck in a tiny square room again. He shook his head, dragging his thoughts back on track.

He had access to a warm shower, his first in literal months (...years?). He was going to stay under that spout until every bit of dirt washed down the drain.

---

Roman was midway through a session of storywriting when he heard Patton’s bright voice coming down the hall, passing by his room and chattering all the while.

His ears flicked back automatically to check in, and he frowned when he realized that he couldn’t hear Logan’s arms clicking alongside the Ampen. No, apart from Patton’s tiny tapping footsteps, there was nothing. Patton had to be talking to the Human, then, since he was the only one who ghosted around the ship silently enough to make Roman feel stalked at every corner.

Well. He’d grown tired of watching his characters make a rather vexing detour from his carefully-plotted main storyline anyhow, and he was loath to leave his smallest friend alone with a Human, regardless of how docile that Human pretended to be.

After a brief cleanup of his writing instruments, he was sweeping down the corridor to the commons after them.

Logan was already in the room when he arrived, which was surprising; even Roman had picked up on the ludicrous lengths the Human went to avoid the Ulgorian, as though Logan of all people was someone to be scared of. The nerd’s poison blood was the most “threatening” thing about him, and the Human had already shown how easily he could shake that off.

Patton was leading the Human by one hand, their size disparity as jarring and terrifying as ever. And the Human…

Roman turned his head to the side to study the scene more intently, and that in itself was strange.

Normally, Virgil was almost preternaturally aware of when he was being watched, according to Logan. It was obvious when he knew: the Human went tense and rigid, practically poised to pounce at any moment.

But now, he was trailing after Patton with a relaxed slope to his shoulders, his steps almost languid. He all but collapsed on the fluffy cushion Patton gestured to, eyes gliding shut as the Ampen climbed up after him.

Roman took a few steps into the room, and the Human cracked one eye open-- not entirely out of it, then. The mild suspicion he was regarded with was almost reassuring.

Upon closer inspection, there were physical changes, too. The human had gone from pale, almost grey-toned to having a pinkish tint to his skin. The grey-brown still clung to the hooded garment he’d draped himself in, creating an even more jarring contrast. Dirt, then? It would certainly explain the smudges he left everywhere he touched much better than some strange Human Residue.

… He wasn’t crossing Human Residue off the list of possibilities, though.

Most striking of all was his head. He had originally stalked around with a matted mess of fur, glinting oily in the light where it wasn’t dull with dirt. Now, the fur was clean and stuck out in little fluffy tufts, creating a much less menacing look overall.

Patton apparently agreed, because he’d scampered up to one shoulder and immediately buried his tiny hands into that fluff. Roman and Logan both startled, exchanging an alarmed-exasperated-fearful look, one that had become exceedingly more common after Patton came home with his new Human cellmate.

Surprisingly, all Virgil did was go even more boneless on the cushion, turning his head to better meet Patton’s touch. Patton closed his eyes happily, apparently completely fine with petting one of the most feared creatures in the galaxy.

That wasn’t surprising at all, actually.

What was surprising was the Human’s apparent tolerance for it.

“I wasn’t aware Humans enjoyed tactile ministrations,” Logan said, tapping his wristplates curiously. “Is Virgil alright?”

The Human in question turned slightly to glance at them, eyes still half-lidded. It was probably the least threatening body language Roman had seen from him since… well, ever. “Mm?”

“You’re just relaxing, aren’t you kiddo?” Patton combed through that mess of fluff some more and Virgil lost what little tension he’d regained. “Virgil spent a lot of time on guard while we were on the run planetside. He deserves all the time in the world to recuperate… and all the head scritches!”

Roman’s tail swished exasperatedly, but even he really couldn’t come up with a reason to begrudge the Human for this, not when Patton was so clearly enjoying having someone else onboard to preen. Even if that someone was a Deathworlder.

He moved to settle onto his own cushion under the guise of supervising, though for once he thought the Human might actually fall asleep in front of him.

And if he was perhaps just slightly curious about what exactly a fluffy Human felt like? Well, that was nobody’s business but his own.

#sanders sides #ts virgil #ts patton #ts roman #ts logan #humans are space orcs #space au #wibar #wibar snapshots #watch it burn and rust #writing #my writing #found family #platonic moxiety

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the-winter-spider · 3 years

Text

Element: Part 2

Characters: Bucky x Reader

Warnings: Hints around possible suicide attempt, angst

A/N: Got this out a lot faster than i thought, once again i didnt read thru it lol so please excuse if there is any errors!

Word count: 2.1k

Part one

****

Bucky reached into the water pulling you out with his right arm, he let a gasp out when the temperature of the water touched his skin it was ice cold sending goosebumps all throughout his body. You were fully clothed, limp, cold to the touch, skin pale, lips blue. Not like he was used to, this wasn't the you he grew to love. You were radiant, your eyes were the most beautiful colour they reminded him of the night sky the way they shined like the stars, your lips were plump and filled with colour, looking at them now he almost couldn’t remember if they were more red or pink, he could feel his palms getting clammy, panic was running through him, when was the last time he saw the sparkle in your eyes? You were his sun, you were warmth, in this moment he felt regret he never got to kiss your lips.

He set you gently down on the tiled floor, you laid there lifeless, Steve was already kneeling down getting ready to start chest compressions, anything to bring you back, to Bucky, to him, to the team.

“No no no” Bucky mumbled.

“Vitals?” Tony frantically asked the AI

“No heartbeat detected”

Bucky didn’t know but tears were streaming down his face, so much regret was running through his veins, he didn't try hard enough and he knew that now but he didn't want to push you, he hated when Steve or Sam tried to push him. He wanted to hold you more and not like this, he wanted to feel life in your body, not this, all Bucky had ever known was death after being used by HYDRA for all those years and when they were finally out his head, everyone he knew before HYDRA were dead, except Steve of course but you brought life back into the super soldier something he was almost positive would never happened and Bucky was barely ever wrong but with you it felt so right.

The water surrounding them slowly started to evaporate, they realized it wasn’t coming from the tap in the tub, you made all the water and the fact it was disappearing, panic set in. “Where's medical?!” Tony frantically shouted.

“They are on there way” FRIDAY announced

Bucky couldn’t wait; he waited his whole life and it was a long one to finally be free and find someone like you, it felt like hours had passed since he busted down your door but he knew it had only been seconds, if not minutes. He scooped you up off the floor holding you in his arms as tightly as he could, he felt like they were wasting time sitting here doing what felt like the bare minimum when he knew the kind of medicine Tony had, he was a Stark after all and from being in the war he knew every second counted, he had a small hope that if he started running towards the medic wing your chances would be better rather than waiting around. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you fearing that this would be one of the last times he saw you and he wasn't prepared for that. You were so limp in his arms, water no longer dripping off of you. As he passed the rest of the team, all he could hear was gasps. He met the medical team half way, setting you on the stretcher before they ran off with you to med bay, Tony and Bruce trailing close behind them.

Bucky was frozen in place, he couldn’t feel anything, he felt like he was in a dream, a bad one, not like the nightmares he was used to this felt much worse, he kept hoping that he would wake up and leave his room to find you in the kitchen eating your morning cereal with Steve and you would give him the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen in all his years, the way he felt your eyes light up and the sun got a little brighter when you were near him, you thought he didn’t notice but Bucky noticed everything with you, or he thought he did. He doesn't even know when he stopped noticing things with you, or when you started to ignore the team, especially him. Part of him didn't even want to think about how long ago it started happening, how long you were truly alone.

Steve placed his hand on his best friends shoulder giving in a gentle squeeze “they’re gonna do everything in their power to get her back Buck”

—

Bucky couldn’t stop but replaying the last couple weeks or was it months? In his mind, did you do this on purpose? Was it an accident? Why did you do it? He remembers the first time he decided not to ask you to come with them. Sam, Steve, Natasha and him were going to try out this new chinese restaurant as they were coming up to your door, he was hoping for a miracle and you would open the door already ready to come with them and it would sort of be like a date but not really but he would pretend it was, but it didn't happen and he wasn’t sure how much more his heart could take of being shot down all the time so he decided he wasn't going to ask you tonight, when they finally reached your door, Steve stopped “Buck, aren't you going to ask y/n if she wants to come?”

Bucky's eyes went to your door, he doesn't remember the last time he was in your room, laying in your bed with you talking about anything and everything. He felt a pain in his chest and he mumbled out “No point” shrugging his shoulders leaving the 3 of his friends behind him making his way to the elevator. He heard them laughing, probably at him he felt pathetic he was a super soldier for christ sake but he couldn’t muster up all the strength in the world to ask you on a real date just him and you, or to admit his ever growing feelings for you, so he did what he knew best, kept quiet and to himself, he just wish he knew then he was hurting you in the process too, not just himself.

—

Everyone was patiently waiting in the common room just outside med bay. Bucky couldn't take his attention away from the plum tree just outside the window, when you grew it for him he swore his heart skipped a beat, that was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for him, he still remembers that day like it only just happened. He had just left the gym and was heading back to his room when he saw you laying down in front of his door reading whatever book you were reading, you must have been deep into the book because you didn't notice him standing directly above you, he whispered “Good book?” making you jump and drop the book on your face, he couldn’t help but chuckle, he threw his towel over his shoulder offering you a hand up.

“It was a good book till i lost my place” You huffed

“Sorry doll” he smiled, something he only ever did around you, the real kind of smile, the kind that made his cheeks hurts not the fake kind he did around everyone else, he watched you dust yourself off and run your fingers through your hair, fixing yourself up, he didn't understand why you already looked perfect “So what do i owe the pleasure of having a beautiful girl like you waiting on a guy like me?”

Giggling “Well i have something for you, a gift” you blushed, he watched you rock back and forth on your feet, he was getting that feeling in his stomach again he wasn't sure what it was but it was warm, something he didn't think he deserved to feel again let it actually happening but here it was, with you.

He quickly showered and changed, when he stepped out of the bathroom you hadn’t moved you were still sitting on the edge of his bed, flipping through your book, trying to figure out where you left off, when you felt his presence you looked up, your eyes meeting his “You ready to go Buck?”

He nodded making his way to the door “after you doll”

It was silent when the two of you were making your way wherever you were leading him, he didn't ask any questions he would follow you anywhere, anytime no questions asked. You made your way outside to a tree he doesnt think he seen before, because it was the only tree there, he watched you start moving your hands with elegance, he was and always has been in complete awe of your abilities, with a doubt in his mind you were the most amazing person to have ever come from HYDRA. He had no idea what the gift was but he knew he would love it, whatever it was because it was from you, but when Bucky saw something start growing on the tree his eyes went wide “How did you know?”

“I overheard you talking to Steve about them the other day, how you missed them and the ones from the store didn't taste the same” You spoke softly, folding your hands behind your back looking down shyly. Bucky made his way to the plum tree picking one before he made his way over to you, he used his right arm to put a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lightly touching your cheek while doing so it sent shivers down your spine and butterflies in your stomach, you lifted your gaze to meet his. He took your hand in his, giving it a light squeeze “this is my favourite gift”.

“The tree or that one plum?” you giggled, pointing at the perfect plum in his hand.

He took a moment before responding to you, really taking everything in, the view, his feelings because he was feeling a lot of them, some new some old, the emotions he could see in your eyes, how perfect you truly were but also how right it felt having your hand in his, his tongue ran over his lips “You” he breathed out, you kept your gaze on him for a few more seconds before you felt heat rising to your cheeks, looking back down, his thumb rubbing circles on your hand, he wasn't sure if you felt what he was feeling but when a single butterfly landed on the plum in his hand, he knew.

—

Bucky wasn't the best with time, after being in and out of cryo for so long he didn't care to tell time, so he wasn't sure how long he was standing here staring at the window lost in thought till he was finally pulled away from it, he felt Steve come up from behind him, he cleared his throat, placing another hand on his friends shoulder looking out the window to see what Bucky was staring at for the last hour.

“Y’know she grew that for me?”

Steve smiled “I know because you wouldn’t shut up about it” Bucky let out a soft chuckle, turning to face his friend “I messed up Steve”

Steve didn’t say anything he didn’t know what to say and Steve almost always knew what to say but he couldn’t comfort his friend because it was unknown if you were alive or not, he knew you were a fighter but what he saw, you were lifeless, FRIDAY even confirmed there was no heartbeat, he wasn't trying to give his oldest friend false hope, so in the meantime he decided that just being there was enough.

“I don’t understand, she can breathe underwater can't she?” Natasha finally spoke to no one in particular, turning all heads towards her before anyone could respond when the door opened. Tony walked in “She can” all eyes were on him, something he usually loved but it made him feel uneasy today. It was quiet, Tony sat down took off his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers before looking Bucky dead in the eye “they found a heart beat, its shallow but its there”

***

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#bucky barns x y/n #bucky barns x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barns x reader #bucky #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes angst

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tommyspeakycap · 3 years

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request for jack grealish one where he’s really upset over something and you’re there with him to comfort him, lots of physical contact being his love language and you being the only person he likes touching his hair ?

Comfort

You knew from the very second he walked through the door that annoyed would be an incredibly generous word to describe the emotions running through the Brummie boys head. You grimace to yourself, shoulder raising closer to your ears at the sound of the brand new front door slamming heavily behind him with a curse at the fact he couldn't get his shoes kicked off just right the first time he attempted it in the foyer.

The first game was a loss and just about all he'd gotten for the past few days was hate, stress, hate and some more fucking stress. He was exhausted. From Mykonos to Birmingham to get a bag full of clothes so he could meet Villa in London before eventually travelling to Manchester, his sleep schedule has been completely messed up and even when he did have bursts of time where he should have been sleeping, he had been laying awake scrolling through countless tweets criticising his every single move. Add to that the fact his body was exhausted from international duty and that he had wanted nothing more than to curl up by your side and let his worries melt away like he had last gotten to do nearly three whole months ago.

He doesn't know you're here. To the very best of Jack's knowledge, you were still home in Birmingham and he would probably have to broach the conversation of whether or not you'll be joining him up anytime soon, if ever. He lets out a frustrated grunt, but you know Jack better than anyone else and there's the thick sheen of his heart aching tears existing beneath his frustration.

"Hey baby."

His head snaps around to land his eyes on you the second your sweet voice meets his buzzing ears. The echos of Etihad still burn a bit of his hearing away for now, but he knows it'll return to normal by the end of the night. The tears that had previously been kept on his lash line, pushed back by his will not to breakdown for fear he might not be able to stop if he starts are now past the last line of defence, streaming over his cheeks as he crossed the floor at a pace that would send his fife rating into surefire question.

Your body makes an involuntary 'oof' as he crashes against you, his arms so tight around your body as he stops you from stumbling back with the force of his incoming hug. You don't think he's ever actually held you that tightly before, never with such dire necessity, with such urgency for you to be as close to him as he could get you.

The hair that's been allowed to fall loose from the band he'd earlier had it tied back in tickles the back of your neck as it dangles over the exposed skin. He mumbles something almost incoherent about how much he's missed you into your neck, pepping chaste kisses where his lips have landed against you in this hug. You wished you could enjoy that, but the dampening that has begun to occur over the shoulder that his head is above reminds you of the pain he must be in.

Leaving your childhood club is one thing, but leaving it when everybody else seems to think he's a monster for it is a whole different kind of agony. There were just too many emotions for people to see the kind of things Jack had given for the club and the huge opportunity he had left them with his legacy and with the money they copped for his record breaking sale.

"It's okay, Jacky." You coo, tightening your arms around you as he attempts one tighter squeeze to force the tears back into him. It's a futile attempt, his arms loosening but never dropping away from you as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets those sobs shake his body. "I got you, baby. I've got you."

There was such a mix of emotions running through him that made him feel like the world had just pushed him to the ground and taken the perfect opportunity to give his body a good kicking. First final for England in 55 years, then they lost in a penalty shootout he didn't even get to be a part of after a game he barely got to play in. Then a holiday he couldn't take with you because of work commitments and a sudden coworker needed sooner maternity leave meaning your holiday was completely eliminated. As if those things didn't dampen his spirit, all that transfer business had gone down and it was finally all hitting him.

His exhaustion had caught up, an inevitable burn out that could be messed only by the presence of you in his life. Some of this tears that stream down his cheeks and pool on the grey material of your t-shirt are ones of joy and relief for finally having you back in his arms again for the first time in far too long of a time. Jack vows he will never ever spend that amount of time without you again. Never will he let so much time pass before he gets to hold you, kiss you and tell you face to face how much he truly loves every single thing about you.

"You're my rockstar, you know." You announce, seemingly out of the blue ones his body wracking sobs had died to smaller sniffled and period tears streaking down onto you. "I've literally never been prouder of anyone in my life ever. Not only did you fucking smash the euros, but then you stayed so sweet and so amicable during such a difficult process. You handled everything so well, J. I'm so proud or you and I'm so, so happy for you." You promise, pushing him back so you can take his blotchy, tear streaked face in your head. The expanse of that face is coved in your kisses, pecked all over the surface until he's giggling like the Jack that you know so well, his laugh the most contagious sound you've ever been lucky enough to get to hear on a daily basis. "And I'm so lucky that you let me share this journey with you." You finish, landing your lips softly and perfectly onto his with a warmth and love he had been desperately missing out on for those last vital few weeks of his break.

"S' our journey," Jack mumbles in response against your lips, pulling back every so slightly so he can get a proper good look at the face he had missed so much in person. Your cute quirked eyebrows and confusion tainted eyes make him smile before he elaborates. "Not my journey, it's our journey together. All of this, just the two of us."

His words make your heart sore, flying up onto the space above you in pure glee. You had to admit there was a mild element of fear wondering if he would want you here or if he'd maybe be wanting fresh start, but that was certainly not the case for Jack.

"I love you," he says as you feel him tuck you right back into his chest with a content hum. "I love you too, but you need a wash."

Jack's laughter bellows loudly from his chest beneath your ear at your lightly playful and yet very truthful statement.

"I ran you a bubble bath for you. Bathroom's huuuuge." Your eyes are full of wonder like he thought they might be when he would get the opportunity to bring you out to his temporary Manchester abode. This is you would both stay until he could find a house to place some money down on so he can truly start to settle out the fact he's going to have the next six years of his life here in this area with this club. It makes him more than happy, being here. But something that tickles him in thought as he follows you up the stairs is that he'll get to experience all of this newness with you. You’ll get to explore the new area together, find nee places, making it home together. You had both known Soulihull like the back of your hand, now you could find new places to just be together. He can go house hunting with you. He'll let you drag him through the houses he probably wouldn't otherwise look so much into, talking about what room could be which and silly little things he wouldn't even have noticed.

He could pick a house with you that would have enough room to start a family in together within the next year or so, like you had been hoping to do depending on what the club and transfer season had brought. This brought stability, a team that would function well without a reliance on him if there were some things he had to sit out in order to build this family.

It had been, unbeknownst to you, such a pivotal part of discussions with the Manchester City agents. Jack made it clear he was looking for stability and trophies. He had done so much for Villa and now it was time for him to invest energy in bigger fights with bigger clubs that don't face relegation so constantly. He made it clear to the managers also that the was looking to be in the business of starting a family sometime soon. He was welcomed with open arms still. A club who wanted him desperately and would probably have caved to many more demands from him, not having a fraction of an issue with negotiated paternity pay and leave.

He couldn't wait to find a house and settle down here with you for the foreseeable future, even if things didn't look exactly as he thought they might've looked when you first got together as merely young adults.

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours, eh?" You ask softly, running your fingers gently through his tangled and sweaty hair as he stands there in the middle of the large bathroom. Jack shrugs. There's so much in there today, not really like usual where he could sort through those thoughts and keep his head clear for every day and every game he faces.

"Just stressed," he huffs, allowing you to help him out of the brand new away strip he had been given at the beginning of the day today for his first first game with the new team.

His muscles are achy and tight, body still stiff from the cold that the rain had battered into his limbs as you easily hook off his boxers and tug them down his legs so he can step over the bathtub into the perfect temperature bubble filled water that makes him heave out a heavy sigh of relief the second it meets his skin.

"Talk to me, baby?"

And talk to you he did after he sat down in that bath with you.

He leaned back against you, allowing you to lather shampoo into the hair he trusted very few people with multiple times to massage the ache out of his skull from the previous days tension headaches. He talks about all those messages from so many unhappy people, some even City fans who didn't even want to entertain the idea of him being there. He talks about his worry of sitting on the bench season after season, telling you he was hoping to god those tweets wouldn't be further from the truth. He confided in you some of his greatest pains; the concept that he'd let his Villa teammates down and maybe even made his family unhappy despite the fact they had given him nothing but their full support and unsurprising pride just like everybody else in his immediate circle.

You massage muscle relaxing soap into all of the muscles in his body as he just talks, letting the weight of the world off of his shoulders to dissipate like the steam in the air from the bath. Only once he has everything off his chest and the waters gone cold do you both leave the bathroom, wrapped in towels then into pyjamas where he wraps you up in his arms like he's been desperate to do since the moment he touched off for International duty months ago, and he talks again.

This time, he talks to you instead of just talking out every worry and fear he's ever had.

Jack uses probably the most amount of words he's ever used in such sensible succession in order to paint you a perfect mental picture of a house just outside the city with a huge garden, fenced in for dogs and kids with a pool and enough room for all three of those future kids to have their own room, even though they'll share at first just for fun. He paints a picture of you at his games with two sons and a daughter, his name on each shirt along your back. The kids will call Foden uncle Phil and they’ll love him just like you both do. They'll get to play with the teams kids on the pitch after the games no matter how tired the guys are even if they've been thrashed in a loss. He depicts the kind of life you had both wanted for so long, somehow always deterred by something until right this moment, the time feeling like it had rolled perfectly into place for both of you.

And Jack tells you about how you'll poke fun at him when he starts to get those salt and pepper strands of hair and he'll love you no matter how you look. Your kids will learn what love is from their parents, they'll pick it up and they'll emulate it in their own lives sometime in the future. They'll stamp out hate with the hearts full of love that you will both allow those kids to grow into.

You both fall asleep together that night, wrapped in each others arms drifting off into dreams of kids that don't exist yet in a house you haven't even looked for with a future that each of you wants nothing more than to grab onto with both hands.

Jack's heart hurts for the changes he's made this week. He doubts the pain will ever fully leave him and he hopes that one day his club will welcome him back to end his career on a high note with them. However, until then the pain will be dulled by the prospect of his new future here.

One he can't wait to get stuck right into.

#jack grealish imagines #jack grealish imagine #jack grealish x reader #england national team #england national team imagine #football fics #footballer fics #footie fics

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