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starlight-writes-stuff · 3 years

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hi, do you think you could do another blurb for ethan? maybe something nsfw? like, a party hookup? im thinkin about fratboy!ethan 👁👄👁

(wc: 5.5k) pls im always thinking about fratboy ethan :,) but yes i can do this 100 % ! this ask prompted something deep in me and i ended up making a playlist to go with it as well 🤧here’s the link to that if ur interested https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4yXuVtAKBHexm5ifE9NQ2B ! A L S O i’m sorry this took forever to get to ,,,, life has been a lot recently lol . reblogs are always appreciated ! <3

AYO LOOK AT THESE ! : smut (obvious but still) , sex while under the influence (with explicit consent given) , softdom! ethan , marajuana use , alcohol use , unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it , plz) , swearing , college au , an unus annus reference if u look close enough , and i believe thats it . enjoy ! xoxoxoxo , starlight .

a little party never killed nobody

it was the exact same as every other college party you’d ever been to. shitty music, shittier alcohol, shittiest people- except for him.

when ethan nestor had invited you to a frat party, you’d laughed in his face. you knew that he was a member of data data data, but he wasn’t the type that made it his whole personality. as far as you’d observed, he wasn’t the partying type, either, but there he was, texting you the house address.

“so you’ll come tonight? it’s going to be a pretty big thing- a lot of people coming. you should be able to walk right in, but if anyone gives you shit just tell them you’re with me,” he said, a slight smirk playing on his lips. you and ethan hadn’t been talking for long; technically, you hadn’t even known that he’d existed two weeks ago.

when ethan had first sauntered up to you in physical sciences, that same smirk painting his face, you’d picked up on the underlying chemistry right away. he was a flirt by nature, but he seemed to play it up even more around you- the brunette boy had asked for your number the first day you met, and you’d been talking almost constantly since. he was funny and sweet and extremely charismatic, and he made your heart flip in your chest with the smallest glance. the two of you hadn’t hung out alone yet, so this party felt like a big deal.

or, at least, that's what you’d thought.

when you showed up at the front door of the frat house loud, bass-filled music was already shaking the window panes in their frames, and you could hear what sounded like a hundred different voices all talking over each other. ethan hadn’t been kidding when he said that it was a big party; at least half of your year was here, plus the older and younger students interspersed throughout the throngs of people as well. as you made your way to the kitchen, ethan was nowhere to be found. you felt as if all eyes were on you as you started to pour a drink, and dimly, you wondered if people could tell that you didn’t belong.

however, most of your anxious thoughts had been subdued after the first solo cup of vodka lemonade, and you were now well through your second. the music pounding throughout the house felt as if it had infiltrated your veins, filling them with a warm, buzzing sensation that loosened your limbs. at some point, a guy had come up to chat with you. then another. you weren't sure how many times you’d given out your snapchat tonight, but it had been a lot, and you were about to do it again.

the guy you were currently talking to introduced himself as danny. he was some sort of business major, much like every other guy that you’d spoken with tonight, and was very clearly trying to hit on you. even through the alcohol-induced haze, you remembered who you came here for and you weren't leaving without him. you put a hand on danny’s shoulder, effectively cutting him off in the middle of his sentence.

“hey, do you know where ethan is? ethan nestor, i mean? he’s the one who invited me here.”

danny looked disappointed, but seemed to shift and slot puzzle pieces together in his head, snapping his fingers. “you're the girl he invited? that makes so much sense, actually. yeah, he’s out back- toking up, probably,” he explained, gesturing towards a door you would’ve never noticed. “out there and down the stairs. need an escort?”

you almost denied his advances but spotted an old fling loitering by the hidden door. giving danny a tight smile, you drained the rest of your drink and held up a finger. “one sec! stay here.”

butterflies flooded every inch of your being as you stumbled over to the makeshift bar, pouting a variety of liquors into your cup. you were going to see ethan outside of class. on his turf. something about it shook you to your core, but you couldn’t quite figure out why.

sure, ethan was hot- that was obvious. but he’d been flirty, too. were the two of you a thing? if you weren’t, why had he been talking to danny about 'the girl he was inviting’? clearly, ethan had been talking about you, you just weren't sure of the context. you tried to swallow all these fears as you topped off your cup with lemonade, taking a small sip. trying not to spit it out, you added more juice; you’d made the strongest mixture you could think of, and it tasted like some sort of poison. that didn’t stop you from taking another small sip, then a bigger one. you needed the buzz.

“okay! let's go.”

danny led you out the door and down the stairs with no issue, and you quickly realized how tipsy you were - the stairs seemed to bob and warp under your feet, and you grabbed onto the handrail with a death grip. he noticed this easily, laughing a bit. “are you good?”

“great. it's the heels and alcohol- they don't mix well.” you laughed at yourself, regretting the chunky, heeled boots you’d thrown on.

“you can ditch them, if you want. we’re going out onto a deck, so you won't be in grass or anything,” danny explained, pointing to a pile of shoes by the door you were about to exit. you weren't going to argue with that, thankful that you’d chosen cute socks as you wrestled the footwear off and tossed it onto the pile. your stomach flipped as danny opened the door, cool night air biting into your warm skin, waking you up a bit. the sourish-sweet scent of marijuana flooded the small stairwell, and danny chuckled. “told you he was smoking.”

nothing could’ve prepared you for the way you felt watching ethan take a long drag off of some sort of pen, letting the vapor pour from his lips in pale blue plumes. something about the easy way the smoke seemed to float from his mouth went straight to your center, and you dug your nails into your palms, trying to get yourself under control. ethan finally realized that more people had joined the small crowd on the bench, and his heavy-lidded eyes seemed to light up as they roamed all over you lazily. this only furthered the sensation between your legs, the coils starting to tighten in your lower stomach.

what the hell?

“y/n, you made it,” ethan said, a smile taking over his face. he quickly hopped down from where he’d been sitting on the guardrail and made his way over, wrapping an arm dangerously low around your waist. he hugged you tightly, making your heartbeat stutter as you squeezed him back.

you mumbled a ‘hello’ into his neck as ethan let his touch linger, your body held tightly to his. someone cleared their throat, conversation starting back up, and ethan reluctantly pulled away, dropping his eyes to yours. he kept a hand on the small of your back, sending electricity running up and down your spine. “having fun?”

you could barely talk as you forced yourself to respond. “yeah, lots. you’re a hard person to find.”

ethan grinned again, letting his head fall back as he laughed. “my bad. i thought you would text me when you got here. found someone to take care of you , though?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. the facial expression did absolutely nothing for the situation building up under your skirt- only worsening your want for the tall boy in front of you.

“who?”

ethan smirked, dropping his lips to your ear. “that's what i like to hear. you look pretty, y/n.”

the way he said your name practically undid you, ripping your self-control apart at the already weakened seams. you let a hand wander up and down one of ethan’s sculpted arms, outlining the planes of muscle through his hoodie as you crossed your legs; sure, it was the ladylike thing to do, but you were desperately looking for some sort of friction, anything to lessen the need for him.

“thank you.”

ethan nodded, the hand that had been perched on your back sliding over your hip before finding your hand. he laced his fingers into yours, and you were shocked at how forward he was being. the two of you had flirted heavily- and okay, maybe you’d sent some suggestive pictures back and forth- but ethan seemed to be claiming you as he led you over to the round table where all his friends were sat. again, you carved half-moons into your palms with your nails as you added up all the chairs- there wasn’t enough. you began to let go of ethan’s hand, ready to boost yourself onto the railing, but he gave your fingers a gentle squeeze. you watched as ethan settled into the overstuffed outdoor chair, gesturing at his lap.

fuck.

you took a brief moment to admire the mess you’d gotten yourself into before you gingerly sat on ethan’s lap, trying to make yourself as small and weightless as humanly possible. that didn’t last long, though. ethan circled an arm over your hips, pulling you onto his lap firmly. you couldn’t breathe as you settled into him, crossing your legs tightly. your lower body was tucked away, hidden under the table, but still. you tucked a small portion of fabric between your thighs, ensuring nothing would slip.

you didn’t say much as ethan continued to conversate with his friends, passing the silvery, skinny device around the table.

soon, the talk turned from school and classes to typical, stuttering stoner laughing; everyone besides ethan and danny seemed to be a complete lightweight, gone after one hit of the cartridge. however, both the boys were on at least their fourth hit and still seemed relatively composed. they’d started to talk about some sort of economic study, and you’d quickly grown bored and confused. after sitting through 10 more minutes of the terminology you didn't understand, you began to wiggle around on ethan’s lap, loosening his grip on you.

at the same moment, you and ethan both shifted in just the right way, causing one of his legs to end up between both of yours just as your hips rolled forward. delicious friction flooded your system, and you bit down hard on your lower lip, trying to stifle a moan. you fought with everything in you not to rock your body again, sensation overwhelming your impulse control. before you could do anything, one of ethan’s large hands found your hips, squeezing just enough to leave fingerprint-shaped marks on your skin. ethan knew what he’d done- you could hear the satisfaction threaded through his voice.

“you okay? what d’you need?”

you tried to steady your voice, painfully conscious of the people around you. while most of ethan’s friends were high enough that they wouldn’t notice, you knew that danny would pick up on any changes in your demeanor. you swallowed hard before answering him.

“i'm gonna go get another drink.” another gentle squeeze practically lit your skin on fire, and ethan held the pen up to you.

“wanna try this instead?”

you weren’t going to lie- you’d been a bit jealous of the boys, not even thinking of passing the device to you. with shaky hands, you reached to accept the cartridge, but ethan had different plans. a sinful look found its way into his slitted eyes as ethan held the pen up to your lips. “go ahead.”

you could’ve passed out from the command, the look, the way that he’d started to bounce his leg. it was as if he was trying to break you- like he wanted you to give him some sort of sign that you wanted him. you did, more than anything. desire seemed to curl its way into every inch, every cell of your body, its spurs digging into your skin.

you met ethan’s eyes deliberately as you accepted the cold metal into your mouth, inhaling deeply. you took immense pleasure in the look that crossed ethans face as you pulled away with lungs full of the hazy drug. you held your breath for as long as possible before letting the vapor drift from your lips, just as ethan and done earlier. you watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, his eyes snapping off of yours and over to danny.

“i’m gonna take y/n to get a drink. watch them, will you?” he asked, gesturing to the rest of his friends. danny just nodded, mumbling a low ‘have fun’ as ethan practically lifted you off of his lap. adrenaline coursed through each and every one of your veins and ethan laced his fingers through yours, leading you inside.

ethan barely let the door shut before his hands were on your hips, pinning you to the wall of the small stairwell. his lips met yours roughly, and you couldn’t hold back the whimper that had been building in your throat for the past hour. you felt ethan smirk at the soft noise before he bit at your lower lip, dragging the soft flesh between his teeth. again, you let out a whine full of pleasure- he just felt so good. you let your arms circle ethans neck, one of your hands knotting in his dark hair. you pulled at the roots gently as ethan’s tongue rolled against yours, your body entirely succumbing to him.

he forced himself to pull off of your body, and you let out a small whine; you’d been waiting on this. ethan smirked, his laugh coming out dark and much raspier than usual. “don’t worry doll, i'm not done with you yet. just can't have you here.”

the words went right through you, only adding to the ache between your thighs. ethan took your hand with a profound gentleness, and dropped a soft kiss on your forehead. “before this even starts, are you sure?”

you nodded eagerly, getting up on your tiptoes to recapture his lips, but ethan pulled back. you furrowed your eyebrows at the tall boy, confused- until he brought a hand up to your face, holding your jaw. ethan tilted your head up, forcing you to meet his eyes. “i need words, baby. are you positive? i can-”

“so sure. i promise.” you nodded at him, your eyes never leaving his. “i want you.”

ethan swore under his breath and kissed you hard before leading you up the stairs. you started to feel the effects of the drug as ethan took you from kitchen to living room, up some stairs… you lost track of all the places you’d been, allowing the weed to cloud everything in a gauzy veil. you felt good; light and somehow heavy at the same time, and you enjoyed the way that everything seemed to slow down. finally, ethan opened a door and pulled you in behind him. you realised where you were- his room. it smelled like ethan, like citrus and musk and something you could only describe as boy.

you let out a small giggle as ethan reached for a remote, colored lights dousing the room in a sultry red glow. “setting the mood?”

quickly, you were shut up in the best possible way. ethan kissed your roughly, all teeth and tongue and hands everywhere as he backed you against one of his walls. you let yourself get lost in him, basking in the warmth of your hunger for him. one of ethan’s cold hands made its way under your shirt, the other holding your jaw in place as he bit into your bottom lip once again, making you whine.

“feel good?” ethan asked, breathlessly. you could hear the smirk in his voice, but you couldn’t help the way your back arched at the simple question. your nails dug into his shoulder as ethan slid his thumb under the band of your bra, and he let out a rough moan, managing to undo the clasp with one hand. ethan pulled away from you long enough to rid you of your shirt, discarding your bra on the floor as well while you practically ripped his hoodie off, desperate to feel his skin against your own. he clearly wanted the same, judging by the way he wrapped an arm around your back, pulling you flesh against his chest.

ethan managed to capture both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them above your head. you were unfamiliar with the feeling of being restrained, but the sensation seemed to send your heart thrumming even faster. he kissed you until your lips were sore and your knees were weak before finally dropping his forehead to yours. ethan took his chance, letting his eyes roam all over you and you watched his pupils grow larger until his eyes were practically black. “jesus fuck, y/n. you’re beautiful.”

your voice came out high and breathy as you responded. “ ‘could say the same about you.” you were practically panting, your body no longer responding to your mind as your back arched. ethan let out a hard breath.

“do you know what you do to me?”

your eyes fluttered shut as ethan’s lips met the sensitive skin of your neck, his tongue exploring the delicate flesh. he quickly found your weak spot and focused his attention there; he let his teeth gently sink into your skin, making you gasp before using his soft tongue to soothe the spot. he repeated this process all over your neck, sucking on your flesh when he found a sweet spot. you knew that you’d be covered in purple-blue bruises, but you’d wear them proudly- that was ethan’s motivation for marking you up.

ethan trailed soft, wet kisses all the way down your neck to your collarbones, groaning at the way you pushed your chest toward him. he hesitated, but started kissing back up your neck, your jaw, back up to your lips. he released his grip on your wrist and you quickly cupped his face in your hands, kissing him with everything in you. you wanted the boy to feel the way you wanted him, and you knew he could as his lips seemed to slow, the kisses getting deeper and deeper. you lost yourself completely in ethan, unsure of where he started and you ended. you could feel his heartbeat against your own, the two thumping rapidly, almost erratic.

the two of you stayed pressed up against each other, your back firmly against the wall for a while, until ethan finally pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “bed?”

you nodded eagerly, wanting the boy all over you. the two of you stumbled, half kissing over to the mattress, falling together. ethan quickly situated himself on top of your body, caging you in between his arms. he began kissing down your body at a torturously slow pace, tracing the dark marks he’d already left with his soft tongue, driving you insane. ethan took his time working down to your breasts, finally taking one of your sensitive nubs into his mouth. you let out an almost guttural moan at the sensation, pleasure overwhelming your senses. ethan hummed at your reaction, only intensifying the feeling. you tangled a hand in his hair, the other digging into his back, leaving long, red scratches on his pale skin.

ethan swirled his tongue around your bud, taking extreme pride in the way you let your head fall back against the mattress, moans of his name spilling from your lips. he tucked an arm under the arch of your back, pulling your body even closer to him- he didn’t want any space dividing the two of you. ethan pulled off of your puffy nipple with a soft moan, wasting no time in kissing over your chest, pulling the other into his mouth. he covered your chest in dark, deep bruises, admiring his work under the sensual glow of the red lights. “so pretty..”

you couldn’t form full sentences to respond with, just broken moans and pleads and tugs on his hair. ethan found it endearing, the way you wanted him so badly. he couldn’t help but give you what you needed.

he kisses hastily down your body leaving small lovebites here and there on your ribs, your stomach. ethan hooked his thumbs in the waistband of your skirt and pressed a kiss to the exposed skin right above the fabric. “this okay?”

“yes, i- please,” you pleaded, lifting your hips to make it easier. ethan got rid of the piece of clothing, discarding it on his bedroom floor, quickly followed by your panties. he let out a throaty moan, his eyes working over you lazily, like he had all the time in the world. he admired your body until you wriggled underneath him, needing some sort of stimulation.

“what do you want, baby?”

“you,” you whined, desperation weaving through your voice. ethan pressed gentle, warm kisses on your hip bones, fighting a laugh.

“i know that. what specifically?”

“fuck, ethan. anything, just touch me. please.”

“okay, okay. and you're positive this is alright?”

“yes. i’m so sure. i swe-” your words died in the back of your throat as ethan pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing small, soft circles. “holy fuck.”

“already so worked up,” ethan mumbled, pressing kisses to your inner thighs. “this because of me?”

you were taken aback by the way your high seemed to multiply the pleasure by tens of thousands- ethan was barely touching you and you could feel your high approaching quickly. you couldn’t find the words to answer him as ethan shifted between your legs, giving himself a better view of your sex. “does that feel okay?”

a stream of swears left your lips as ethan quickened his pace, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. “so fucking good, just like that.” the knots in your stomach continued to tighten as you balled the sheets in your fist, tugging at his hair with the other hand.

ethan pressed a kiss dangerously low on your hip, looking up at you. “can i?”

your hips bucked at the tone of his voice, and you nodded vigorously. ethan kept his eyes on yours as he ran his tongue through your folds, lapping your arousal up. he couldn’t help but groan at the taste of you, the way you pulled at his hair, putting his mouth where you wanted it before letting your head fall back onto his bed. ethan started to suck at your sensitive bud, rolling his tongue over the bundle of nerves and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.

“i- fuck- i’m close.”

he hummed, the vibrations sending you over the edge. your eyes rolled back into your head while you tugged at his hair, your orgasm completely undoing you- the high only added to the sensation, making it that much better. your hips bucked under the skillful work of his soft tongue as ethan let you ride out your high on his face.

ethan dropped a gentle kiss on your clit before peppering your entire body with them, giggling at the way you squealed. he finally attached his lips to your neck, your jaw, back to your lips. you kissed him hard, tasting yourself off of him. finally, when your exhaustion won out you pulled away, running your hands through ethan’s fluffy hair.

“how was that?”

you propped yourself up on your elbows, pecking ethan’s lips. “so, so good,” you mewled between heavy breaths. ethan bit down on his lower lip and smiled, pride filling his system.

“god, you look good moaning my name. you're beautiful, you know,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. ethan looked at you with a tenderness in his eyes, placing another kiss on your lips. “think you can go again?”

ethan started trailing down your body again, not waiting for an answer. he was laser focused on pleasuring you, making you whine and whimper for him- only for him. before he could get far, though, you were grabbing at his arm and shaking your head. he flushed, peeling away from you while starting to profusely apologize, but you pressed a finger to his lips.

“want you. inside of me,” you explained between pants, still exhausted from the first round of stimulation. ethan threw his head back, swearing.

“jesus christ, y/n. need me that bad, baby?”

his choice of words drowned you in desire, and you were all his. “yes. please, ethan?”

he wanted to fuck you until all you could do was moan his name just like that, over and over again. before you could process what was happening ethan had his hands all over you, roaming your body as he practically drooled at the sight before him: your already fucked out body, the sweet look painting your face, begging for him. ethan could barely control himself, his words coming out as rough murmurs.

“protection? i mean, i have it.”

you bit at your lip, hard. you were on birth control, and you wanted him- all of him.

shaking your head, you explained. “birth control. we’ll be fine, if you’re comfortable.”

you jumped as ethan moved a finger to your entrance, dipping into your sex. he groaned at the way you clenched around the appendage, his cock jumping in his boxers. “want my cum inside you?”

“yes- fuck, ethan, please,” you begged, reduced to nothing. all you wanted; all you needed was him inside you, ruining your body until you couldn’t take anymore pleasure.

“so tight,” he mumbled, lining another finger up. you bucked your hips, the sensitivity almost too much as he stretched you out, watching the way your face contorted under his influence. ethan placed a large hand low on your abdomen, applying light pressure. “if you can’t take this, you won’t be able to take me.”

you nodded, pace almost desperate for him to continue. “feels good baby. so good.”

you took note of the pleased expression that stretched over ethan’s face as you praised the boy- you were just telling the truth, but clearly he liked to hear what a good job he was doing. ethan brought his thumb up to your clit, rubbing tight circles on the bundle of nerves and you grabbed at his wrist, nails digging into skin.

“gonna make me cum again,” you warned, but ethan only smiled at you, nodding almost condescendingly.

“wanna finish on my fingers, pretty girl?”

you wanted to say no, wait to come undone around him, but his movements felt too good. you dug your nails into his arm even harder, your other hand clawing into ethan’s soft sheets as the knots in your stomach came undone, your walls contracting around his fingers tight enough to make him moan.

ethan let his pace slow, extending your orgasm as you practically rode his hand, crying out in absolute euphoria as he increased pressure on your clit. unable to form words, you released your grasp on the boy’s arm, bringing your hand up to his face instead. you pulled ethan’s lips down to meet yours, whining at the feeling of his clothed cock grinding against your center.

ethan couldn’t take it anymore, quickly ridding himself of the soft sweatpants. you watched as his manhood sprung up, hitting his abdomen; the sight in and of itself enough to make you let out another bliss-filled noise. ethan let his eyes fall to yours as he stroked himself, shuddering at the heavenly friction. again, his voice came out low as he lined himself up with you.

“sure?”

far beyond words, you nodded and laced your fingers through his.

ethan returned your grasp with a sweet squeeze, gliding the tip of his cock through your folds- coating himself in your arousal. the two of you moaned in sync; a sweet, satisfied sort of harmony. finally, ethan pushed into you slowly, gasping at the feeling. you couldn’t help the way your eyes rolled back into your head, the feeling of him inside you almost too much.

“you okay?”

“so good,” you breathed, trying not to yelp at the feeling spreading through your lower body. ethan was well endowed- the biggest you’d ever taken- and it was an addictive sort of pain. he moved slowly, stopping a few times; allowing you to adjust around his length. when he’d bottomed out, ethan let his head fall back, groans escaping his throat.

“so fucking tiny,” he gasped, a groan cutting his statement off. “feel so good around me, gorgeous.”

you nodded at him, trying your best to meet ethan’s eyes as you praised the boy. “so fucking big- you feel so good,” you whined, your hips bucking. “want you so bad.”

a breathless laugh escaped ethan’s lungs as he maneuvered a hand behind one of your thighs, lifting your leg to hook over his shoulder. he pushed even deeper into you and black spots began to crowd the sides of your vision, the pleasure overwhelming. slowly, ethan started to pull out of you, eliciting filthy words and moans from you before he slid his length back in.

“fucking hell, y/n. so tight,” he said, voice tipping up into a whimper at the end. he quickened his pace, the noise of sleeping skin filling the room. you could barely contain yourself, no longer fighting the stream of murmurs and swears leaving your lips as ethan continued to pump in and out of you. your next orgasm was already building, the coils tightening rapidly in your lower belly.

ethan let his hand wander down to your sensitive bud, almost coming undone at the sight of your eyes fluttering shut. you traced up his forearm, scraping at his sweet skin before knotting your fingers in his hair, tugging at the roots.

“eyes open, baby. look at me.”

you could’ve cum then and there, the instructions only turning you on further. you forced your eyes open, meeting his as ethan sped up again. an almost animalistic noise left your throat as ethan thrusted into you roughly- you weren’t going to be able to hang on much longer. ethan felt the way your walls were clenching around him, fluttering and tightening as he increased his speed on your clit.

“close?” he asked, unable to say much more than that. your grip around him was euphoric- he was closer than he’d like to be. it hadn’t been more than 20 minutes, but with the way you were pulling at his head, almost crying in completely bliss, ethan wanted to fill you to the brim with his cum then fuck it into your sensitive pussy, overstimulating the sweet flesh.

you nodded, humming a small “mhm,” as you looked at him with wide eyes. ethan paused for a moment, shifting your leg up even higher onto his shoulder before plunging back into you. you felt the head of his cock hit a new, even more delicious spot and you became almost delirious. looking at him with furrowed eyebrows, you felt a tear crawl down your cheek.

“gonna cum, ethan-”

“fuck- me too. let go, baby.”

your entire body seemed to shake and shudder under the force of your orgasm- it hit you like a fucking train. you felt ethan’s thrusts get sloppier as he buried himself inside you, his head dropping to the crook of your neck. he whimpered as he shot his cum deep into your pussy, the sensation all consuming. the two of you stayed like that for a while- riding out your highs with each other, rough moans turned to honey-sweet mewls.

as your heart rate started to come down, you peppered the boy's face with soft, careless kisses: ones that he gladly returned. ethan finally found your lips, pressing tender, long kisses to the swollen skin.

“you’re a fucking god,” you murmured, stressing the word as ethan’s face flushed even hotter than it already had been.

“that,” he huffed, breathing still hard and uneven, “would be you.”

you giggled at the statement, your voice hitching as ethan slowly pulled out of you. you could feel a mixture of him and you spill out, the substance flowing over your things as ethan kissed down your body, taking in the sight between your legs.

“so pretty, baby,” he whispered, sinking a long finger into your pussy. your whole body spasmed at the feeling, completely overstimulated. ethan pulled out of you softly, watching the way his cum seemed to spill out of you endlessly. he placed small, delicate kisses to the marks he’d left covering your thighs, admiring his work. “can i keep you here for the night?” he asked, eyes turning affectionate.

you nodded at the boy as he came back up to meet your lips, then your forehead. as you settled onto his chest, drawing lazy patterns on his skin, ethan's voice seemed to return to normal.

“such a good girl.”

#ethan nestor #crankgameplays #crank gameplays #smut #ns/fw #ask #anon #request #writing #blurb #fic #college au #ethan #nestor #starlight-writes-stuff #aight thats it #love u drink water

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barnesandco · 4 years

Text

White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem.

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder.

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

---

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over - and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room.

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes.

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh.

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart.

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming. And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him. He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @readerandcinephileingeneral @stevieboyharrington @notsomellowmushroom @veganfangirl5 @mood-pancakes @lbuck121 @redhairedfeistynerd @geeksareunique @murdermornings

#ayesha writes #SSB2020 #bucky barnes #sam wilson #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky #fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #fanfic

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rcl-stan · 4 years

Text

so a while ago in my theater kid percy post i mentioned something about how drumline percy was a topic for another day well today's the day

snare or tenor can't decide

nvm tenor captain

would debate doing drumset in pit or drum major senior year but never ends up switching

stick flips/twirls/tricks of any kind

drums on everything

everything

let's be real he'd smoke weed

ok maybe not bc of his trauma with gabe being drunk a lot but it's kinda a drumline thing (at least at my school 😷)

everyone always wondering how he never gets tired after working out/carrying a heavy ass drum for hours under the hot sun

tank tops during band camp

everyone wondering about his scars

"sorry can't train today i have band"

he probably would've started out as like a sax in middle school

did bass guitar in pit freshman year

he'd have a farmers tan line from both camp and band

he would've tripped over an instrument in the grass he couldn't see over his drums at least once

water breaks >>>>

is super nice to freshmen

like, the upperclassman every freshmen likes because he's so nice and makes them feel welcome, no matter what section they're in

he's that one bitch that's always chewing gum bc "its percussion so it doesn't matter" (aka me)

has tripped over his own shoelaces while marching

a lot

never uses hand/stick tape

dci. he'd do dci drop some you think he'd be in in the comments/reblogs/tags

#soel.txt #pjo/hoo #percy jackson #riordanverse

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bomberqueen17 · 4 years

Text

pullets

I have a pocket full of black and white striped feathers, that I picked up from where they’d been shed, finding them in the dusk in the short trampled-down grass.

They’re going to transition the laying flock over from the various commercial egg-production hybrid breeds to a heritage breed, Barred Rocks, which are a black and white striped, very lovely old breed, heavy-bodied and sturdy and reasonably good at egg production. So, to that end, they bought day-old chicks in the spring, and have been raising them, first in a brooder, now on pasture for some weeks.

But now we need the pasture pens for meat chickens, because we need to repurpose one of the chicken pasture pens to accomodate the turkeys, so the pullets, as those chicks now are (pullet meaning immature hen that’s not laying yet), are going into the Turkaboose, the repurposed hay wagon we used for turkeys last year that the turkeys... didn’t fit in very well. (So named because it kind of looks like a caboose... kind of. Listen we’re not like, Shakespeare here.)

So we had to get the pullets out of the pasture pens and into the Turkaboose. And the way to do this, because you can’t really super-effectively herd chickens, particularly not really active ones like young Barred Rocks (who can sort of more or less fly, a bit), is to hand-carry them a few at a time, and the way to do this is to do it in the dark, when they’re asleep.

Well, they weren’t asleep. We got up there after sundown but before last light, and they were still awake and clucking at us. As it got dark, their resistance got less effective, but only because they could no longer see us. They weren’t really asleep, though they weren’t... as alert.

Another fact about chickens, besides that they can’t see at all in the dark, is that if you hold them upside-down they sort of faint. So the way you move chickens is that you scoop them up, flip them upside down, and hold them by one knee joint between your fingers; you can get three or four of them in each hand this way, if you’re good at catching them.

I discovered that while yes, many of them will in fact go woozy and unresisting if you do this, some of them will flap and do anything they can, curling up to keep their heads upright and flapping and fighting you. So I tended to be able to carry only three or four chickens at once, and sometimes I did so by trapping their wings against their bodies and holding them under my arms. Sometimes I’d have two hanging from their legs between my fingers, one shoved under my elbow, and one clutched in my whole other arm shrieking the whole way.

The upside-down ones, I’d gently lay them down into the hay in the Turkaboose, and often they’d just lie there, as if dead, and sometimes I really worried i’d hurt them, but on my next trip they were always gone, righted and scrambled away into the safety of the Turkaboose and its roosts. (”You really can’t hurt them,” VM said, reassuringly, “not like that.”)

One time I went to pick one up from the pasture pen and i thought it was dead, squashed against the wall of the pen by a crush of the others, lying in a sad little heap with its head under it. Sadly I turned it over, meaning to at least take it out and put it on the tractor. As I got its foot in my hand it squawked and leapt up to try to fly away, but fortunately I didn’t lose my grip.

So, we did it; six of us moved about 300 pullets into the Turkaboose, listening as we did to the live music coming from the bar down the street and echoing along the curved bank of the Poestenkill. It sounded like maybe a bad Eagles cover band...but it’s hard to fairly assess a band by how it sounds echoing off a river bank into a field. We did think the neighboring houses must have thought us insane, shadowy figures in the dark and chickens screaming and the bass thumping from down the street. At least nobody called the cops. It’d be hard to explain to the cops just what you thought was going on. Yes, many of the chickens are pastured *right* by the road; they’re protected from theft by animals by the electromesh fence, and protected from theft by humans solely by the fact that there’s not a lot of demand for stealing half-grown chickens alive and screaming. Also, the neighbors have a darn good view of it (and there aren’t any roosters in those batches, so it’s not that loud, and they’re moved often, so it doesn’t smell too bad), but as we discovered, they wouldn’t interfere after dark if someone ... came... with a crew... and a tractor... to... ok yeah it was obviously us the whole time. (Also we left the Turkaboose right there when we were done; the tractor (being the fancy new one) has lights but why move it in the dark when it doesn’t matter, the chickens won’t need to be in their new pasture until morning.)

This winter the pullets will have to be moved from the Turkaboose into the greenhouse side of the livestock barn, so we’ll have to do the same thing again, but I think the Turkaboose will be easier to unload than the pasture pens, which you sometimes have to crawl in. (No, they’re not the old Salatin-style pens anymore, thank heavens.)

#farm life #chickens #chickenkeeping

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

Text

III. On the road, and off the road

Summary: The three of you travel to Cincy where they find out a lot more about your family. Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes A/N: Uh hu h uh uh u huhuhh whaaaaat is happening??? Seriously though, there will be a short angsty segment soon, and then we can get back to the tomfoolery. XX

Foot in Mouth Syndrome Masterpost

A heavy weight on your stomach wakes you up the next morning. Buckeye has climbed onto the couch and over your body, placing his chin right on your sternum. His tail whacks against your propped-up foot as you begin to stir, and he plants a wet good morning kiss with his nose right over your mouth.

“Ah!” You cry, wiping it off with the back of your hand, “Geez!” He does it again and you can’t help but laugh, even though it’s cold and slimy. He looks pleased as punch as he flops his head back on your chest and stares lovingly into your eyes. Yes, you think, only an animal can love you in the morning. Eye crusts, dragon breath, and all. Stupid big-ass dog makes you soft and gooey.

“C’mon. Off.” You pretend to be annoyed and he slides onto the floor with a whine and follows you into the restroom as you brush your teeth.

Taking in the damage to your apartment— which is none at all, you figure it ended well last night. There’s a memory of you throwing vodka at Tinder-Date-Dickhead and then taking an Uber home. Good call on not driving, you pat yourself on the back and take Bucky outside.

Three alerts are on top of the speech bubble when you get a chance to look at your phone afterwards. Natasha. Steve.

Nat: Sunnywaters?

You heave a sigh and reply: Dude stop threatening me.

Then, you open the other message.

Steve: You up? Buck and I are packing— swimsuits? Yes or no? Also Cincinnati has its own Coney Island… ha ha ha very funny. I bet it stinks compared to the [1/2]

Steve: “real” Coney. Do your parents know we’re coming? I’d hate to intrude. [2/2]

You punch the green call button and rush back inside, scaring Buckeye a little with your sudden frantic movements.

“Good morning!” Steve’s voice sounds like a firecracker. And then he’s popping off in your ear, “Did you get my messages? Bucky and I are happy to stay in a hotel or something – called aerobean? Renting a house? I’m not really sure how that works.”

“It’s called airbnb, you fossil.” You respond off-handedly before catching yourself. “Stop, stop, why are you going to Cincinnati? And what about my parents?”

“You invited us. Are we leaving … today?”

Your face drains completely of color when it hits you— a nebulous and dizzying baseball bat swing to the temple. Last night crashes back into your mind: Steve, looking down, patting sympathetically. Two arms— turning you protectively until the room is sideways. You remember the way the blanket was tucked under your chin and around your shoulders.

“…Did you— did you t-tuck me in?” You ask hesitantly. Steve makes a negative grunt on the other line.

“Buck did that. He said he thought you’d get cold.”

“Oh…. Kay….” You whisper. “Uh. How set are you on Cinci?” You cross your fingers and hope he’ll back out purely based on how pathetic you sound. “It’s a ten-hour drive, dude. You guys okay with that?”

“Sure!” Steve chirps back. “We’ll take turns driving. Although Buck’s kind of a wheel-hog. Gets nervous when he’s not in charge.”

In the distance, you hear Bucky protest and it makes your mouth go dry.

“Uh. Okay. I usually leave early so… meet me here at six tomorrow.”

You hang up and bang the back of your head against the wall. The baseball bat of memory swings again.

You think you might faint because you start to recall last night: the metal hand lifting your head and placing the pillow under your hair. You even remember telling Bucky you loved him? It’s bewildering because you certainly do not love him. What was that thing that T-Pain said again? Your heart squeezes in your chest as you search around frantically for some scapegoat. Ah—yeah, T-Pain famously warbled: Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-cohol.

Your body flies over the outfield and into the bleachers before crashing. It’s the most agonizing homerun.

Steve, you think, is probably the one skipping past bases and winking. Somehow, this is all his damn fault.

—

Buckeye scoots around the back of your car, shifting so his weight lands primarily on the cushiony bed. His head is laid gently on Bucky’s thigh, who lost to rock paper scissors and must get squished in the backseat. Lucky for him, you pack lightly, and your legs are much shorter than Steve’s. Unlucky for you, that means he’s right behind you, radiating the heat of a thousand terrifying and silent suns.

It’s been thirty minutes since you started driving. Every time you look into the rear view, Bucky’s blue eyes look back. At this point, you have no idea if any cars are behind you because you will not let yourself look again.

“This is nice.” Steve says breezily, commenting on the silence. You had barely spoken to them when they arrived, instead busied yourself with playing Tetris with your luggage and theirs as well as the fabric box of Bucky’s--- BUCKEYE’s things. God damn it.

“Love it when it’s quiet. Nothing but the road and--” Steve continues.

“Oh, shut up!” You and Bucky reply in unison. You glare up into the mirror. Bucky glares right back. The embarrassment of last night snuffs itself out. Love? In this motherfucker’s dreams.

To your side, Steve stares out the window to hide his smirk.

—

The music of your so-called Driving Playlist bumps through the car speakers. You’ve been subjecting them to your chaotic tastes for the last hour. Every new song is jarring and different than the one before it. There’s Christmas carols. Frenetic Japanese electropop. Incredibly explicit gansta rap. Something else sounds like a broken harmonica for eight whole goddamn minutes. Inexplicable genres and band names. In the middle of a warbly bass line and shrieking synths, you explain that this track is from a “witch house" group you particularly enjoyed as a young girl.

The terms “witch house” and “young girl” so close together makes the both of them shudder. Steve is petrified at the end of each song because the next one always seems to be worse. Bucky squeezes his face between two fully stuffed bags and groans as loudly as he can.

You stop to get gas and Steve walks Buckeye around the perimeter of the station. Bucky comes out from the sliding doors holding three Gatorades and cold brew coffee.

“Drink up.” He commands, flinging a pink bottle at you. “My turn to drive.”

You shake the nozzle when it clicks off and roll your eyes. “No way.”

“You can’t even see over the steering wheel.” You flip him off and silently mock him, rolling your eyes and scrunching up your nose. Then, you replace the nozzle and head inside to use the restroom, flipping him off another time for good measure.

“Don’t! Even!” You threaten behind your shoulder. But of course, by the time you’re halfway to the door, he’s already slid in the driver’s seat.

—

The only way you would stop bitching is if Bucky let you pick the music. So, the cord remains faithfully attached to your phone. And that dreaded playlist.

---

An hour later, your leg bounces from the back, knocking your knee into Steve’s seat. You’ve had to piss like a racehorse for the last twenty minutes and you feel like a fucking water balloon, about to pop. Steve turns around, elbow on the center console and quirks an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yessssss..” you could probably weep right now. No. No thinking of tears because tears are water. No fucking water.

“You’re shaking my seat pretty rough.” Steve accuses.

“You have to go again, don’t you? Jesus, what are you, four?” You’d think about how much you hate him but your bladder requires way more attention right now. This is the best posture you’ve ever had in your entire life. Your back is straight and you’re arching forward slightly—anything to relieve the pressure.

“I’m—- Ugh!” You shriek as the car runs over something and the entire thing rocks up, kicking a sharp jab into your lower abdomen. A wave of chills runs over your arms. “Oh no…” You whisper. Buckeye perks up and begins to sniff around, investigating your concern.

“Maybe I peed a little.” You admit sheepishly, squeezing your thighs together as well as your eyes.

“The next stop isn’t for another half hour…” Steve laments.

“Dirty Keanu Reeves over here gave me Gatorade!” You shake the bottle between them, 32 empty strawberry-flavored sugar-free ounces in all it’s glory. Even the wrapping has been peeled off. Steve sends the both of you a reproachful glare.

“I didn’t think she’d guzzle the whole damn thing!” He chooses to ignore your new nickname for him. He doesn’t even know who Keanu Reeves is. It’s a shame, really.

“Oh please stop arguing please pull over I swear I’ll piss in the forest I don’t care please.” Your words are running together like a waterfall. No. Not a waterfall. Oh god, you think, do not imagine any waterfalls. Bucky flips the blinker on and checks his blind spot before navigating to the right carefully. He puts on the hazards and stops your car—half on the emergency lane and half in the grass. Outside the window is about 200 feet of wildflowers before it turns dark with thick trees.

He turns and takes Steve’s place in-between the cloth seats. “There you are, princess. Pop a squat. Or stand. Just fucking hurry.”

“If I had a dick, Barnes, it would be way bigger than yours.” You push Bucky out of the way and wiggle until you can reach the glove compartment, elbowing Steve’s face in the process. There, your fingers yank a few tissues smushed into the corner of the dusty slot and you bolt. Oh sweet six-pound-and-four-ounces Jesus Christ you’ve never been so happy to piss in the woods.

Steve pats Bucky’s thigh as they watch you shred through the white and orange stalks, ripping a path through the peaceful country green. “Nah, Buck.” He smiles, “You’re pretty big.” Bucky slams the back of his head into the seat and lets out a long-suffering groan.

When you come back you fly into the car and moan happily. Bucky turns around to give you a snarky comment, but you hiss at him like an angry wildcat. “Saw a dead possum in the woods, man.” You say, “Looks just like you.”

—

Both you and Steve are asleep, along with the dog. It’s been a little over an hour now. The Captain reclines in the passenger seat, sunglasses on. You’re pitched over Buckeye, head resting on your splayed arm. The three orders of family-sized burger meals knocked you out first, then Steve. There’s hardly any room in the car for the enormous amount of trash that entailed, but you made do with the space next to your leg and stuffed the bag between you and the door.

Bucky slurps his coffee and drives in silence, frowning when the idea that he misses your bullshit finds him.

—

“God, can we listen to anything else?” Bucky grumbles when some mindless tune comes back on. You smile because Rebecca Black’s “Friday” is your goddamn jam. It’s the single best song to piss off any living person or animal and you embrace it whole-heartedly.

You let Steve browse the rest of your selection, waiting patiently for the inevitable—

“What is this?” He yelps. “Gay for Jesus?” His fingers continue to scroll, “What kind of playlist names are these? Sad n Sexy Santa? Who’s got the Biggest Dick in Baseball?” You’re cackling madly. It doesn’t stop there. “Fingerblast Fest of 2017?”

“What does that even mean?” Bucky mutters.

“Made it for a lesbian couple. Anniversary present.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up with confusion and you enlighten him by leaning forward and thrusting two fingers back and forth so vigorously his seat shakes like an industrial-sized dryer set on high.

“Oh fuckin’ A!” He cries, jerking his head away from your hand. Steve turns red as a beet. “Okay, new rule...” he sighs, turning your phone over on his lap, “Do not ask about playlist names.”

Traffic has clogged up the highway. It’s deadlocked and immobile, stuck in the middle of a big city—all smog and industry. There’s not even good scenery to look at. You are buried in-between the pages of a book, taking advantage of the stillness by reading as much as you can. After this, you’ll have to brush up on your Latin, too. Then Greek. It’s annoying, but at least you don’t have to do another summer immersion program somewhere in bumfuck Florida this year.

A folky tune comes on and it’s a welcome reprieve. Bucky and Steve look up when you start humming along, voice coming out to follow the melody.

“Didn’t know you could sing.” Steve comments.

“Habeo multum talenta.” You reply—brain tuned to Latin. It makes them both wonder what else you can do.

Two hours left to go before the three of you reach your destination. You’ve switched out with Steve, who begrudgingly sits in the back, legs pushed up nearly to his chest while you stretch up front, cracking your back every which way. Bucky has refused to move from the driver’s side.

The music halts for a couple of hours while conversations meander. All sorts of subjects are breached now that there is nothing else to do but talk. The last two months of knowing them, although made you more comfortable, didn’t quite allow you to learn as much as this single car ride has. Most of what you could understand from them was made through your own observations, but now they are more or less open books.

Sometimes, the words hang heavy in the air— old, bulbous and dusty ornaments they polish for you. Steve talks about the war. Bucky does too. You have lots of questions on your end and they illuminate all of them with personal spotlights.

Sometimes, it returns to the playfulness you are used to.

Steve vomited on the cyclone. Bucky lost three dollars trying to win a bear for a girl. You tell him you blew through thirty-five dollars on a crane machine once (for yourself) and the two of you share a moment of solidarity together. Although, it’s hard for you to imagine him as some flirtatious young man and Steve can see it on your face.

“New gal every two weeks.” He informs.

“Were there even that many women in Brooklyn?” You gasp, scandalized.

“They came from all over to get a look at Buck.”

Bucky only rolls his eyes, but you see a smile tug on the other side of his face.

“What was wrong with them?” You whisper on-brand with your usual self, but the memory of his laughter by your front door glows rosy in your mind. Yeah, you can see how girls would get themselves in a tizzy for him. Winter Soldier with his mask on hardly turned heads as much as Captain Adonis America, but if you take a second to look at him, it’s easy to see how built he is. Like a Greek statue. Even his aura is enthralling—a bit secretive, a little dark. He could definitely use that to his advantage.

The smile grows into an almost feral grin—there's that aura, you think. “You haven’t seen nothin’ yet.” He nearly growls.

You sit back and pretend to busy yourself with petting Buckeye because the pink crawling up your neck is about to choke you blue.

Bucky pulls off the familiar highway, drives a distance down the curved road next to the river and you lean back, breathing in that familiar fishy and slightly sickly sewage air.

“Aw yeah. Welcome to Cincy.” You laugh. Steve ducks his head to watch the scene, squinting at billboards and watching houses whiz by.

“What’s Skyline Chili?” He asks as the car zooms by an advertisement. A questionable pile of shredded cheese overtakes the (apparently) chili and hot dog on the otherwise blue sign.

“Depending on your taste, either the best or worst thing you’ll ever eat.” The smile on your face widens when he furrows his brow. “Oh, my sweet summer child... you’re in for a treat.”

Your neighborhood comes into view and you wistfully stare at the immaculate paved roads, manicured wide green lawns, blonde-haired moms pushing baby strollers, and dogs trailing behind them on loose leashes. Buckeye pads around as much as he can in the back, stepping over your lap repeatedly as he begins to recognize where he’s at.

“Pretty nice neighborhood.” Steve comments, making a slow turn. The GPS pulls him into a driveway leading up to your parent’s ranch-style home. They both whistle at the garden in bloom and the cobblestone path. You point him to pull around to the garage where your father’s Benz is parked. The old willow tree hangs over it, weeping petals and leaves on the windshield.

“Holy shit.” Bucky mutters at how the rosebushes and magnolia pots wrap even around the side and the back. The deck is littered with more flowers and potted plants. A stained glass table. Even the outdoor chairs have beautiful plush cushions. There seems to be a room underneath the slope of the yard—perhaps a basement transformed into a living space. Everything matches perfectly. “You do have money.”

You sigh.

“It’s not my money. It’s my parents’.” The scathing and bitter tone makes him frown, but you hop out anyway, slinging two bags over your shoulder and nudging Buckeye into the yard. Your dog happily pounces all over the greenery, chasing butterflies and barking.

“You sure they’re ok with this?” Steve asks carefully.

You nod, “There are lots of perks to being the prodigal son. Daughter, in my case.”

“Thought you had a dick.” Bucky sneers.

“Get with the times, old man. Gender is an illusion.”

—

The house is empty. You lead them through the front door and into the hall where it branches into three areas. There’s a railing and staircase that leads down, but for now they take in the sights on this floor. The first step points straight to the dining room where the table is already lined with china and perfectly arranged. Silk napkins. Crystal glasses. Delicately carved mahogany display cabinet.

On the right is the living space and kitchen where the color scheme turns to a pale aqua, cream, and gold accents. Two scooped leather seats face the flat screen, flanked by built-in shelves filled with books. There is also a small couch and a seafoam armchair and matching ottoman. The coffee table is a gorgeous marble, flecked with gold.

They turn and look down the other way, noticing a large mirror entombed by a heavy decorated frame in between two doors. The walkway continues right and disappears even further down.

You stare at them. They stare back.

“Please don’t.” You beg, dropping your bags with a heavy sigh; this is why you didn’t want them coming. You hate it when people comment on your parents’ house. And they haven’t even seen the pool or tennis court. Or the downstairs living area with the grand piano your fingers nearly bled all over from countless hours of practice. Or the family oil painting you sat for when you were a kid. Fuck.

“I fucking hate it.” Bucky says nonchalantly. “Gaudy shit. Too big. This place haunted?”

You could leap into his arms if they weren’t carrying his bag and your dog’s stuff. Instead, you settle for a genuine smile, all warmth and radiance because you feel it in your heart—the appreciation for his understanding wrapped in snark. “Now we’re talking. C’mon. Let’s go downstairs. You guys can stay in my childhood bedroom.”

They finally drop their bags on the bay window seat in your old room after you unlock it. It’s always been like this— and you never let your parents come in. You open the middle of the window and let the room air out a little and the afternoon light pours in. Your old pictures are still on the shelves. Trophies. Music books. Your suede riding helmet, too. They wander around, peering at the images.

“Where are your parents?” Steve asks.

You shrug and plop down on the king-size bed out of habit, lying back with your legs dangling off the edge. Buckeye hops on with you and pads around a bit before he settles into a bagel-like swirl of a shape. “Ibiza. Dubai. Paris. Virgin Islands. Take your pick. My dad has property in all of them.” You message him anyway. You’re not surprised they’re gone for the summer. You don’t really come back for them; you mostly come back to get away from Manhattan.

“Wow.” Steve mutters.

“He even owns part of a mountain in Colorado. It’s vile. Historically, we’re from Ohio… ugh. I don’t want to talk about it.” You feel like a child again, and being in this space doesn’t help.

Steve examines the paintings in the room and flips through scattered books on the work desk. Bucky trails around your bookshelves, looking at the frames, picking some up here and there to examine what’s inside. “Who’s this?”

Peeking up you blow a pppffbbfbfbt breath of air out between your lips. It’s you, duh. Except your hair is perfectly curled and piled atop your head— a bird’s nest cushion for a sparkly tiara. Your eyes are piled heavily with so much eyeshadow and lash extensions it looks like an ombré spider web, and you’re wearing a low-cut dress swirling with rhinestones. Across your torso is a sash. Yep. Homecoming Queen. You’re pressed up against your date, all smiles, sharp cheeks, shoulders so thin he can see your skeleton jutting out. Over ten years ago, you were a much different person.

“Laugh it up, Barnes.” You mutter. “Thas ya girl, sweet sixteen, massively underweight, and aspiring to be the shiniest trophy wife of them all.”

“Why would I laugh?” He asks, suddenly solemn. Bucky turns to look at you, sprawled out on the bed, sardonic smile plastered to your face. “You don’t look very happy.” He still has the picture in his hand. Steve has paused, too, closing a heavy leather-bound first edition. Being caught in the middle of two concerned stares makes you heavy with anxiety and dread. Instead of spending another second under their gaze, you shoot up and motion for Buckeye to follow.

“Don’t be fucking weird, man.” Then, you’re already up the stairs.

Steve and Bucky glance at each other and Bucky places the picture back on the shelf.

—

In the downstairs living space next to their room, you pour three glasses of thirty-year-old single malt whiskey from the cabinet and plop down on the piano bench. The boys sit on the couch and regard you curiously as you open the cover and stare at the ivory keys. Your foot stomps on each of the paddles underneath vengefully. Then you tip your head back, whiskey along with it, and slam the cover shut with a trembling crash. “Fuck you, Mozart.” You whisper, as if the piano can hear.

You peek downstairs after your bath and call, “Hey! My parents use a water softener so if you feel slimy… it’s normal.” The whiskey has made you flush with excitement and volatile energy.

Steve’s head pops out from the bathroom doorway, neck and chest red from the heat. “Oh, thank God.” He says, “Buck’s been scrubbing for hours.”

“Who the fuck would do this!” Bucky’s voice echoes from the same tiled space. You can practically see it shooting out from the room behind Steve’s shoulder to crash into the adjacent wall like a comic panel.

The towel on top of your head slips and you attempt to grab it quickly, using your other hand to hold onto the knot around your chest. “You guys fucking in there?!”

Steve only grins and sends you a wink, mischievous expression catching you off guard. The towel tumbles down the stairs and your hair slaps itself over your face. The two of you watch the fluffy sheet spread over the bottom of the steps before staring at each other. “You gonna get that?” He asks.

“No.” You reply, abruptly mortified, “It’s yours now.”

Apparently, Steve Rogers has chosen this very moment to make it known that partners is not only platonic in meaning. You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed, because you’ve been harassing them for months about who’s a bottom (you bet all four limbs it’s Bucky), but suddenly the moment is confronting you and all you can do is think about how you’re naked and third-wheeling … in your own damn home. And that maybe you shouldn’t have had all that whiskey.

Captain America rubs the tip of his nose absentmindedly, “You alright?” There is genuine concern in his eyes as he steps out of the doorway and reveals his –NAKED! NAKED!

“No!” You scream, turning your head and hiding behind your outstretched hand. “No! Don’t! You fucking stay there you—Fucking A, Steve!”

He’s not really naked; he’s wrapped hip-down in a towel, but you don’t even want to see the outline of him. As far as you know, he’s a smooth-crotched Ken Doll. Maybe Bucky has like, three dicks. There is so much panic inside of you right now.

The water stops from the shower and rustling is heard as Bucky dries off. You attempt to slowly back up away from the steps and move back into the confines of your own room until your dog springs past you like a loose cannonball and sails downstairs. He banks left into the bathroom and licks a stripe over Steve’s shin before finding his true target: Bucky.

There is tumbling, banging, wincing from you and Steve as Buckeye clobbers his human doppelganger once more. Then, there is yelling and cussing—Steve, moving inside to help, but then more crashing follows before Buckeye tears from the bathroom and up the stairs with two towels clenched tightly in his mouth.

“No…” You whisper, when he drops them at your feet. His tongue flops against his chin and he looks up expectantly, as if you might reward him for his endeavor. Steve’s head peeks out again, and the wry smile he sends your way says: you’re fucked.

Next Chapter

#marvel #mcu #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #stucky x reader #self insert #fanfiction #FiMS

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freewheelshippin · 4 years

Photo

Ranmaru is a musician down on his luck and out of inspiration who got taken in by a sweet old couple running a gardening/flower shop, so while he pulls himself together, he’s grouchily helping out and making bouquets and doling out plant care advice. M is a tattoo artist with not enough clients, confidence in her art, or skills in keeping succulents alive, but maybe the toughie at the store across the street can help her with all three!

and because I’m Like That I got tied up and uh....wrote a little (a lot) of something, focusing on the artistic funk part of the equation. But if you’ll let me have one more indulgence, the headcanon I have is that it eventually Happy Endings into becoming roommates and business partners, starting an indie label to support other artists!!!

anyways here’s this excessively indulgent/serious fic that came outta this LOL

He was here, folded among big green leaves for much longer than he’d intended. The owners heard he was down on hard times and didn’t have a safe place to call home, so he holed up in their guest room. Before he knew it he was stepping in for them at every heavy mulch bag, every wheelbarrow piled high, every crouch that was too much for their aging bodies.

It wasn’t a bad life. It was an improvement, sure. He was alive and fed every day, and he’d never known a home so warm. But it still wasn’t his. He felt like a houseplant, tended to and placed in warm sun, but just as easily fading into the stillness of quiet moments and the background of everyday. He’d never wanted a life like a plant. He hungered deeply even though he was eating regularly again, and he felt more like a bored tiger, pacing in its cage but nowhere to go.

******

He’d been there long enough to start noticing the regulars. The first was that friendly guy who always got idioms wrong and bought the store out of all their cat grass. The second someone was even friendlier, and he’d bug him for what kind of flowers to get a florist. He kept asking even if Ranmaru never gave him an answer past ‘I don’t fucking know’ as he arranged bouquets that used as many herbs and broad, bold leaves as traditional flowers.

The third was someone who looked like she walked in from his past life (or the one he wanted back, anyway). The shaved head, the denim and patches, the ink peeking out from under her sleeves. She was friendly enough but nowhere near as ready to ask for things or will information about herself as the other two regulars, so he only knew her from her purchases and the name on her card.

It wouldn’t have been remarkable in itself if he weren’t so hungry. He’d burned bridges he shouldn’t have while he was ablaze, and now the only people who thought of him kindly were through this stupidly quaint little shop. He was too ashamed of his bullshit to be ready to show his face in those places right now, but he also craved chasing the stage and the dream he’d stayed alive for.

It was just a made-up story he was attaching to someone, he knew this. Maybe she went home and did everything she could to fade into pleasant background like a houseplant. But he’d rather pretend she went to the shows he wished he were going to, that her fingertips were callused in the places his were going soft, and pretend like he still could smell that stuffy, stale sweat from a venue. Maybe he hadn’t burned it away completely from his life and future.

Occasionally, he still wished he was starving, but he’d bury his hands in mulch and dig space for a new plant before he gave in to dumb thoughts like that.

*****

The first time they had a conversation, it was because she forgot something. A big something, big enough that Ranmaru wondered how someone could have a head on their shoulders but forget this.

It was a long, flat portfolio bag. He flipped through it to figure out what it was and tried to not look past that. It was tempting, though, because the contents made him feel the tiniest bit sated for the first time since he’d started working here.

They were flash sheets for tattoos. It had to be hers, right? There was energy to them that he’d ached for but turned his back from. So when she came back, he brought it up very plainly.

“You forgot something here,” he said when she came up to the counter. He produced the portfolio bag.

“.......Oh.”

“What, is it not yours?”

“No, no, it is! I just didn’t realize I’d even lost it!”

“How the hell did you manage that?!”

“A swiss cheese brain full of holes,” she laughed. “...Also, I’ve been really busy.”

“What would make you so busy you forget a giant stack of art like that?”

“Uh…”

“....Whatever. It’s none of my business.” He started to properly ring her up before something occurred to him. “You bought the same succulent last week,” he commented, furrowing his brow. “And a few other times before. What’s so great about it, anyways?”

She made a face of discomfort and surprise, and he felt the same distant shame that he messed this last (even if imagined) connection to that life, too.

“...maybe you can help me, because I keep killing it.”

“You killed a succulent in a week?!”

“No! I mean. I don’t know, is that even possible?”

“First time for anything,” Ranmaru snorted.

“Okay,” she said, putting hands on the counter challengingly. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not one of those serial plant killers.”

Ranmaru just looked back at her incredulously. “You sure about that?”

“If it’s not a succulent, I know what I’m doing! I got a whole brood of chili plants and herbs and spiderplants…”

“You’re overwatering it.”

“You haven’t even seen the plant.”

“Yeah, I don’t have to. Everything else you mentioned doesn’t shit the bed if you water them too much, and succulents are stupidly sensitive to that kind of stuff. Are the leaves falling off if you barely even poke them?”

“......Yeah…” She looked apprehensive, almost resentful for a moment.

Ranmaru knew he shouldn’t, but he just kept talking. “I can’t tell you what you wanna do with your plants, but it sounds overwatered. Don’t water it at all for a couple weeks. Make sure the drainage is good, repot it if it isn’t. Bring it in if you’re still fucking it up.”

“You sure are rude as shit when a plant buddy’s life is on the line, huh?”

“What’s the point of buying a plant if you’re just going to kill it?! You’re just throwing away your money that way,” he grumbled, embarrassed. Him, caring about plants passionately. That didn’t feel right for his image, but it felt more wrong to just let people uselessly throw away their time and money just to give a living thing no future.

“I mean, I’m also buying dupes right now to spruce up my workspace, it’s not like I just have a graveyard for my cash and failed succulents.”

Ranmaru grunted. “Just bring ‘em in if they’re still giving you trouble. I can give you some cartons to make carrying ‘em easier.”

“Ahhhh, nah, don’t worry about it. I work across the street. It’s no problem.”

“Where?” He had a feeling he knew already.

“Oh, the tattoo parlor. I’m actually headed back there right now.”

“....Guess I could just as easily go over there.”

“Hey, and you could get a tattoo from me while you’re at it!” she laughed. “Here, hold on.” She fumbled a little before handing over her business card. Ranmaru studied it briefly before pocketing it gratefully.

When she tried to hand him money, he held a hand up.

“...Pay when you stop killing ‘em. I should’ve checked in sooner, and you get so much from here already, anyways.”

“...You’re sure.”

“If you feel guilty, then take my advice seriously.”

“....Weird business model, but I like it. I can’t give you a discount on ink, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Hell no. Go back to work. Come back when you stop watering them so much.”

“Alright, fine, fine. You drive a hard bargain,” she said with a laugh, scooping the plant into her hand. “I’ll see you next time I fuck ‘em up some other way.”

She left, and Ranmaru realized she forgot her portfolio bag again.

******

He didn’t do much of anything except sleep, eat, take care of the neighborhood strays, and work anymore, but he thought about practicing bass again. He didn’t have amps, pedals, or much of anything anymore, either sold in desperation or lifted by former bandmembers in spite, but his actual basses he couldn’t let go of. Sentimentality or some promise to himself this arrangement was temporary, he guessed.

He studied the business card a lot. Something about the style of the art on it felt right, beyond it being the dose of the studs, sweat, and tears he missed. He didn’t bother trying to describe it to himself further than that; it just felt right, and that’s all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop him from lying awake in bed, staring at it as he struggled to sleep or get out.

Eventually that led to the temptation of looking through the portfolio more thoroughly. He gave in after washing his hands so thoroughly he wouldn’t get the dirt of potting soil or the grease of human hands on it. Not out of secrecy, more out of respect.

Not all of them were things he’d say he was interested in -- science fiction, cartoons, dinosaurs, other stuff he didn’t recognize -- but so much was riffing on images, bands, lyrics, album covers that built his tastes in rock. Even models of bass guitars he’d tried to save up for, once upon a time. It didn’t match the tattoowork he was used to seeing, the lines and compositions feeling more like they belonged in a comic book or a gig poster.

It felt good. It was a small vision of the kind of future he’d wanted. Art and energy like that, paired with his music. He’d forgotten how the excitement of chasing a good future felt, much less feeling like it was even vaguely within grasping distance.

His eyes fell on an image that wouldn’t leave him. A severed, snarling wolf head, out of which winding leaves and vines and stems grew, blooming into orchids.

*****

She didn’t come back for weeks. He went about this life as usual, but some days he’d find his fingers sliding over the smooth neck of one of his basses, missing their calluses as the strings dug into them. But the motions never left him, at least, and they hit notes like barely any time had passed.

He should give that portfolio back to her already. But he’d found himself looking at its contents more and more when he missed the stage so much he physically ached. He couldn’t be imagining this feeling this art made him have, not after this long.

At one point he made a copy of the wolf with orchids growing out of it. He cut it out, unbuttoned his shirt, taped it over his heart, and looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time since the old couple took him in, he didn’t feel like a houseplant.

*****

He came to the parlor with the portfolio in hand on a lunch break soon after that. She looked uncomfortably unoccupied, her area empty of clients while the other tattoo beds were occupied. He didn’t bother with the receptionist before calling her name. She practically jumped out of her skin from surprise.

He just presented the portfolio bag.

“...Whoops.”

“Do you just not want your art back?”

“...It just slipped my mind.”

Because you’ve been busy, Ranmaru thought to himself as he looked at the empty tattoo bed.

“Did you kill your new plants yet?”

She straightened up and her whole demeanor changed, from the moon to the sun. “Now that I can rub in your face. Look, look, come see.”

She had a small planter of succulents, nestled among spideplants and a red prayer he remembered selling her. The spiderplant and red prayer looked healthy. The succulents didn’t look amazing, but they certainly weren’t on their way to meet their maker.

“Not bad. I’ll rec you some better succulent soil next time you come in. Whenever that is.”

“I figured I’d wait more than one watering cycle before I came in parading like a pageant queen.”

“Too many and I bet you’d be holding another plant funeral,” he said with a wry smile. “But take your shit back already. I’m tired of all your art being at my place where I’m the only one looking at it.”

“...Wait, hold on. Did you look through it?”

“....Sorry. It’s been weeks. I liked your business card and curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh…” She looked not disappointed, just surprised. “So...you mean, like. Thumbing through the pages looking at it, not just staring at the bag look at it.”

“Is it a secret project or something?”

“No, no. Just…” She hesitated. “Some flash sheets that didn’t do well is all.”

“Really?” Ranmaru was surprised. “These?”

“...Yes? Did I forget something else in there?”

“No. Just. Surprised they didn’t do well. I like ‘em. There’s a good energy to them.”

“Well, that makes you the first,” she said with a hollow laugh.

Ranmaru barely considered with his head what he was about to ask. He’d already chewed it over so much and knew in his heart his answer that he didn’t need to hesitate.

“If nobody else claimed it, I want one of them,” he said resolutely. “The wolf with the orchids.”

“...What, like, now?”

“I’m on lunch, I can’t do now. But….when’s the earliest you got?”

She laughed grimly. “When do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“Then I’m available at six.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“...You really want it that bad?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he growled. “I saw it and it felt right, thinking about it on me. Orchids are a part of my name, anyway.”

“....Okay, you know what? Let’s do this properly. We’ll do a consult at six. I’ll edit the design so it’s more personalized to you, then we’ll schedule an actual appointment you’re actually prepped for so you don’t pass out on the table. And don’t -- “ She caught him about to insist before the words could come out of his mouth. “-- I’m sure you think you’re real tough, but you can’t just tough guy your nervous system into taking more pain unprepared.”

“Fine. See you at six.”

Ranmaru wanted to tell her the hurry was less because he thought he could take it, and more because he was so ready to have it on him. He didn’t, though, and just left, head buzzing with hazy, overwhelming excitement he didn’t know how to express.

*************

Consulting with her on the drawing was more fun than Ranmaru had had in weeks, maybe months. She stayed past her coworkers to do the consult, so they had the parlor to themselves to discuss edits. She played doom metal in the background, sludgy and slow enough that they could properly have a conversation, but the energy as she discussed the drawing with him, drew in edits, and made conversation was exhilarating like a concert.

It was so easy to talk. Even if he was short or blunt, it didn’t seem to stop her from continuing the conversation, and every development they pushed it in just felt good. He didn’t feel invaded, but he didn’t feel insignificant, either, and the way the drawing was going, he felt a kind of known he had lacked.

“I still can’t believe you want your first ink on your pec like that,” she remarked as she refined linework. Ranmaru enjoyed watching how her pen moved.

“It’s over my heart. Not just my chest.”

“That’s, uh.” She hesitated before capping the pen. “.......Are you really sure about this?”

“...” Ranmaru felt himself recoil at the thought of telling her the depth of what this drawing made him feel, but he wanted to communicate, somehow, that he couldn’t imagine regretting this. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“.......” She hesitated again. “This isn’t….a pity thing, right?”

The thought to hold his tongue actually managed to occur to him in time. The doubt she expressed pissed him off in so many different ways. That she was unsure enough to tell him, and that it was there to begin with. The thought of throwing away this connection just to be pissed made his stomach twist, and he thought of the person he saw in the mirror with the drawing taped to his chest that first time.

“This isn’t a pity thing,” he said stiffly as he forced his voice down. “....I saw that drawing and imagined myself with it. And I liked that vision of myself more than the current me.”

“Oh god,” she said, her face bright red. “That’s so goddamn deep. My dumb fuckin’ wolf really made you feel that?”

“It’s not dumb!” he barked. “Why’re you calling it dumb to me? I’m about to get it tattooed on me, aren’t I? Be prouder of your work!”

She took a deep breath after a moment of being totally taken aback. “....You’re right. Thanks. I should be more professional about this. So….my absolutely majestic, heaven-sent fuckin’ wolf really made you feel all that?”

Ranmaru felt his mouth crook into a smile. “Yeah. I want it to be mine, and I want that better me to be mine, too.”

She smiled back widely. “I’ll do your tit justice, then.”

***************

The appointment was that weekend. When she pressed the stencil against his bare chest, he felt the hunger in him sated for just a moment. Not in a carnal urge sort of way, but more like the path forward felt brighter. Possible. Changes and connection and a future was possible again. He wanted more ink from her already, but he also wanted it to not just be that. He wanted a friendship.

“Okay,” she said as he laid on the table in front of her. “Ready?”

The whir of the machine and needles started and stirred a nervousness in his gut that he hadn’t expected, and he hesitated and gasped for a sec.

“...You OK?”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just…nervous.”

“Take a deep breath. It’s not too late to rethink or reschedule if you need more time.”

“No.” He was resolute. “I want this.”

She paused. “....I can’t do this the whole time. But just to get you comfortable.”

She offered her left hand to him to squeeze. He hesitated for a moment before taking it, folding each finger over hers. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this.

“...Okay. Deep breath. Let out out slowly…there we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

The needle plunged into him, and while it hurt, he felt excitement and renewal spreading through to his fingertips.

#iron maiden & rocka rolla #florist and tattoo artist au #thank you so much for the ask!!! this was definitely one of the ones i was hoping to get :)#askbox games #scribblings #iron maiden & rocka rolla art

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stardew-vxlley · 4 years

Text

sunkissed

summary: on a warm spring evening, shane helps the farmer and realizes there’s just something about her he can’t quite put his finger on...whatever it is, it makes his heart beat faster

word count: 934

pairings: shane x fem!farmer

warnings: one implication of alcohol

a/n: a cute little short piece that i wrote on a whim

—

There were only a few things in the world that Shane enjoyed. He loved his chickens, and he loved his walk home after working all day at the Joja-Mart. He sometimes took the long way back to Marnie’s ranch, following the stream that led to the sea. On spring nights, he left work at the same time the sun was just beginning to set; the sky erupting into beautiful orange, yellow, and purple hues. This particular spring night, the air was warm and heavy — hinting that summer was on its way. He walked along the gravel road through the village square, hands in his pockets.

Shane wandered along the edge of the stream, listening to the sound of the water babbling along the riverbed. He could see Marnie’s ranch up ahead, but something else in the distance caught his eye and almost made him stop in his tracks.

It was the farmer. She was on her hands and knees at the edge of the dock that stretched out over the lake, her long hair falling in tumbles over one shoulder. Her sunhat was sitting beside her, next to a basket overflowing with salmonberries. As Shane walked closer, he found it was almost impossible for him to rip his gaze from her. Her cheeks were sunkissed, as well as her bare shoulders. She had opted for a green tank-top underneath her usual overalls, and he noticed she was barefoot.

He realized that she looked upset, leaning over the edge of the dock as if she was searching the waters for something. Perhaps she accidentally dropped something important.

Part of him wanted to escape in his room, maybe have a beer or two and play some video games. But the more he stared at the farmer, the more his cheeks gained a pink tinge. He decided to meander over to where she was kneeling, hands still shoved in his pockets.

“Lost something?” he asked gruffly.

The farmer jumped in surprise, her lips forming an “O” shape. She looked at him over her shoulder, brows raised. Shane’s heart did a flip-flop.

“I was going to try and fish a bass up to cook for Jodi and Kent, but it was so strong, it pulled my pole right into the lake,” she explained. “If I could see where it fell, I could swim and get it--but I can’t see it.”

Shane squatted beside her, trying very hard to ignore how close she was to him. Every time she moved, he could smell her--sweet like the salmonberries in her basket, and wild like the forest she foraged in. It was more intoxicating than any drink he’d ever have.

“What does it look like?”

“It’s purple,” she described. “It’s an iridium rod--a gift from Willy.”

“Wow,” Shane was impressed. “Let me take a look.”

He leaned over as far as the edge of the dock would let him, searching the depths. With each passing minute, the sun was setting, the water growing darker and darker.

“It’s alright if you can’t find it,” the farmer said, disappointed. “I’ll just come back at first light when we can see a little bit better.”

“But--the bass you were going to cook,” Shane protested, looking back at her.

“It’ll still be in the lake tomorrow,” she replied cheerfully, standing up and brushing herself off. “Thanks, anyways.”

“No problem,” he said, standing as well. A beat of silence passed between them, and he noticed her basket of berries sitting next to her hat. Shane bent down to pick it up — at the same time the farmer leaned over to pick up her hat. Their heads collided, and they simultaneously jumped back with a surprised, “Ouch!”

The farmer rubbed her head gingerly, and then burst into laughter. “Are you alright?”

Shane was taken aback by her sudden laughter. “Y-yeah, I’m fine--I played gridball my whole life, I’ve got a thick skull...are you alright?”

“I’ll be okay,” she replied, smiling at him. His heart did another flip-flop.

He held out her basket, to which she graciously took. “Thank you,” the farmer said, “and thanks again for trying to help get my fishing pole back.”

“I hope you find it,” he said, shoving his hands back in his pockets.

The sun was setting behind the mountains now. The crickets began to chirp from the tall grass, the lights at Marnie’s coming to life.

“Will you be alright by yourself, getting back to your farm?” he found himself asking.

The farmer waved her hand dismissively, with a grin. “Oh yeah, I’ll be fine--I’ve wandered through these trees at night many times.”

“A-alright,” he stumbled over his words, trying not to stare at her. “Well...have a good night.”

“You too,” she replied softly. With that, she pushed her straw hat back on her head and waved goodbye, basket of berries swinging by her side and her bare feet skipping through the grass.

Shane watched her go, until she disappeared with one last wave into the trees beyond the ranch house. Before he started walking home himself, he turned around and looked into the dark waters of the lake, searching for anything remotely purple. With no luck, he walked back to Marnie’s in disappointment. He wanted nothing more than to get the farmer’s fishing pole back because he wanted to see her beautiful smile light up her face, knowing it was because of him.

As he lay awake in his bed that night, hands behind his head, all he could see in his mind was how perfect she looked--sunkissed skin, freckles on her cheeks, her long, soft hair...Shane knew he was in trouble.

#stardew valley #shane stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #stardew valley fanfiction #shane stardew valley fanfic #sdv #shane sdv fanfic

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sabine-leo · 5 years

Photo

Wingman

Author: @sabine-leo

ONESHOT

Pairing : Tom Hiddleston / OFC (You) - with Benedict Cumberbatch

Wordcount: 3047

Warnings: Slight drunkenness

Genre: Fluff / Humour

Summary: Ben & Tom are having a fun night out. There is only one question Ben can´t get Tom to answer without drinks. WHY hasn´t he asked you out yet?

Note: I have a thing for those two... Comments and reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated! Hope you have fun reading this piece of nonsense!

„There you are! I was looking for you! I´ve got another drink with your name on it!”

Tom turned half way to smile at one of his best friends as the door behind him fell shut again and kept the deep bass and rhythmic music inside the venue. The terrace he stood on lay in darkness, the garden just a shadow under the dark blue night sky. Turning fully to lean against the heavy stone balustrade he took the drink out of Benedict’s hand and grinned a little.

“Had to take a breather. I am starting to feel all the drinks which had my name on them.”

Benedict laughed a deep rumble of a laugh. “You, my friend are out of practice!”

Tom snickered as Ben held up his own glass and said “Cheers!”

After a sip Ben looked at Tom and a hiccup escaped his lips, which made Tom grin broadly.

Making a somewhat hilarious face Ben said. “To be frank…I think I am out of practice too.”

Benedict leaned against the stone next to Tom and lankily threw his arm around his friends’ shoulders. “Tonight, we celebrate. Tonight, we have fun…”

Ben looked into Toms eyes.

“…and tomorrow we will probably have a bad headache!”

They both snorted and downed the rest of the liquid inside their glasses.

Benedict took the empty glass out of Toms hand and shook his head as if he wanted to clear it.

“You want a Thomas, a William or a Tom next?”

Tom groaned. “Which name do I have to say to get a water?”

Benedict laughed. “They all include water…And I don´t think you want me to call you…” He looked like he was thinking hard for a second. “…Penelope…for the rest of the night!”

Opening the door to get back inside Ben grinned and looked into Toms eyes.

“Or should I call you (Y/N)?!”

Tom huffed and kicked himself off of the balustrade. “I take a Tom!”

Benedict bowed. “That´s the spirit! But talking about (Y/N)…What´s it with the both of you?”

“I might need another drink for that!” Tom grinned with a little blush but kept his silence for now.

A little while later in a separated seating area Ben watched Tom with a tad dopey expression on his face. “Seeriouuslyy…Why don´t you ask her out?” He motioned with his hands in the air.

“All that dancing around each other makes me woozy!”

Tom snorted and rubbed his face. “We are not dancing around…I was jus…just…”

Ben interrupted with a grin “To damn shy to speak up! You are a tall, handsome…chicken! That´s what you are!” Tom grunted and pointed at Ben. “…jus…taking it slow. THAT`S what I wanted to say.”

“Slow as a snail? Or a Turtle?...” Ben thought really hard. “…Is there another, even slower animal?”

Tom put down his empty glass with a hard thud.

“Am no chicken!”

“Ohhhh you are!” Ben grinned.

“Nope!” Tom popped the p.

“Prove it!”

Tom looked incredulous at his friend. “What? How? Now?”

“3 excellent questions Williammmm. I might just have the answers.”

Ben held up his fist and opened up a finger with each word he spoke.

“ProveIt!” His thumb came up as he spoke the 2 words as one.

“Phone!” His index finger flipped open.

“YES!” His middle finger joined in on his equation.

Tom rolled his eyes what made him a bit dizzy.

“I have one word as answer for you…and one finger.”

He flipped Ben of with his middle finger adding the word “NO!”

Benedict groaned in exasperation about his obstinate friend but Tom stood abruptly.

“There is noooo way I am doing this over a phone…”

Ben stood up himself as Tom got into motion. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to ask (Y/N) out! Well, I will… but you´ll come with me!”

It did not occur to any of those two that it might be a little late in the night for that…. They have had some Ben, Benedict, Tom, Thomas and Williams too much for that.

Coming home from dinner with 2 of your girlfriends a little later than usual you stayed up a bit longer to enjoy the warm summer breeze on your balcony before heading into bed. It still was so warm that you left open the window to get at least a bit of cooler air inside your warm flat later in the night. The open window let to you hearing a commotion outside at 2 in the morning. Still in a dazed state of waking up slowly you could not think straight at first.

“Ring the bell!” Said one deep voice.

“Noo…” said another a bit higher pitched as if annoyed.

“Told you…chicken!”

“Would you stop the chicken talk. I am no chicken!”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Asked the deep voice with a hint of amusement in it.

“Are you planning on serenading under the balcony?” It added.

“Stop talking for a moment and let me think!”

Now a deep chuckle sounded through the summer air.

“I think we had at least 4 drinks too much to THINK!”

Now both voices were laughing.

You sat up in bed and rubbed your eyes. Those voices seemed familiar. Not bothering to turn the lights on you walked to the window and peeked outside. You strained your eyes as you saw two figures in the shadows. One was sitting on the grass in front of your flat and the other was pacing, a little unsteady, from left to right.

“Oh oh oh ohhhh, throw a rock against her window and quote Romeo and Juliet!!”

The one on the grass was getting onto his knees, holding out his arms and pointing at the balcony.

“Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon…”

A chuckle escaped you, you were pretty sure that this was Benedict and the tall, lean shadow striding towards him looked like Tom.

“Are you mad?” Yep, that was Tom.

“Why? You would not call her; you are not going to riiiiing her bell…what else is left then serenade!?”

Tom pushed against Bens shoulders. Benedict lost his balance and fell backwards into the grass.

“I will not quote Romeo and Juliet!” Tom started to laugh as Ben lay there like a turtle on its back.

“I might have asked that before but WHY?” Ben tried to get into a comfortable position.

“Juliet was 13, Romeo 16 their love lasted 3 days and 6 people got killed!”

“Oh…that slipped my mind!” Ben sounded surprised but started to laugh and grabbed Toms leg, tugged hard.

Tom fell like a chopped tree and after an “Uuumph!” They both started to laugh like maniacs, laying in the grass before your home. You could not hold back your own laughter as you opened the balcony door and stepped out in your oversized sleeping shirt and short pants.

“Having fun down there?” You asked with a grin on your face.

Tom scrambled back to his feet with a lot less elegance than he normally sported. Ben just snorted and sat up. “NOW we are getting to the fun part!”

Tom stood under your balcony and looked up, swaying. “Did…did we wake you?”

Ben chuckled. “Well…DUH…its almost 3 in the morning William!”

Toms eyes got big. He turned to Ben and said.

“Shit! I think we might not have thought that through at all”

Ben managed to hold back his laugh for almost 2 seconds before bursting and making Tom giggle as well. Hiding your own laugh, you stood there and watched to grown, tall, normally eloquent and intelligent renowned actors struggle to keep it together. As if Tom suddenly remembered where he was, he turned back to you and gulped.

“I…” he started and grinned again. “I…I´m SO sorry!”

“For what?” Ben cut in. “For not calling, ringing her bell, waking her up or because you are to much of a chicken to ask her out?”

“Would you shut it! Please!” Tom hissed and smiled back up at you.

“Probably all of that!” He said and took a deep breath.

“(Y/N)…” Tom began but Ben could not keep quiet.

“This whole under the balcony thingy is overrated if you ask me.” He now stood next to Tom and continued. “I mean, the permanent looking up makes me feel funny.”

Toms brows furrowed as Ben braced himself to give Tom a bunk-up.

“Up you go! Look into her eyes not at her damn balcony!”

Tom shrugged and before you could say that this probably was not a very good idea Ben had Tom half way up already. “Oh my god!” You shrieked as Tom clutched to the handrail and stood on Bens shoulders. “Hi!” Tom grinned and aimed one of his megawatt smiles at you.

“GET UP THERE NOW!” Ben huffed from below.

“Oh, yes….of course!”

Tom hefted himself up and somewhat managed to get over the rail, landing on his butt.

This must be a weird dream; this could not be happening for real. Laughingly you held out a hand for Tom and he took it to get up onto his feet. His hair was dishevelled, his glasses sat a little askew on his nose and his shirt had grass stains and dirt on it. But his smile was handsome as always.

“Hi…” he said again and did not let go of your hand.

“Hey Thomas!” You grinned and looked into his blazing blue eyes.

“How can I help you?” You asked with a little laugh.

“You can help me by opening that door! I need to pee!” Ben said a bit to loud from down below.

You started to chuckle but Tom groaned and let his head fall back.

“How am I going to ask her out when you interrupt every time?” He stage-whispered down the balcony. Oh boy! Tom wanted to ask you out? Well, taking their state into account he probably would not have any knowledge of it come morning.

“(Y/N), Darling…” Tom started anew.

“Door! PEE!” Came a deep rumble again.

“Let me open the door real quick!” You said to a devastated looking Tom who just nodded.

Tom followed you inside and got rid of his shoes beforehand. Ben tiptoed on the spot as you buzzed open the door and squeezed himself into your home, beelining it to the bathroom. “THANKS!” He yelled. Turning after closing the door you nearly crashed into Toms broad chest. “Woah!”

He chuckled and grabbed your waist to keep you close.

“Hi!” He grinned again. “I said that already, didn´t I?”

“2 times!” You laughed and stroked down his chest.

“3 times a charm!” He grinned lopsided and watched you intensely.

The bathroom door opened and Ben came out hiccupping.

“You two sort that out! I am taking a nap!” And off he went into your bedroom.

Tom took your hand and tugged you into your livingroom.

“Sort that out, right. Where was I?” He talked to himself.

“Maybe you know after you had a good sleep?” You tried to give him an out.

Tom looked at you and shook his head. “Nooo, I…I really should have asked you a while ago…”

He smiled and took your hands into his but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Oh god, I am a chicken!” He said in horror and let go of your hands.

It took everything you had not to laugh just now. They both were clearly drunk but also very adorable at the same time. You liked Tom, a lot. And the both of you casually hung out with shared friends every now and then. You texted and shared a laugh in between meeting, but never, till now had Tom tried to take the next step. The two of you taking it slow and building a friendship first.

“Why don´t you go and take a look how Ben is doing?” You said lovingly and hugged him once.

“You are not a chicken, Thomas. You climbed up my balcony…” You grinned up to him and he chuckled softly. “I did…” Slowly you let go of him and he went into your bedroom.

“Ben?!” He whispered a bit to loud before you heard your bed give a groan as he probably fell onto it.

Good thing that you had a very comfy sofa that was big enough for you to sleep on…

Some minutes later you tiptoed into the bedroom to get a spare blanket and a pillow out of the closet. You had to clutch a hand to your mouth to keep from laughing as you saw the two men laying face down in your bed, facing each other and snoring softly. Shaking your head, you took the stuff you needed and got comfortable on the sofa.

Somewhere around 9 you sat with a hot cup of tea in your livingroom as you heard a healthy

“WHAT THE HELL?!” coming out of the bedroom.

“Stop spooning me Hiddleston! Where am I?”

A sleepy rumble “What? Ben?” You heard scrambling. “OH MY GOODNESS!”

Chuckling into your tea you watched the corridor with a grin on your face but the men were not yet ready to emerge. “Is this?” Ben whispered.

“(Y/N´S) place…bedroom to be exact….” Tom sounded horrified.

“What did we do??” He asked Ben silently.

“Oh, nothing much! You had a discussion about Romeo and Juliet while laying in the grass, Tom climbed up my balcony standing on your shoulders Ben and then the both of you fell asleep in my bed!” You said loudly from where you were sitting. Enjoying the horrified silence with a grin on your face.

Two minutes later a shamefaced Tom came into the livingroom, looking sheepish and regretful.

“I don´t know what to say!” He started and looked at you.

You laughed and shook your head.

“You don´t have to say anything. It was like a surreal play I got to watch last night.”

Ben came into the livingroom looking equally apologizing.

“I´m so sorry (Y/N)… Please don´t be cross with us!”

“How could I… you have been adorably silly in your drunken state. I don´t think that happens very often with you both being level-headed all the time.”

Ben grinned and hugged you nonetheless in request for forgiveness. Tom followed suit and held on to you a bit longer. Taking a deep breath to start talking he looked at you but Ben, again, interrupted and grabbed him by the waistband of his trousers and said.

“Time to do the walk of shame Thomas!”

“But!” Tom wanted to argue. “Nope, NOW…we have stolen enough time and sleep from (Y/N) as it is!”

The both of them were gone before you could say something. They left you standing there, shaking your head and pinching yourself to wake up from this nonsense of a dream.

Outside Tom looked flabbergasted at Ben. “Why did you do that? I just wanted to ask her out!”

Ben looked at Tom with a drawn eyebrow.

“Really?” he started. “Now? Looking like that? After sleeping in HER bed, drunk, spooning me and with grass stains all over your clothes? NOW you wanted to ask her out?”

Tom gulped and looked down on himself.

“I stand before you corrected.” Ben said. “You are no chicken. You´ve got delusional big balls when you think that THAT was the correct time to ask her out on a date! OR you are still drunk!”

Tom went white as a sheet while Ben spoke and shot him a shocked glance.

“Thank you for stopping me!” He rasped.

Ben snorted and nodded to keep walking. “Let´s go home. I need a shower! And an Advil!”

The day went by as if nothing had happened. You still thought you had imagined all of it but the dirt and the grass stains in your bed told a different story. Getting everything into the washer you went out to get some groceries and enjoyed an otherwise quiet day. At about 7 in the evening you heard a thud against your balcony window. Getting up to see if a bird hat hit the glass, you opened the door and looked around. A laugh escaped you as you saw Tom standing under your balcony and grinning up to you. “Hi!” He said and smiled. “Hi Thomas!” You laughed and leaned a bit over the rail.

“I do have a question that I have to get out before it burns me alive!” he said rather dramatic.

“Do speak, Thomas! I don´t want you to go up in flames!”

Tom chuckled and held up a single (Your favourite flower).

“Would you go on a date with me, (Y/N)…or 2 or 8?!” He shot a lovely and sexy smirk your way.

“Why don´t you come in and I give you my answer eye to eye!” You said with a grin and wanted to go inside to open the door for him.

“Alright, coming!” Tom said and took a start-up to leap up and grab the rail of your balcony. He hefted himself up and elegantly jumped over the rail to stand before you.

“That went better than yesterday!” He grinned and tilted his head.

“You wanted to be eye to eye…here I am. What´s your answer, darling?”

Tom took hold of your hands and smiled hopeful and sweet.

“Yes…” you said with a soft giggle. Tom started to grin bright like the sun and tugged you against his chest into a hug. “Are you kicking me out now or can I tempt you to order in and watch a movie together?” He asked with a longing gaze into your eyes. “As long as this will not count as our first date!” You teased and looked up into his baby blues. Tom chuckled and put a strand of hair behind your ear. “No, it does not count as such. Our first date will be quite romantic!”

Smiling you answered. “Oh, even more romantic than you leaping up my balcony to ask me out?”

Tom chuckled. “Oh yes! But when you put it like that…there is one thing missing right now!”

“Oh? What is missing?” You asked softly as Toms gaze got all intense and zeroed in on your lips.

“This…” he rasped and closed the distance between the both of you to seal your lips with his.

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boundless-limbo-deviation · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3: Rule Breaker

A crystal-clear digital clock display struck 07:27, and an intricate speaker system wired throughout the entire bedroom began to thump out bass-heavy disco music. A well manicured hand reaches out from beneath a fluffy feather duvet and taps on the digital display, which appeared to be built directly into the headboard of the queen size bed. The alarm music however, did not stop, all that changed was the light that began flooding the room as a set of blinds covering the windows began to automatically raise.

A woman sat up from the indulgent sheets, arms lifting to neaten her mess of bed-hair. The straight, silky hair reached at least halfway down her back in a dark, deep blue. Her hands alone could only do so much for that hair right now, so instead they went to rub the sleep from her eyes before they finally opened. She squinted towards the window as they adjusted to the light, all the while bobbing sleepily along to the beat of her booming alarm.

With a mighty over-exaggerated yawn, she kicked her duvet aside, shoving it off the bed entirely with a stretch of her legs before pushing herself up onto her feet, following with a stretch of her entire body. She was remarkably tall, standing over six feet in height, and was dressed solely some black boyshorts and a baggy t-shirt covered in cute prints of chubby cartoon cats.

As if still finding her bearings, she dragged her feet towards the window. Her eyes pushed open beyond a squint, revealing their startling colour which made her blue hair look almost plain by comparison; vibrant turquoise irises framed her shrinking pupils. A wide and arguably soul piercing stare gazed across a small, beautifully simplistic front yard. Beyond the yard's tidy, grey brick fence was an abundance of short trees lining a stone footpath, almost completely shrouding whatever scene may lie beyond. Despite her aimlessness, those eyes became focused and intense, like a hawk locking onto its prey, yet with no clear target. Time almost seemed to come to a halt, goosebumps budding on her arms until... She struck a flamboyant pose at her own reflection in the glass and began silently mouthing the words of her alarm's sudden burst into vocals.

The woman swivelled on her heels and began sauntering towards her bedroom door, each step accompanied with a bounce on her heels or shake of her hips. On her way out, she grabbed two small, matching devices from a side-table, propping them upon her ears like a headset. The accessory looked almost like an elf's ears, only with blunt rounded tips and a glossy white metal finish. The underside of its surface was lined with many little turquoise buttons that blinked with a faint glow. She gave her bedroom wall one firm pat alongside the song's beat, followed by a clap of her hands. This gesture was as functional as it was rhythmic; it silenced the speakers in her room and seamlessly transferred the audio to the devices she just donned. Any observer would enjoy peace and quiet, but the woman's private music number continued on.

The woman managed to make a complete mess of her chin as she persistently dubbed vocals while brushing her teeth. Singing as if her toothbrush were a microphone, so long as the idea was to shove the microphone into one's mouth. No lack of grace could dissuade that enamoured stare she gave herself in the bathroom mirror, landing her toothbrush in a glass with a quickly calculated throw, rinsing her face, then blowing herself a kiss before shimmying over to her shower. The headset was taken off, but a push of a button turned them into (hopefully waterproof) wireless speakers, allowing her quirky routine to continue undisturbed, her figure dancing on behind the shower's frosted glass.

Boasting her expertise at fastening a towel around herself without indecency incidents, she waltzed back into her bedroom throwing open her wardrobe door with excess force. The large selection of clothing included an entire partition dedicated to half a dozen copies of a single outfit. Her bright eyes homed in on the many duplicated items, grabbing a plain white dress shirt, black waistcoat, and what could only have been a sturdy set of black bikini bottoms. Each individual item of clothing was slipped into with musical finesse.

Her whole morning had been choreographed to some extent, and with the clock nearing 8AM she'd shown both astounding dexterity, as well as an obsessive dedication to the one song she must have had on loop for half an hour. A second cupboard tucked beside her wardrobe was opened with far less recklessness, a warm air venting out as lights lining the interior illuminated. Displayed inside like priceless treasures, were a white tailcoat and a pair of black, high heel boots. She gazed upon them with a hand clutched to her chest, the smug grin on her face packed with abundant pride.

Fully dressed, she exuded the aura of a narcissistic superhero. Those glossy leather boots ran right up to her thighs, and the white coat's tails barely long enough to cover her behind. She'd fastened only enough of the front to cover her torso, whatever else could be seen was by choice. Turning full attention back to her bedroom's full length mirror, she struck several poses, some becoming of a model at a photoshoot, others more like a children's morning TV hero, all rolled up with some outright idiotic facial expressions.

Making breakfast became just another part of her rhythm, and it was starting to seem like this woman had a very distinct plan in mind for when this was going to stop. She flipped an omelette in its pan with so little care that its flawless execution looked like a lucky accident. The interconnected dining area and kitchen of this sleek, postmodern home were dotted with traces of other residents. An empty coffee cup on the kitchen counter left by someone who had left the house earlier that morning, and a blanket left hanging over one of the dining table's chairs by someone who didn't quite want to get out of bed. All the fewer people to get in the way of the blue haired girl's musical rampage.

The only one here to bear witness to her behaviour was a sleepy shorthair cat, white as snow, paws tucked beneath her chubby body to assume a perfect loaf position in the centre of the table, eyes closed in tranquillity with the morning light beaming through the house's front windows.

Once her breakfast was finished, the eccentrically dressed lass pressed one of the buttons on her headset, and the music was silenced for a fleeting moment as she leant over the table and kissed the top of the cat's head. Her first sounds of the day were spoken; "Bwuwuwuwuh..." she mumbled directly into the cat's fur, and that was it. She ruffled both hands around those ears, the cat's pale green eyes half-opening to gaze comfortably at the woman with a slow blink. Kissing the cat's head one more time, the woman-in-white was off, and the music goes on.

Trotting down the stone pathway outside her front yard like a catwalk, every step on time with her ongoing beat, the trees shrouding her home began to thin and the surrounding residential area came into view. Any low brick wall along her path was just another pedestal for her to jump onto and frolic along. The housing estate looked more like a lavish park abundant with green, with a quaint stream running through the well maintained gardens. Other people were coming into view, offering the dancing girl familiar waves and laughs of disbelief. She returned in kind with a flamboyant pose or a finger gun gesture. She ascended a flight of brick steps towards the exit of the estate where the bowl-like dip of the park opened up to the view of Dardonia.

High heels clicked onto a sparkling clean metal platform just outside the estate's exit, giving view over a colossal, sprawling city of glass, metal and plant life, as if gazing into a Utopian future. Vehicles flew through the sky with effortless grace in an orderly fashion. Glass buildings reflected the blue skies, reaching past the clouds with the residential park built high onto the side of a tall artificial hill. Everything about this city was manmade, and yet somehow abundantly natural. No street was without grass, flowers or trees, and the air was cleaner than the incredibly urban visage might imply. Standing above it all was a building both modern and ancient, a gargantuan tower that looked like it could reach towards the troposphere. Its sheer scale could fit another city of Dardonia’s size within its walls. The metropolis was surrounded by ocean on all sides, connecting only to a massive bridge via dozens of roadways, reaching beyond both the eastern and western horizons, with a layer of morning fog sitting on the eastern sea.

The woman tinkered with the buttons of her headset again, and a semitransparent visor of ultramarine tinted glass slipped out of the two headpieces, completely covering her eyes. Her boot tapped along to her music while the inside of her visor blinked and flickered against her eyes. The headset interfaced with the mechanism of the platform beneath her feet, which began to whirr pleasantly. A protective dome materialised overhead and a calm automated voice spoke out. "This Holopad is bound for, Citadel Foyer Terminal. Please remember to keep your feet secure on the Holopad at all times, and above all; enjoy the ride." the sole passenger of the pad wasn't listening of course. She knew where she was going, and what she wanted to listen to.

Several minutes passed. The hovering bubble-like transport zipped in a calculated line straight towards the imposing tower. As distance was closed, the age of the Citadel's lower tiers began to show, but many reinforcement and refurbishment works over what could have been centuries kept the structure's foundation secure and clean. The tiered design of the megastructure was the most chaotic thing about the otherwise incredibly orderly city. Entire skyscrapers were built on secondary platforms jutting out from the Citadel's main body. Any less informed person would question how the vertical city remained upright. Every few floors had vehicles docking and departing from them, tiny single-person hovercraft to giant cargo or passenger vessels. Evidently this was the busiest hub of the city by a wide margin.

"The next stop will be, Citadel Foyer Terminal. Please alight here for, Citadel transport services, and, access to International Terminals." the digital announcement spoke out to music-deafened ears, the rapid-moving transport was now just a few minutes away from its destination. The girl's foot tapping and head bobbing however, came to a sharp stop. Her eyes were still obscured beneath the tinted glass of her visor, but much like that morning when she gazed from her window, her eyes grew wide and intense, staring aimlessly ahead, as goosebumps scattered upon her skin.

Dozens of cameras scattered about the vicinity were fixed on this one young woman, even inside the Holopad itself. A tall, slender figure in a sharp business suit stood alone in a dark room, hunched over a desk. Bespectacled eyes stared desperately into the surveillance monitors, glaring into whichever screen showed her face the closest. A slender sweating hand gripped tight onto a computer mouse. One monitor in particular showed what, at first, looked like a manual camera setup atop a tower, steadily zooming in, closer, and closer still, until it was focused a few hundred meters ahead of the transport's path. A digital display on the camera read 'LOCK' soon after, and stabilised without any further shake or shudder.

The sights of a firearm with an exceedingly long barrel were fixed on the Holopad’s set path. A heavy wind blew, another person wearing a suit of automatically adapting camouflage lay down on the edge of a building with a high vantage point, with their finger trained on the trigger. Wordlessly, the sniper, and the man in the surveillance room watched, and waited.

Time ground to a near halt, and the girl's music hit a quiet bridge. She slowly lifted her right arm and retracted the visor of her headset, before pointing to the east, turning her head the same way with a long, shaken exhale that felt like it could be her last.

The nod of a head, the pull of a trigger, and the sound of a powerful bullet cracking through the protective bubble of the Holopad. The vehicle continued its flight unhindered by what transpired. The time was 08:47.

The suited figure glared at the screen before him, displaying a feed of what should be an obsessively captured image of a confirmed shot. Instead, burning into that screen was the sight of a woman with a clear, determined grin. Wide and knowing eyes stared ominously back at him. Her head was tilted and angled with such close margin of error that the bullet grazed her hair, and yet she taunted them, with a finger gun gesture aimed precisely at the sniper's sights, all the while maintaining her smile.

The man's jittering hand lifted towards his eyes and pulled off those sharp square lens glasses. The hand was red from its vice grip on that mouse, shaking with anxious animosity as it folded and placed those glasses on the table before him. He stood deathly still for a time, hearing his pulse grow louder and louder in his own head. His other hand lifted as if to make any other action, before... It slammed back down on the desk, glasses and papers falling to the ground. He screamed, wailed and bellowed everything his lungs could muster, though in his complete lonesomeness, nobody would hear his outbreak of fury. His slender form, in its adrenaline-packed rage, tore a surveillance monitor off the wall, capsized his desk, and smashed a hole in another screen with a nearby office toy, small metal balls breaking off and clattering to the polished marble floor.

The girl lowered her playful gesture, sweat rolling down her brow, taking deep breaths in attempt to compose herself, brushing a hand over the strand of her hair that had been grazed by the bullet. She readied herself to depart from the Holopad in just two minutes, as the sniper's distant perch was surrounded by a team of local police officers who were ready to move in as soon as the shot was taken.

The floating platform slowed to a halt within a rounded docking area as the damaged shield bubble entirely flickered out, allowing its passenger to depart. The quiet bridge in the music ended in a pause before resuming with a loud chorus, so her morning continued.

The wide, extravagant plaza of the Citadel's southern entrance was lined with queue barriers, and from behind them cheered hundreds of men, women and children, Dardonian and Human alike. The steadily strutting young woman touched a button on each of her earpieces, before making a rhythmic flow of her arms up towards a giant digital display above the Citadel doors. The music that had been isolated to just her own ears was now cast onto the booming outdoor speakers. The plaza and Citadel foyer filled with the powerful sound of old disco music, and her audience were soon caught up in her tune.

People jumped and cheered, shouting vague declarations of either platonic or romantic love. Boards and signs were held up reading 'Dr. Lorre for CD!', 'Lorre is the new law!', 'R-Pharm? More like Arse-Farm!', 'The CD is Seedy!', and more. She happily accommodated as many handshakes and high-fives as she could muster in the swarm of hands begging for her attention. She wanted to shout her appreciation back, but she had a vibe to carry all the way to the finish line.

Entering into the grand lobby, usually packed with busy employees, tourists, and youths just looking for a meeting spot, instead it was lined with yet more queue barriers, paving a straight path for her all the way towards a large set of elevator doors. The hundreds of employees enjoying a moment of celebration instead of work, began to chant along with the lyrics and thumping bass. Eager to maintain her little performance, she continued to dance along the path set for her, right up until she reached the automatic elevator doors, welcoming her inside. The moment they closed, the lift began to ascend, so smoothly that even its phenomenal speed didn't disrupt the balance of its one and only occupant. The elevator climbed up the outside of the tower, once again revealing the sprawling cityscape through its glass walls.

The music calmed, its last chorus leading towards a clear conclusion as the elevator opened into a dark corridor lit with neon bars lining the corners and floors beneath her, a door waiting open for her just ahead. The entrance took her into what appeared to be the backstage area of a massive lecture hall.

Stood backstage, waiting anxiously by the door was another girl of similar apparent age, dressed in all white, from a short-sleeved dress shirt to her flared trousers, all containing a short, chubby frame. She was capped with hair as fluffy and pink as cotton candy, all held together with a set of cyberpunk-looking goggles far too big for anyone's eyes, mounted just above her forehead. The smile she wore was laced with both relief and concern.

Lyrics were drawing to a final close as the two girls exchanged a knowing look at one another, before one of those heeled boots kicked past the backstage curtains and onto stage, vocally blasting out the final exclamation the song had to offer with a mighty flourish of her arms, before it finally ended at exactly 9AM.

A strangely dressed man stamped his one clothed foot against the stage's hollow floor with a loud thud. The host wore a long lab coat befitting a stereotypical scientist. With just one boot painted with silver glitter, the other foot was completely bare. The odd visage was topped with hair that could only be described as a magenta sea urchin. "Ladies and Gentlemen of Dardonia Citadel! And to all of those watching outside the venue or online. It's with my utmost enthusiasm and delight, that I welcome to the stage our most beautiful and benevolent; Doctor Sophia Lorre!"

The audience erupted with ovation, the physically taxed doctor taking a few deep breaths on stage before clearing her throat. "Hello—Oh shh—Schiffy sweetie can you patch in my headset? I knew something was missing,” those closer to the front row chuckled as the pink haired girl from before scurried onto stage. “The lovely people can't hear me," she continued as a few buttons were pressed on Sophia's earpieces. "Now? Wait, seriously? That's all I had to do? Awesome. I'm terrible at this, clearly. Hello everyone!" another applause was allowed to finish as the aforementioned 'Schiffy' jogged over to the stage's tech desk, taking a seat.

"Admittedly this whole morning looked way cooler in my head because you guys only heard a couple minutes of it. It was all one big process and-" she waved her hands dismissively. "-never mind! It's done now, and you all seem happy. You happy?" she held out her hands and leant forwards to hear everyone shout out once again. It wasn't just in this auditorium; Screens around the Citadel, and even the city as a whole, were displaying this conference. Further than that, live streams on the internet were being viewed worldwide.

"Now, today is a day that we celebrate, but there are still issues we need to address. Before we proceed I want to make a few little shout outs to people who got me here. And I'm not talking about the tech team—who I will get to as well—I mean the grand scheme of things. And those who made this cure possible. I'd be dead in some alley if I had been alone,” she took a long inhale pacing along the stage “or, y’know, maybe I'd be safe and sound, on a path that doesn't set my soul ablaze like this one does. So first? Quick holler to my first ever patient, saved from a snowy winter’s day by a teeny-tiny six year old me. Quite possibly the most important person on the face of this planet,” she nodded, hearing giggles from the seating, “yes, I can hear your excitement already, many of you know her, it’s not like I talk about her at every conference or anything,” her words were laced with playful sarcasm. “It’s Flossy!” with a flick of her tailcoats and hair, she pointed dramatically at the empty projector screen above the stage, “where is she?" and after a comically timed delay, a photograph of the same cat she'd been swooning over that very morning appeared. She shook her pointing hand at the screen in glee. "There she is!" an applause accompanied with laughter broke out, that rivalled even Sophia’s own. "I'm afraid that's the most exciting part, but hopefully you'll stick around for the rest."

She allowed any potential lingering chuckles to pass before she moved along. "Next, I wanna mention my beautiful, brave, and absolutely relentless Mom and Dad, who only tried to dissuade me from almost getting myself killed once or twice. They should be just here at the front, cameras please soak up their lovely faces! Thank you." the Doctor turned the attention of all screens away from herself, instead showing an even taller woman in a gaudy blue suit, and much shorter man dressed in warm layers of sweaters, sat in the front row. The mother had her deep blue hair in two messy buns, and barely looked any older than the Doctor herself, while the father looked even younger, a short and frail looking man with pale lilac hair that sat at his shoulders. Both appeared bashful on the camera, the woman gave a giddy laugh while the fellow cracked an awkward smile and an appreciative nod.

"My regular handy man and adviser on many things, who many of you already know; Jogurdé couldn't be here today, but you’ll see why in just a moment, bless him,” she held up one finger, “but one of my close-knit team is closer than you may think! And I want to put the spotlight on her for a moment, because her contributions to all of my work are beyond compare.”

Sophia began to pace along the stage towards the tech desk, placing a hand on her chest. “She's a meek, pretty face who’s always nearby, but never quite as obnoxious as I am, and I did tell you all that I'd call out the technical team too. Can everyone please give a very, very big hand to my beloved friend, the one who makes all my work possible, motivates me to keep going, and also my literal boss because I sort of work for her; Schifano Ayithraaaaa!"

The auditorium's spotlights all turned their focus to the fluffy haired goggle-head sat at the tech table, whose face promptly lit up with embarrassment. She flashed a nervous, geeky grin, waving both hands alongside an embarrassed laugh. "A-Ahahah! Thank you I, uhm... I don't have a microphone so I won't actually say anything..." she caught herself speaking only to silence herself with her own words.

Sophia shrugged as the lights moved back to her. "Look, these things on my ears? Just made from tiny little parts, by that sweet little thing sat over there. And-And, who in here is using FanOS?” her arm lifted and hovered about in the audience’s direction. “I know a fair few employees in the Citadel have it, gimme a show of hands." Sophia nodded as she watched a sizeable niche of audience members waving or even blurting out their approval. "Cool! I can tell she's blushing already. Know who made that? She did! Amazing, right? She's goin' places, I'm calling that now. When she's CD in like, ten years or something, you can all say 'Soph said so!'"

The audience gave a blend of laughing, cheering and shouts of denial, before starting to chant 'Doctor Lorre!' in response.

"Don't boo! I'm right!" she retorted to her rallying crowds.

Schifano, in the meantime, had basically covered her face with her hands in embarrassment.

As the audience calmed, Sophia stood in silence and watched, an intent smile spreading across her face as both hands placed on her hips. "And the last shout out I'm making on this lovely morning, is my phenomenal support from the community!" she thrust both arms out with powerful enthusiasm towards her onlookers, who broke out with cheer. The Doctor raised her voice to speak over the rush of noise. "Citadel staff, fans, my Customers, I adore you all!" she took a deep breath and allowed another pause making a few gestures to indicate calm.

"I have quite a lot to cover this morning, and not a lot of time to do it, I know somebody's already writing in the comments that I'm wasting time and that I don't care and all that. That's, y'know, whatever. But, as a way to give credit to one of the teams who've been supporting not only my cause, but literally my very life; Schiffy please put that, uh, Sky Wing hangar camera up on screen?" she pointed a finger towards the projector, which snappily swapped images to display a live feed of several giant cargo vessels being loaded with crates, the audience offering a slightly more organised applause this time.

"There we are. As you can see, while I'm here chatting you all up, there's Jogurdé down there right now, working with the Citadel security staff, police force and manufacturing teams to get our cure, shipped, right after this talk." the following acclaim was entirely her own doing, her passion building as she spoke. Her words became charged with a fierce determination. "All of these teams, working right under the nose of R-Pharmacy! Those profit-thirsting leeches up-top are blocking their actions at every legal loophole they can cling to. Our community is putting their livelihoods on the line to show the world that we're here for them!"

What started like a conference had shifted in tone. Sophia's onlooking loved ones watching on with shared adamance in their cores.

Sophia's smile had faded, at least for now. She took a long inhale, bringing her hands together earnestly. "It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say my life has been saved by several people in this room, right now. Police and Doctors who followed their gut and individual thought over orders from superiors..." Sophia's lip quivered, hands shaking as her eyes welled up, voice shaking while she continued, "and it's not the dangers that get to me, not anymore. It's everything that you all do for me." she wiped a few fingers through her eyes, sniffing as quietly as she could. "All of last night, and still at this very minute, select factory lines across Dardonia are working with us, the people, to get this cure mass produced, for the whole world, for free. R-Pharmacy continue to throw money at our factories to do their bidding, pretending that they don't know what we're doing. That we're amateurs. Dangerous, unprofessional, unqualified."

She closed her eyes, clenching her jaw, before stamping her heeled boot against the stage, a hollow 'thud' reverberating across the lecture hall. "But our world's Human population is facing the most widespread plague in all of recorded history. People are desperately fighting for their lives, and Chief Director Reyanil Arumtha has done nothing but offer his thoughts and prayers, or throw money at charities that stash money safely back in his own pockets." The crowd became restless again, picking up on Sophia's evident emotional tension. "Apparently the task is just too much for his multi-billion-shouro company, that runs our beloved city. But I think, with Dardonia at the forefront of all of the world's medicinal knowledge, we have a wealth to share with Humanity."

Sophia thrust up a clenched fist, pointing one finger up above her. "We, Dardonia, and the Humans who have chosen to share our home with us; put no, price, on, life!" she maintained her steadfast posture. "So why does the outside world trust the cure I discovered? The cure we created as a community, instead of waiting for a cure issued through Dardonian government's official channels?” her posture softened, “well, for starters, we actually did something. You know, that helps a bit. But the real reason?" she paused, a bright smile spreading across her face, her voice once again shaking with emotion, "because every single infected human in our own hospitals, has, been, cured!"

As the audience roared, Sophia gestured her hands to the left side of the audience as a set of wash lights illuminated a large portion of the auditorium. Sat near the front amidst her own family and support, was a large number of obviously Human attendees. Hair of brown, blonde, black and red contrasted the vibrant blues, greens and teals of Dardonians around them. She gestured for them to stand and joined her spectators in their applause.

“I need to thank you all above everyone, for coming here to Dardonia and being part of our community while we, the people, worked to get you back to your families dotted all over the world. So we can send you back with the cure for everyone else who couldn't make the journey here with you. So again, with tears pouring down my... Silly little face, let me thank you all, and offer you an official goodbye from all of us here." With a bow of her head, and another finger wiping tears from her eyes, she gave a beaming smile, and a brief shaken laugh of delight. "Well, except for those of you who live here among us already, and those of you who've decided to stay and live in our beautiful city over the course of your stay. We might mostly be awkward recluses, but I promise a few of us will throw you the warmest of welcomes."

A universal moment of fanfare was celebrated amidst all viewers. Human families, as well as unions of Dardonian and Human people together, were all sharing in the moment of reassurance that their loved ones were safe. Sophia patiently waited for the auditorium to calm, the lights shifting back towards the stage as the cured Humans took their seats.

"This, my wonderful spectators, is why the outside world has taken faith in us. And this is why these vessels you see being loaded on screen as we speak, are shipping off to Thanton, just minutes from now! Where I will be joining them, to personally deliver a cure into the hands of our ailing King; Lloyd Mattias Thanos! Bringing the message from all of us here, that we put no price on life. Working together with not the head of Dardonia, but the leader of this entire Kingdom that we share, to ensure professional distribution of our cure to every corner of the world as quickly as possible, for absolutely, zero, cost." she enunciated her words with dramatic hand gestures, before performing a long, gallant bow for her viewers. The atmosphere was charged with high morale, not just inside the theatre and city, but in the homes of all viewers.

Once her speech had ended, Sophia departed the stage, the gaudy host from the start of the show stepping in to manage the crowd and help to usher people out of the hall. Sophia was halted backstage by her mother and father, scurried after by the stocky figure of Schifano.

"Sweetie wait wait wait!" the fantastically tall woman in blue called out, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. She was taller than even her daughter, making her gigantic height appear ludicrous beside Sophia's tiny father. "Look, I know you have to go, I just want to say that-" like mother like daughter, the woman started weeping on the spot, fanning her face with her hand. "I'm dying with worry after your crazy, reckless stunt this morning, b-but also I'm incredibly proud of my wonderful daughter for being... Basically just, the absolute best—I'm so full of different emotions—you're going to drive me into an early grave but, I love you so more for that!" she spoke so rapidly that Sophia didn't even have time to tell her she was in a hurry.

Sophia's Dad had mirrored his wife's tears, shaking his head, then nodding, and hiding his face behind his sleeves. "What she said." his whimpering voice murmured against cloth.

"Mom, Dad, I'm about to drop on the floor and die from all this crazy shit I'm trying to juggle with also being shot at again this morning, so just let me get today done, and then we can all have a nice cosy evening to drive each other into graves, okay?" Sophia stressed while Schifano urged herself in front of the doting parents, placing a hand on both of their shoulders, reaching for the mother's with some serious effort.

"Sophie, I recorded the shooting from cameras at 30 different locations. So just go through them with me later when you get back okay?" Schifano was pretty stern with her words, every 's' sound accompanied by a soft lateral lisp.

"Schiffy, I'm begging you, please get down to the station and make sure no big shots come in saying we have no right to detain that sniper." Sophia was basically walking backwards out the door as she spoke.

"Already got eyes and ears over there," Schifano's goggle lenses lit up like little round displays on the outside, showing live feeds of the detention centre. "I'll get over there myself right now."

"I need to get to Thanton as soon as those trucks are ready,” Sophia continued. “I can't give that asshole up top a single chance to smear our work. A minute wasted could be a patient I let die." she stormed towards the elevator, her family and friend trying their best to keep up, taking note of anything they could do to help.

"Mom, I want a cure for every infected person on the damn planet. Anything you can do at the factories will help. And Dad, keep trucking on with the guys at the hangar and get out there the second you get word of new shipments. The moment the King gets in touch with other nations, everything's gonna go nuts, and you can bet Reyanil'll try and stop us." Sophia got into the elevator and turned to face the others, holding the most confident grin she could muster. "When all this shit's over I wanna stop talking to you guys like I'm your boss. Love you." and with a wink, the elevator departed.

The remaining three stood in anxious silence before Schifano spoke up. Her hands balled into fists, shaking violently with visible terror, her lavender eyes filling with a nervous fury.

"None of us should leave this floor without a guard, and don't get led away by any staff you don't recognise. First we make sure to get the public out of here, safe. Reyanil definitely saw that speech, and he'll want to make her regret it."

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mikeybalzz · 3 years

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I NEVER Fish a FROG When I Can do THIS (Fall BASS Fishing Heavy Grass)

Went to the lake with my friend @dizzythedangler to do some frog and fall heavy grass fishing. But the punching and flipping bite in the grass was on and I will never fish a frog when I can catch them on a flipping rod. Want the fishing rods, soft plastic lures, fishing line and all the other angler gear in the vid? Big tungsten weight http://bit.ly/2UNRO7g BB Cricket Craw Lure…

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#bass fishing #bass fishing hq #catching bass #fall fishing #frog fishing #heavy grass #mikeybalzz #mikeybalzz flipping #never fish #punching for bass

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punishandenslavesuckers · 5 years

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Mollymauk Tealeaf wakes up in a grave by the road ten years after he died. Things have gone a bit wrong since then and he might be the only one who can set things right… since it’s the Mighty Nein themselves who’ve gone wrong. AU: Where Molly comes back to yell at his super-powered Level 20 friends. (AO3 - part1) (AO3 - part 2) (AO3 - part3) (AO3 - part4) (AO3 - part5) (AO3-part6) (AO3-part7) (AO3-part8) (AO3-part9)

The Blooming Grove is beautiful in the day light.

The sun slides beams of yellow through the gnarled canopy to the undergrowth, dappling dark grass and wildflowers in shifting stripes of sunshine and shadow. That’s what Molly spends the better part of ten minutes staring at when he wakes comfortably drowsy and a bit dehydrated from an all-night drug stupor. The morning is quiet, broken, only by distant murmuring and the muted twitter of birdsong. Mollymauk’s lying on his back still, though someone moved him a little into the space beneath a great oak tree, his head cushioned on a balled jacket.

For a warm sleepy while, Molly dozes a little somewhere between waking and unconsciousness, vaguely roused from his limbo by the impression of another person nearby. Yawning a little, Mollymauk sits up a bit, raking hair from his face.

Caduceus Clay is sitting nearby.

His back is partially to Molly, his face in profile serene as the morning around him.

He’s dressed in full armor, glittering chitinous green and grown with rosy lichen. Someone has taken the long section of his hair and pulled it back so the central part is woven elaborately, plaited and clipped so it stands up from his otherwise shaved skull. The rest of his hair is braided in a heavy rope that coils over his left shoulder. There are carved bone and amber charms threaded into the soft pink.

He looks war-ready to Molly with his fauxhawk and his armor.

He looks like he’s been waiting for Molly to wake up.

Molly can hear him murmur quietly and in the fifteen seconds that he gets to simply watch, Molly supposes that the cleric is praying. His low voice is like a long chord from a strange instrument, deep bass and vibrato. Eventually, he seems to register Mollymauk’s attention and looks over his shoulder, one long ear flipping upward like a deer detecting a noise. He smiles and the fondness is all the way up to his eyes in a way that makes Molly feel extremely safe even now, despite the facts of his fate. It’s impressive really. Molly thinks Clay could calm a storm with that look.

“Morning,” Molly says.

“Good morning,” says Caduceus.

Mollymauk folds his hands on his stomach.

“I have no hangover. Is that because you have the best drugs in the kingdom, or because you did some healing while I was sleeping?”

“Both.”

“Anyone ever tell you, you’re a gentleman and a scholar, Mr. Clay?”

“No. Because I’m neither of those things.” Caduceus turns a little at the waist and holds out an upturned hand to Molly. “This is yours, I think.”

In his palm something glitters, sunshine sparking molten before Molly gets a better look. There’s a thin chain pooled around a crystal heart amulet and when Molly recognizes it, there’s a moment of mild indifference (like when someone returns a knickknack) then a low creep of unnerve when he contextualizes how someone else came to possess it. The last resting place of this necklace, after wall, was around his own throat the day Lorenzo cut him down.

“Caleb gave it to me.” Caduceus tilts his head. “I think it’s fitting that it come back to you, Mollymauk.”

Molly arches a brow. “Caleb gave you a heart necklace?”

Caduceus gives him a look. “Caleb gave me the pariapt of wound closure on account of how often I was wounded in the course of regularly scheduled idiocy.” He shrugs a little. “But, yes, if you like.”

For a while, Molly says nothing. Then he says, “How does a firbolg cleric end up with the Mighty Nein?”

Silence for a moment while Caduceus thinks on this.

“They came to my graveyard – this one, in fact – on the sunset of your death. They asked me to come with them on a mission of vengeance and justice.” Caduceus looks out over the overgrown headstones, to the temple structure beyond and Molly thinks his expression gets a little wistful, an edge of… not regret but something. “I didn’t know anything about the world back then.” He turns back to Molly. “I know a lot more now.”

Molly stares at the periapt, then says, “No. It’s yours now. I don’t want it. Not if Caleb gave it to you.”

“It wasn’t a gift. It was a tactical—”

“Sure thing,” Molly says, grinning. Then, after Caduceus has reluctantly put the periapt back on, he asks, “You really think Caleb would risk ending the world?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Molly shakes his head. “I always knew he was deep in his head. I didn’t ever think he would… I thought he might fuck us, specifically, over. Or a lot of other people in general. I got that he was putting Nott and himself over everyone else. That made sense. That’s fine. But the whole bloody world?”

“You never knew him in context,” Caduceus says softly.

“Then put him in context.”

A hesitation then. Clay visibly wavers.

“You won’t spoil my good opinion of him, Mr. Clay. He killed me in cold blood for the sake of making a point I think.” Molly cracks a bitter grin. “I’d feel less sore about it, I think, if you gave me some framework for what makes a man do that to someone.”

Caduceus lowers his gaze a moment, then, quietly, he says:

“Caleb Widogast was insane once and finding sanity again required him to take hold of an impossible idea.” He raises his gaze then to Molly. “This idea was so fantastic it could hem in all the broken parts of him and hold his shape, make him a person again long enough to accomplish it. That impossible idea would have also, very possibly, done the world irreparable damage. So, you have this idea that Caleb ending the world is a new development and…” Caduceus shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but Caleb was always willing to end the world, Mollymauk. His restraint now is the new development.”

Quiet for a moment while Molly digests this.

“What do you mean he was ‘insane’? How and why?”

“I mean as a young man, a figure of authority convinced Caleb Widowgast to be a thing instead of a person. They hollowed him out the way authority can hollow a person and laid ideology inside him rather than morality. Then, on the say so of that ideology, he burned his family alive in his childhood home.” Cad is holding Molly’s gaze, unwavering, steady as a load-bearing beam. “The ideology wasn’t rooted deep enough to keep the horror out. He went insane. Then he stopped being insane and decided he might unravel time itself to undo what he’d done because the possibility of ‘fixing it’ was the only port in the storm.”

Molly stares.

“Gods fuck me, I knew something was wrong but… are you bloody serious?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ve talked him down from something like this before.”

Caduceus nods. “Yes.”

“How’d you stop him last time?”

“I didn’t. Nott took his hand and asked him not to do it.”

Molly is quiet a moment, then, “But that won’t work this time. This time, he’d kill Nott.”

Something reactive crosses Caduceus’ face. “No. Never. He’d risk killing her,” he corrects. “That’s something he’s not been willing to do in a long time. I’m not saying he doesn’t love others and love them—" bit of a sigh here— “very, very much. But he’ll never care for anyone like he cares for Nott. Nott is what’s holding back the end of the world. Not me or Yasha or you or anyone else.”

“The whole world on a goblin-girl,” Molly murmurs. “Something kinda great about that.”

“Yes. So much depends upon odd everyday things.” Caduceus tilts his head. “Maybe on a carnival performer.”

“Ugh.” Molly rolls his eyes. “Stop. My stomach is knotting up just thinking about it. Did everyone come up with a plan while I was sleeping?”

“Yes. Breaching Caleb’s keep would be impossible… save for the fact we have Jester with us again. The Traveler travels everywhere. It may be a difficult approach, but he won’t be able to stop us like most wizards of his ilk might be able. But he can make it a treacherous road to walk.” Caduceus gestures. “The plan is simple enough, we breach the keep. Jester, Yasha, Nott, and I will try to hold Caleb. You and Fjord will find Beauregard. Fjord will… do what’s necessary.”

Mollymauk leans back against the tree, his arms draped over his knees. “Kill her in her sleep, you mean.”

Caduceus doesn’t flinch.

“It’s been my task all along,” he says, “to one day be the person who ends Beau’s life. If the Beauregard I knew isn’t dead already, then it is an unnatural thread that binds her to the world. As a person whose walked between life and death over and over tied by powers beyond your hold, tell me there isn’t a time to let life let go.”

Molly’s jaw aches from clenching it. But eventually, he shakes his head just once.

“No, I’m not disagreeing there. But she’s my friend, you know?”

“And mine. And Fjord’s. It’ll be him that does it and I don’t envy him the task, but I wish I could relieve him of it.”

“He volunteer for that job?”

“Yes. But even if he hadn’t, you and he won’t survive a direct confrontation with Caleb Widogast if he knows we’re coming. You’ll be best to end the fight at the its source.”

Molly glances across the graveyard, to the faint sound of voices and movement. Where he can sense that the rest of the Mighty Nein are milling around on the opposite side of the shrine, gathering things and preparing. The thought sets his nerves on a preemptive razor’s edge, his heart acidic suddenly in the back of his throat and he finds himself breathing faster, his hands clenching tight and he hears it clear as a breath against the coil of his ear: Lorenzo saying, “Respect.” Caleb saying, “Die.” Fjord saying, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Caduceus lays a hand on his shoulder and Molly twitches reactive under his palm. He waits for Molly to settle, but kneels there facing him now, pale eyes intent on Molly’s face the way one can be intent on a book they are reading. He squeezes Molly’s shoulder and it’s strange how heavy his hand lies on him, how much density that suggests in the cleric’s bones and build.

“Breathe,” he rumbles.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Molly says.

“None of us know that,” says Caduceus, “but we’re going to try. If you really think you can’t do it, you don’t have to –”

“Fuck you, Caduceus. You brought me back from the grave. If I go back to it, I’ll be on my bloody feet. Understand? I’m just saying, I’m a bit nervous.”

“I understand.” There’s a pause. “Mollymauk, I know I’ve said this before but…”

“Stop.” Molly waves a hand. “I’m sick of people being sorry for me.”

“No, I was going to say you’ve shown unusual bravery in the face of terrible things. Also, I am not really sorry. I would do it again.”

“Weirdly, that makes me feel better, thank you, Caduceus.”

This earns him a head tilt. “If you’re angry with me… with everything that’s happened, you have every right.”

“Trust me,” Molly huffs, “I don’t need your permission to be angry. I’m livid. I’m furious my friends are trying to end the world because one is an emotionally traumatized bookworm.” He sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’m furious they didn’t take care of one another and you had to dig me out of a grave to sort it out for some reason. I’m out of my fuckin’ mind that somehow the gods are hanging this nonsense on me. I’m so mad I want to bite something.”

Caduceus nods. “I understand.”

Up close, the very fine gray down that colors Caduceus’ face and throat seems to shimmer a little and there are shards of gray in the pink ring of each iris. Caduceus Clay is a pastel riot of contradicting pieces and he smells like fresh-cut grass and whatever moss is growing in the chinks of his armor. Molly doesn’t realize he’s doing it until he’s reached up and taken hold of the long, pink braid hung over his shoulder pauldron. Clay doesn’t stop him, just peering curiously.

There’s a heavy iron clasp at the end of the braid, hard in Molly’s palm.

“Why did you stay?”

Caduceus flicks a long ear. “What?”

“With Caleb.” Molly grips the clasp a little, just to feel the metal dig in. He doesn’t look at the other man. “You were one of the last people standing with Caleb. Even after everyone else had gone other directions. Nott stuck it out, I get that. But why did you?”

“Because,” Caduceus says, “there was a time previously that I was capable of holding Caleb back as well. Second only to Nott of course.”

“Wait. What does that…?”

“Hey, Deuce? Molly? You two awake and sober or does Jester need to come over here?”

Fjord’s come around the side of the temple.

He’s standing among a collection of broken gravestones, his arms crossed, wearing that strange set of black leather armor he wore earlier. The only difference now is it looks as though Jester’s painted the symbol of her god across his shoulder guard. In the full light of day, Molly can see that he wasn’t delusional: Fjord looks almost exactly the same as he did ten years ago. Time hasn’t touched him. He’s been held in a capsule. The age is (instead) in his eyes, in the way he looks at them though Molly couldn’t identify what heaviness it is exactly that ten years has put there.

“We’re okay here,” Caduceus says. He leans his weight on his staff and stands up, offering Molly a hand up. “Just discussing the plan.”

Caduceus murmurs something and Molly feels the Death Ward charm again take hold of his soul, anchoring him to the world. The cleric lets go of his hand then.

“If you die,” Caduceus says, “and there is no one there to call you back from death, that’s it. Jester’s asked her god about the rules around you dying. You can be called back as many times as there is someone to call you, but if you die and no one calls…”

“I’m dead,” Molly says. “And Fjord is no cleric.”

“I’ll look out for you,” Fjord says, a little defensive, “but if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. Point of fact, I think I’ll move faster without you –”

“He’s lying,” Caduceus says easily. “He’s just worried, particularly since he’s operating without his patron now.”

Fjord tosses his hands up. “Thank you, Caduceus, for your rousing pre-battle pep talks. Appreciated as always.” Then when his giant teammate just kind of gives him a benign but entirely shit-eating kind of smile, Fjord shoulders past him muttering, “Fuckin’ years later, still weird as hell…”

“I heard that.”

“Yeah, I know, Deuce. It’s what you’re there for.”

He glares over his shoulder, still standing close enough that he kind of has to tilt his head back to do it. Caduceus kind of smiles in return. There’s a beat in that exchange, a crisscross where something in the cleric’s expression gets a little sad despite the unabashed fondness there and something in Fjord’s glare loses the edge. Caduceus is the one to break the wordless quiet, almost too quiet to hear.

“I’m glad you’re with us again, Fjord.”

“I… yeah.” A pause. “Look, Caduceus, about what I said last night…”

Caduceus waves a hand.

“No. Man.” Fjord gets indignant. “It’s not okay. Just… you know…” He sighs. “Thank you. Nott told me a little bit about it, but she shouldn’t have had to tell me anything. I should have known you were doing everything you could. I was just… taking it out on you because I was frustrated and… and fucked up, honestly. It’s not excuse, but it’s what I was doing.”

“I know. I’m not upset.”

“You should be. I was over the line.”

Caduceus doesn’t say anything, just shrugs and glances away which doesn’t work especially well when one is taller than everyone else around them.

“You should have never been trapped as long as you were,” Caduceus says eventually. He meets Fjord’s eyes and Molly can see now what he was masking – a plain and painful guilt. “I was afraid to leave Caleb. I’m sorry.”

Fjord steps forward and grabs the cleric’s sleeve at the elbow, pulling him face to face.

“You listen. What happened to me was my fault and no one else’s. I did what I did. I signed on full well knowing what my patron was and what it wanted. I swallowed the fuckin’ sea and I took the blade when it was given to me.” Fjord hisses through his teeth now. “Dammit, Caduceus, why didn’t you get away from him like the rest of us? You didn’t have to stay.”

“We don’t do that.” Caduceus is perfectly calm, certain as sunrise. “We don’t leave each other.”

“Bullshit, Cad. We all left you.”

“You didn’t leave me. You were taken. There’s a diff—” And here he falters. He glances at Molly. Because in that instant Molly realizes (a slow unraveling dawning) that Caleb was quoting Caduceus on that beach— “there’s a difference,” he finishes. “Maybe not everyone was taken like you were taken, but you can be taken by grief, by despair, or madness, or circumstance. You were all taken by something.” Caduceus trails off. “I’m not angry.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not.”

“Gods, I don’t get you,” Fjord groans, pressing fingers into his temple. “It’s been how long now and I’m never gonna fuckin’ get you, Cad. You’re just so fuckin’ – oof!”

Fjord’s complaint is smothered rather effectively by Caduceus casually reaching out and yanking his shorter teammate into a hug. It’s an expert hug. Both inevitable and affectionate in equal unstoppable parts. Fjord, nevertheless, gives a cursory struggle before surrendering to Clay’s (apparently) unescapable embrace, the tension sliding out of his shoulders in increments. Molly is pretty sure he can see a glow in Clay’s fingers, light sinking into Fjord’s armor before disappearing entirely.

“Did you just hug a Death Ward onto me?” Fjord demands, muffled.

“Yes.” Clay squeezes him just once more for good measure, then lets him go. “Can you go get Nott for me? She has something for Molly, I think.”

“She can’t keep giving me her stuff!” Molly protests.

Fjord looks at Molly. “She can and she will.” He holds up his arm and there’s a pair of strange gold-hammered bracers strapped to his forearms. “I don’t know where she stole these, but apparently you can grab a spell with them and throw it back.”

“I love that girl,” says Molly. Then, after a moment, he jerks his chin to Caduceus. “I’m glad you found him after I died, by the way.” He waves a hand up and down generally encompassing Caduceus Clay as a whole. “You know, good color scheme.”

Caduceus stifles a chuckle. Fjord gets a lopsided grin and pats Molly on the shoulder as he turns to go. But he pauses. There’s just the one look – brief and curious as he looks a Molly, a question in his stare… so Molly slaps Fjord on the cheek in a way that clearly confuses him.

“Oi, none of that. Head in the game.” He winks. “We’ll sort it out later.”

Fjord hesitates. “Alright. I’ll hold you to it.”

Molly smiles until Fjord’s walking away.

“You’re lying,” Caduceus observes blandly. He’s leaning against his staff, head tilted. “You don’t think we’re going to survive.”

“No, I don’t think I am.”

There’s a quick silence. Then, “Mollymauk, I don’t think–”

But before he can start in on some platitudes about how everything is going to be okay or something, Caduceus makes this aborted choking sound and doubles over. His eyes go wide, his head jerking back, ears coming up like a startled animal. Like he’s hearing or seeing something Molly can’t. Then, with no warning beyond that, Caduceus’ eyes kind of roll back in his skull and he staggers sideways against the oak tree and drops his shoulder against it.

Molly, who watched all this with a confused horror, rushes forward.

“Hey, Caduceus?” He touches his shoulder like you reach for a high shelf. “You okay?”

“Head rush,” the firbolg mumbles, digging around in his robes for something. “Just… have to walk it off.”

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know. I think something just… I don’t know.” Caduceus seems distressed and a little dazed honestly, so Molly catches his elbow and pulls the gangly cleric upright, letting him lean his weight against his shoulder from his seven feet of height. He’s a little quiet until they’ve walked a little toward the south side of the graveyard, away from the temple and the others. “Apologies. I might have over worked myself. I’ve been getting the team ready for the fight this morning and yesterday was… taxing.”

“Well you did kill a dragon with a tree.”

“It wasn’t really a dragon. It was a warlock.” Caduceus rubs his temple gingerly as if nursing a migraine. “If it had been a real dragon, I doubt we would have prevailed. True ancient sea dragons? They’re leviathans without mercy or the depravity of their land-bound cousins. It would not have played with us. Her cruelty made her stupid and we killed her for it.”

Surprise jolts through Molly then, his head coming up a little to glance Caduceus. Oddly, his calling someone stupid even in death seems off-color for the gentle giant-kin and Molly frowns a little.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I don’t know. I feel strange.”

“Well, shake it off. We have another round of bad business to deal with. Gotta take care of the Mighty Nein, right?” Molly kind of nudges the bigger man when he doesn’t get an immediate answer. “Right? That’s our job in this group.”

Caduceus gives him a strange look, somewhere between sad and regretful. “Yes, I guess so.”

Molly maneuvers around a low headstone, Caduceus’ hand still resting against his shoulder. “Caduceus, you didn’t seem like you had a head rush. You seemed like you saw something and it scared you. Don’t spare my bloody feelings if Malora’s sending you visions or something, you can tell me.” Molly hesitates then adds, “If the endgame in this story is me going back to the grave, you know I… it’s okay.”

“Mollymauk—”

“It’s okay.” Molly laughs, though it comes mirthless in his mouth. “It’s fine if I don’t survive this. Not many people get three lives, much less the number I’ve been afforded. It’s alright, Mr. Clay. I don’t expect to–”

“Hey!”

Molly stops and looks over his shoulder. Nott is rocketing across the graveyard, full-speed, a darting blur of gnomish speed accelerated by some kind of magic that makes her a yelling blur. Her cloak flaps furiously behind.

“Hey! What are you doing!?”

Caduceus turns.

“You’re outside the boundary! Caduceus!?! CAD, WHAT ARE YOU—!?”

Caduceus interrupts her by suddenly raising a hand and saying a word. He thrusts his hand backward. He’s holding what looks like a large diamond between his thumb and forefinger and as he speaks, magic rushes through it like light through a prism throwing a sheet of rainbow like an aurora against the wall, painted against the air like it’s solid. Then the light shudders, the diamond splits, and simultaneously the air collapse inward and becomes a humming door composed of light.

“MOLLY, GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

Molly’s heart stops.

Caduceus grabs him around the waist, hooking one long arm full around his narrow midriff and with a terrible almost beast-like strength the previously gentle firbolg yanks Molly’s slim tiefling weight up into his arms and steps back. Time seems to slow then, like it always does in a moment of horror as the quantum pull of the teleportation spell begins to close around Molly and pull him apart down to the atomic structures of himself. Nott is almost on them, having crossed the yard with expeditious speed.

Molly is inside the tunnel of light, pulled back through the threshold into the howling inter-dimension while Nott is lunging from the foyer of reality. She’s framed in a dark, living green, a window of the Blooming Grove at her back as she dives for Molly, her hand extended as if a gnome-girl jumping in mid-air will stop the pull of a high-level vortex through time and space… and Molly nevertheless believes it. He drives his boot back against Caduceus’ thigh and lunges off him like wall, his middle still collared but like a thrashing animal in a snare he gets just loose enough and shoves one arm forward and –

Reality snaps in that way Molly’s become so familiar with.

Molly hits the ground at speed. His head cracks hard against the rock, a sick jag of pain spiking his brain and for a red moment the world goes dark and muddled in his skull. Dizzy, the world rotates on a nauseous axis, wobbling like a bowl dropped on a table until it rattles to a stop and he’s laying face down on the ground. The stone is cold against his cheek and palms, the warmth bleeding from his body into the ground.

He blinks slowly, vision focusing…

He’s staring at his own fist against the ground In it: the broken gold chain of Clay’s periapt. Like he tore it from the firbolg’s neck in his panic. Confused, Molly lets it slide from his fingers and rolls onto his side.

Caduceus himself lays some five feet away. He’s sprawled, unmoving. His staff lays on the floor near his head. The amethyst at the head is pulsing slowly, like a heartbeat, revealing the dim fifteen by fifteen foot cavern they’re trapped inside, like a bubble inside solid rock. There’s no other light source, entrance, or seam in the walls of their cell and for a terrible moment, Molly feels the weight of the earth, the walls like a sarcophagus around them and panic begins to bleed in him.

Molly gets to his feet.

“Clay?”

No response.

“Fuck. Caduceus?”

Clay stirs then, groaning as he tries to push himself into a sitting position, head hanging low.

“What… what hap—?” He kind of jerks and doubles over retching. He shudders, then looks up, looks around at the dark cell around them. “Oh no. No…”

“Hey. Clay?” Molly remains at a distance. Molly has both rapiers in hand. “You alright, friend? What’ve you done? It’s okay if you’re okay now. You okay?”

He looks at Molly, looks at his weaponry in hand, the look on his face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mollymauk.” He touches his neck and it takes Molly a moment to realize he’s touching the hollow where the periapt once laid. “I’m so…” His expression kind of buckles in grief, a bright pain welling in his pale eyes. “I didn’t think he’d do that.”

“Caduceus,” Molly murmurs, moving slowly to kneel next to him. “What happened?”

“I think he turned the… the chain on my periapt into an enslavement ring.” And, having said the words out loud in all their horror, a low, animal growl rises out of Caduceus’ chest and the fingers at this throat dig into the collar of his shirt just above his armor. “He must have done it… a while ago.” The growl is horrible in the firbolg’s throat, this eldritch-fey noise of rage and sorrow. His words stutter and sob. “I didn’t… I didn’t think he’d…”

Molly sheathes one rapier and loops an arm around Caduceus’ shoulders. “Shh, hey. Stop. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“The others are still out there. He only got the two of us.” Molly squeezes Caduceus’ shoulders meaningfully. “And he didn’t tell you to hurt anyone. All you did was pull us into some stupid pocket dimension or something. He doesn’t mean to kill us, I guess. It’s okay. He just sidelined us.”

“He’s split the party. They need us. We can’t fight him staggered–”

“They’ll be okay. They’ve got gods and assassins on their side.”

“How long have I worn this?” Caduceus seems to be in shock.

“Hey, stop. Hey. This isn’t a subtle spell. If you’d been under its control before, you’d know.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Caduceus covers his eyes with one hand. “I know this is the first time he’s used it, but how long has he been comfortable letting me wear this?”

“Since you switched sides,” says a voice suddenly.

Molly’s on his feet instantly. He’s only aware that he cut himself because his rapier burns now in his fist, swarmed in radiant fire. Blood soaks his shirt collar, his neck bleeding gently. Standing in the room, sudden as a blink, is Caleb Widogast. He glances at Molly’s sword, then meets his gaze. There’s something wrong with his eyes – the halogen blue color has ignited and shifts in his skull like blue flame burns behind the iris. The air around him breathes distorted by heatless mirage, power sweltering off his skin so strongly, it makes Molly’s nose sting.

“Don’t do that.” Caleb’s eyes hold Molly’s. “I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me, you killed me,” Molly says, this even as dividing by two and just as factual. “What did you do to Clay?”

“Exactly what he said.” He looks at Caduceus then and shrugs. “It was when you asked me if I’d changed my mind about Beauregard. That’s when I changed the chain on your periapt. That night.”

That seems to do Clay some harm because his fingers dig deeper into the hallow at his throat and his eyes clench shut. So Molly steps between Caleb and the other man, his single drawn rapier throwing white in eerie ripples across the walls. Caleb’s eyes slide across the blade, then back to Molly.

“You’re stronger,” he says, “than when you died.”

“Any chance I can convince you to just back off?” Molly says.

“No.”

“Why? You win. We’re stuck in your stupid pocket bubble whatever. Gloating about it is fucking rude.”

“I’m not gloating. I’m sorry, but I need you to–”

“Fuck you and your sorry,” Molly says merrily. He circles a little to Caleb’s right and the wizard tracks him with his eyes, his fingers burning with some held sorcery that Molly talks over. “Rude to kill someone, you know. Rude to enslave someone with a cheap piece of jewelry too.”

“I’m not here to fight,” Caleb says. “Neither of you will win here. This room is made to hold my enemies. So…” He holds out an empty hand. “Molly, come with me. I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, sincere as his mask of sociopathy will allow, “but I will hurt Caduceus if you don’t cooperate.” He waits for Molly to react, but only for a second before getting impatient. “Did you hear me? I will hurt him. Put the weapon away. I’m beyond you, Mollymauk. Just do as I say.”

“Suck. My. Purple. Dick,” Molly enunciates.

Caleb gives him a bewildered look.

“Go fuck yourself, Mr. Widogast.”

“I forgot how annoying you –”

“Eat me. Also, you’re terrible.”

Caleb’s eyes roll a little, a low fury coming into his gaze so Molly pivots quickly.

“If you’re such a goddamn monster now, why the hell didn’t you use that enslavement bullshit on the beach?” Molly blows air through his lips, makes a face. “Caduceus sure pissed you off then. If you’re so dedicated to this asshole shtick you should have sold it a little better, honestly. I don’t think—”

“I wasn’t wearing it on the beach.” Caduceus says this quietly, cutting Molly off. Caduceus doesn’t move from where he’s kneeling, one hand still pressed to his throat. “I was… I meant to give it you, Molly, on the day I raised you. I wasn’t wearing it.” He looks up at Caleb then. “That’s the only reason you didn’t use it to stop me earlier, isn’t it? Nothing else.”

“I told you,” Caleb murmurs. “You’re expendable to me.”

“Dramatic,” Molly snaps. “And bullshit.”

“You’ve been dead for ten years,” Caleb says sharply. “You don’t know anything. Now, put that sword down or I’ll make you.”

“I’m not wearing your stupid collar, Caleb. You want me down? Put me down.”

Caleb’s eyes flare then and he hits Molly with a spell.

Molly feels the enchantment clutch his limbs like a seizure; his hands immediately open and drop his rapier. He barely has time to panic about that, because in the time it takes them to hit the ground, Molly’s sprinted fifteen feet across the small room and slammed palms first, then sternum into the wall, pressing there like he can shove himself through the damn stone, his whole body possessed by the compulsion to just get away, far away, as fast as possible. But fast as it drives him to his knees, the compulsion is gone and he’s breathing again, gasping.

He hears voices behind him.

Clay saying, “Enchant him again and I will make you regret it, Caleb.”

“You can’t beat me here.” Caleb’s voice has nothing in it, but the syllables. Molly looks over his shoulder. Caleb holds one hand toward Caduceus, the other up behind him, a shivering static screaming around one extended index finger. “And I won’t fall for the same trick twice. Anti-magic won’t work here, Clay.”

Caduceus is breathing hard, light fading from his staff, kneeling on the floor still but in a defensive stance now, his holy symbol raised in front of him. Molly can smell the ozone and sugar stink of dispelled magic in an enclosed space. Caleb’s stopped him from doing something clearly because Caduceus is shaking from some exertion, pink light fading off his body like steam from a hot stone.

“Tell Molly to do what I say,” Caleb whispers. “I will bury you here just to make a point.”

“Liar.” There is fey fire in Caduceus stare now, lit rose-pink in his irises, bright as the blue behind Caleb’s arcane stare. “You just attack the things you love because you think you don’t deserve them.” There’s power gathering in him, suffusing his frame and crackling across fur and fabric. “But you’re not Trent’s toy soldier anymore. So stop trying to be the monster again because it’s easier than facing up to –”

Caleb shouts something and throws a hand forward, but Clay’s staff flares and the magic dispels across his shoulders like a snowball breaking against a window. Caduceus’ eyes narrow, but there’s light shimmering on the edges of him now, moss blooming suddenly up in the cracks in the cobblestones and the air smells like soil and crushed grass and fresh sap running from spring-green wood.

“Stop talking, Caduceus.” Caleb’s stare burns chemical blue. “I’m warning you.”

“You can’t put me in a box. You won’t protect me by putting me aside.

“I’m not protecting you,” Caleb hisses, but there’s something in his words now – not anger but fear. “Don’t.”

“You can’t turn back time,” Caduceus says and with each word, the light in his eyes intensifies. His war braid starts to unravel, the light pulsing like a heartbeat in the crystal focus, in the color of his hair, and in the lichen on his armor. Light breathing through the him as radiance through a moral veil. “Live with your goddamn consequences, Caleb.”

Caleb’s eyes go wide and, “Caduce—!”

The cleric slams his staff to the ground.

A terrible scream roars up through the wood, vibrating up the shaft like a tuning fork stuck to the howl of cicadas. It’s so loud, Molly has to clap his hands over his ears and watch, horrified, as the wood in Clay’s hand erupts impossibly into a black, writhing cloud of locusts, so thick they block out all but the smallest shreds of the light in the room. Molly scrambles away, back hitting the wall as Caduceus Clay’s plague of insects consumes Caleb Widogast.

He disappears into a sea of chitinous bodies, breaking like a wave over him. Through the clicking roar of beetles and wings, Molly can hear the wizard screaming. Molly smells blood and somewhere in that swarm, he can just make out the heaving thrash that must be Caleb writhing and thrashing as Caduceus’ spell bears down, merciless as the fucking tide under the moon. He’s not stopping. Caduceus stands in the center of the room, his staff blinding in his hands, a surging mass of insects breaking against the wall in front of him.

There’s blood glistening now on the bodies of the bugs, slick and iron and Molly can still hear Caleb. He’s still screaming. This insane animal sound of agony.

There’s a flare of fire from the mass, a mound of beetle igniting suddenly and a fireball the size of an umbrella erupts through the swarm and rockets directly at Caduceus. But fast as the spell is released, the bugs swarm again, and the wizard’s spell swerves. It rips a flaming path across Clay’s shoulder instead of his core, staggering, his arm suddenly a burnt and bleeding roadmap of fused fur and flesh.

Caduceus stumbles and for a moment the light in his staff flickers and the swarm slows… before he draws a long breath, steadies and with a bullish exhalation he focuses through the pain. The swarm surges again, renewed and Caleb is again, gone beneath the ravenous mass.

“Caduceus!”

Molly lunges off the wall and races to grab his arm. He doesn’t notice. So fixed on his task, he can’t hear.

“Stop! Stop it that’s enough—!” He wrenches Cad’s arm down, grabs his collar. “You’re killing him!” The swarm continues to burrow and spiral, crushing its target against the wall in a screaming wave and Molly can see Caduceus’ face – frozen in horror, his pale, glowing eyes running over liquid light and Molly grabs his jaw and pulls his head down to look at him. “CADUCEUS! Please –!”

And that’s when Caleb, still choking, being torn by insects, manages to say a Word.

Like he didn’t know the one that killed, Molly does not know this one. He, nevertheless, knows that the Word is ‘agony’.

It hits Caduceus like one of Nott’s bullets. It slams home in his ribcage, penetrating his armor like cotton and hurls the cleric down, dropping his body to the floor where the Word takes root like a weed in fast forward. The spell erupts through Caduceus in red veins of light. The veins lash themselves around his wrists, his throat, his skull, and like hideous assassin’s wire, they garrote him to the ground. Then they start to pulse. Fast. Then faster and faster. Until it’s a constant, whirring hum inside Caduceus.

And that’s when the cleric starts screaming.

The Word lights his body up, igniting the root-system of his nervous system until he’s a writhing skeleton caged by cherry-red wiring. A nebula of burning copper with a single racing coal nested in the ribcage. He’s rigid like he’s stroking out, his eyes turning back in his skull as his spine curls up from the floor, his shoulders pinned back by paralysis.

The insect swarm dispels instantly – whatever arcane focus needed to hold it instantly shredded as their spellcaster loses his concentration over to agony. Clay is howling, this horrible split-sound between a beast bellowing and a man screaming. He thrashes wildly, ridden from the inside by the pain, possessed by it until he’s incapable of screaming and he’s just shaking and choking at Molly’s feet.

“I told you,” Caleb gasps. He staggers forward, covered in blood, his entire body a red slick of uncountable insect bites. His robes are soaked and shredded. His blue eyes are still burning, fixed on his fallen teammate’s shaking form. “I told you, Cad. I told you –”

Molly’s across the room instantly. He slams into Caleb, shoving him back against the wall and one hand around the wizard’s throat and his second rapier against Caleb’s windpipe and blade edge digging into cartilage.

“Stop hurting him,” Molly rasps.

Caduceus is sobbing and retching now. Sick with the pain and clawing at the ground.

“Caleb! For fuck’s sake!”

Caleb just looks at him, calm as a summer day, eyes pale as clear skies through the blood that soaks his face.

“You’ve been with them three days and you care so much about even him…”

“You fucking idiot! You’re such a fucking idiot! How can you be so smart and be so bloody stupid!?”

“Come with me, Molly, willingly and I’ll stop.”

Molly throws the sword down and grabs Caleb’s shirt in a two-fisted twist. “STOP HURTING HIM OR I’M GONNA BITE YOUR BLOODY EYES OUT!”

Caleb waves a hand.

The Word douses like a coal dropped in water and the enchantment dies. Caduceus stops screaming instantly. Like someone knocked the air out of him and he lies there dark and numb and gasping. The light in the staff is just barely glowing, soft and thready near Clay’s head where it fell. He’s shivering, half-conscious, hair a pink muddle beneath his skull, curled in on himself like a stabbed creature. His shaking hand closed and pressed against his chest. He looks like he’s fucking dying.

Molly has his fists around Caleb’s throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened to you? He loves you, you stupid son of a bitch. They all do. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Saving Beauregard,” he says.

He offers Molly an open hand.

“Come with me.”

Molly hisses. Full on, Infernal snarling in his face.

Caleb just grimaces a little.

“Okay. The others are coming. Are you –?”

“I hope Jester punches your teeth in,” Molly snaps.

And he takes Caleb by hand and they vanish.

#critical role #critrole #the mighty nein #mollymauk tealeaf #caduceus clay #long post #in which the clay and molly complications and parallels come to a head

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