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notroosterbradshaw · 1 year

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Stay the Night

here’s some old-school Bucky in Wakanda smut. I didn’t think I’d publish Bucky stuff here, yet here we are. Hope you enjoy x

18+, smut, fluff. It's just you and Bucky in Wakanda while the team is away. He tends to his flock, you wish he tended to you.

“Today is the literal meaning of ‘hotter than Hades’,” you announced as you collapsed less than gracefully on a broken tree log as Bucky Barnes shot you a look over his shoulder, sweat protruding from every pore in his tanned, muscular form, a tendril of long, dark hair falling into his glassy blue eyes from the loose ponytail behind his head.

Jesus, a man should never look that damn good, you thought, fanning yourself with your shirt, the material sticking to your drenched skin. Thank god the heat hid your blush.

“Bored?” he asked, scooping up a hay bail and loosening it for the goats he tended to munch on.

“Radio silence,” you replied. “I kind of feel like I’m in the way of the locals when I can’t contact the team. I haven’t heard from Nat, Sam or Steve in a few days. I am pretty useless at times like this.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky said, pointing at the water bottle you had parked beside you. “You brought water. I assume that’s why you’re out here in the midday sun,” he teased as you tossed it to him and he caught it easily with his right hand, twisting the cap off and guzzling the cool refreshment.

Every movement was pure sex, you sighed quietly as his throat bobbed, water falling from the creases of his lips and down his chin. Life seemed much fairer before Bucky Barnes.

“Thanks, Buck,” you rolled your eyes as he finished the bottle easily, crushing it in his palm and laughing at you, walking back to hand it to you.

“No, no,” he nudged your boot with his. “Thank you,” he went back to stacking and distributing hay as you said a quiet goodbye and told him you’d see him later.

You hated when the team was away.

While you’d made some friends in Wakanda, you were still finding your way and mostly felt in the way of working alongside the Wakandan defence and communications teams. They used a lot more sophisticated tech than Stark had ever provided you and you’d never admit it out loud, the tech was somewhat confusing at times, thanks to its gross advancement over what you were used to.

You’d always be thankful for T’Challa and his family for taking you into the palace grounds, a necessity, T’Challa explained. It was beyond amazing and his lovely mother, Ramonda, fussed over you to ensure you were comfortable at all times. It was nice to feel so welcome, but so lonely without your family.

Steve, Nat and Sam had left days ago. Wanda and Vis were off the radar (lie, you knew they were having some kind of rendezvous in Europe and had no intentions of interrupting whatever was or had developed between them).

That left Bucky.

After he’d been woken from cryo, Shuri had run every test known to man on him to assist in the removal of the trigger words, he’d gratefully taken up residence away from the hustle and bustle of the wondrous city and hauled his ass out to the farmlands, simply requesting the peace, privacy and quiet. For the first time in over 100 years, he was able to be his own man without fear of retribution. Sure, the dark memories flickered occasionally, but the words would never hurt him again.

He enjoyed the serenity in the sounds of nature, with the exception of an iPod that Sam had gifted to get him up to speed on more modern music than the 1940’s bops Bucky was more accustomed to –

You sighed, hearing the knock at the door, interrupting the reverie of mindless TV. It was late, too late for guests. After dinner, you’d showered and retired to your PJ’s – your threadbare, well-worn Yankees shirt (your first souvenir of New York City when SHIELD moved you there years earlier regardless of your disinterest in baseball) and loose PJ pants. “Coming,” you replied, pushing yourself up to open the door, surprised to see Bucky on the other side - cleaned up, void of sweat and dust in lazy sweat pants and a white t-shirt. A casual Bucky Barnes. This new development was not helping your crush. Not in the slightest. “Hey. You lost?” you teased lightly.

He showed you a bottle of Glenfidditch and you chuckled a little, moving from the way to let him in. Closing the door behind him, you leaned back against it, a little confused about his visit as Bucky simply didn’t visit anyone aside from Steve or Shuri. You only visited Bucky occasionally to make sure he wasn’t segregating himself, but he did usually prefer his own company when Steve wasn’t around.

“Got ice?” he asked, going to the kitchenette for a couple of tumblers.

“I don’t actually – if I’m going to drink aged whiskey, I’ll be doing it properly.”

“Ooh,” Bucky cooed, a small grin growing on his lips. “A woman after my own heart.”

“Blame Steve – a few years back when we all moved to the Tower… fuck, just after Ultron maybe? Steve brought out a bottle of this stuff and I’ve been a convert ever since. He said you guys would destroy bottles together.”

“Well, he did. I would drink responsibly though I didn’t know at the time I could put them back as well as Steve could with the serum running through my veins,” he said, bringing the glasses to the coffee table, cracking the top and pouring you each a glass. “Are you gonna join me or hang out by the door?”

“Sorry,” your face flushed as you skittered over and sat at the other end of the couch. He handed you a glass and gave you gentle ‘cheers’ before you sat in silence for a while, enjoying the smooth amber liquid. “…Bucky, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I dunno – you seemed a bit forlorn today. Thought I’d try and be a friend,” he shrugged. “You’ve been pretty accommodating to me since we got here. I guess I could repay the favour even if you’re only checking in on me for Steve. And you’ve got air conditioning,” he tossed in the joke to try and lighten the mood.

“Steve didn’t ask me to keep tabs on you,” you admitted.

“Oh,” Bucky said, sipping his whiskey and easing back on the couch. “Do you like it out here?”

You chewed your lip, dropping your eyes to the glass. “I mean, it’s a hellova lot better than being shipped out to The Raft,” you admitted as he stifled a chuckle.

“True.”

“If I’m going to be on the run for associating with the team, it might as well be in one of the most securest places on the planet.”

“You chose well,” Bucky agreed.

“Would have been stupid for me not to take it. I owe T’Challa, and Steve, a lot.”

“They’re good men.”

“Absolutely.”

Silence overtook the room again though there was no discomfort with it.

“Thanks for havin’ a drink with me,” Bucky said as he polished off his glass. “It’s getting late,” he got to his feet.

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to impose,” he said with a gentle shrug, collecting his tumbler.

“You’re not imposing. It’s nice to have the company, to be honest,” you confessed.

“'Nother glass then?”

“Definitely,” you said, hoping not to appear too eager. Bucky gave a small nod and poured again.

“I know I’m not much of a talker,” he told you as you sat and cradled your glass close to your chest.

“I just enjoy the company regardless of noise levels,” you shrugged. “It’s different when the team is here, but when they aren’t…”

“When they aren’t?” he pressed.

“I have too much time with my thoughts.”

He raised a glass. “I hear that.”

Your glass joined his. “Why are you in the farmlands then and not in the palace?”

He nodded slowly as you hoped you hadn’t overstepped the mark. Blame the first glass of booze – less than tipsy you would never ask such a question. “Just tryin’ to earn my keep – least I can do since T’Challa is harbouring an international war criminal, assassin, murderer – ”

You gave a gentle laugh. “He’s not harbouring you.”

“Protecting me then,” Bucky corrected himself.

“Maybe protecting you,” you admitted, agreeing.

You both continued a polite conversation, mostly about Steve and the team before you both started dozing at your respective ends of the couch. “I should really head out now,” Bucky said.

“Stay, it’s a million degrees out there.”

He gave you an incredulous look that told you he knew what you were saying, but staying was still a terrible idea. Suddenly overwhelmed, you realised it completely sounded like a blatant invite for sex. It wasn’t, you thought. Was it?

Trying telling your libido that.

“If you stay on your side of the bed, Bucky, and I stay on mine, we won’t have any issues,” you try to regain your composure.

“Are you completely sure?” he looked about as convinced as you thought you were.

“My God, it’s sleep,” you told him. “I would never deny you, of all people, Bucky, sleep.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

“It’s far too hot to stay out there overnight. Enjoy a night’s sleep in the air con,” you joked. “If you enjoy sleeping in comfy climates, hey, you might even move in here.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Here?”

You blinked a few times, not catching his tease. “Yeah, like here, the palace.”

He laughed. “Okay.”

“Oh, you thought in here. With me,” you barked a laugh, getting off the couch and heading for the bed, Bucky following a safe distance away. You stifled your discomfort with snark, “Oh, darling,” you leaned forward to cup Bucky’s stubbly chin. “Don’t think so highly of yourself.”

“Oh darlin’, don’t fall for me so quickly. It’ll only end in heartbreak,” he mocked in return. You laughed incredulously, thinking to yourself, ‘too fuckin’ late, buddy’ and moving to your side of the King bed and pulling the pillows towards yourself.

“If you’re truly concerned, here. Build a pillow wall with me. Put that hay bailin’ practice to good use.”

He sighed with a gentle smile, he was thoroughly enjoying this cheeky banter you’d suddenly worked into your conversation and helped you build the Great Wall of pillows.

“Perfect,” you said, fixing the last pillow in place.

“That is an impressive pillow wall,” Bucky concluded, stifling a laugh. “Failsafe.”

“Make yourself comfy,” you told him, laying back as he pulled off his soft cotton t-shirt and folded it, placing it neatly on the bedside table next to him, a habit he’d picked up in military training in the 40s and never really lost it, no matter what control he was under, you imagined.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he told you. “It is a lot nicer inside than out.”

“Told you,” you replied with a chuckle, raising a fist to him over the wall.

“What is that?” he chucked.

“My knuckles? You’ve never knocked ‘knuckles’ with someone? A fist bump?”

He laughed louder. “No, I’ve never fist-bumped.”

“Then hit my knuckles with yours,” you instructed as Bucky did as he was told. Still confused for a second, his hand met yours gently before opening and clutching your wrist in his warm, rough-skinned hand and bringing your open hand to his lips. The rules of the pillow wall were suddenly crumbling before you. Destroyed so easily.

“You need to behave,” you told him, suddenly very nervous.

“I’m finding it so hard. We’re here and I know it’s not just me that is feeling this, sugar,” he continued kissing to your wrist and moving towards your inner elbow as he got to his knees. Your body betrayed you as goose pimples shot up and down your spine and you found yourself sitting up opposite him. “All I wanna do is compromise this pillow wall.”

You could cut the tension in the cool room with a knife as your eyes burned into his. Chewing his lip, he made no secret of his intentions as he licked his mouth and walloped the pillow wall away.

Suddenly there was no divide and you were looking at each like they were your last meals. “Can I kiss you?” he asked shyly.

“If you don’t, I’m going to kiss you,” you retorted as he skimmed across the sheets to you and pulled your body flush to his. He sunk his fingers into your hair and pulled your face to his, leaving a small kiss on your waiting lips.

“Is that okay?” he asked, almost afraid.

“More,” you demanded as a reply. There was nothing forgiving about it – you were suddenly craving him – his mouth, his touch, his body, his scent and he was surrounding you in a way no other person had before.

He moved back a little. “One minute – I gotta explain…” he breathed gently. “This is kind of my first time being intimate in a long time. I know this,” he looked at his left shoulder, ashamed. “I know it’s not sexy. And if you don’t want to be with me because of it - ”

You grasped his face in your hands, forcing his eyes to meet yours and kissed him lightly. “Believe me when I say I do not care, Bucky. I know you do but I need you to know, this changes nothing for me.”

“I’ve imagined this so many times with you, pleasing you and now we’re here, I just…” his soft Brooklyn accent rumbled. “I just imagined it as me. The old me.”

Your head spun – he felt the same way? Jesus Christ, assassin school taught him surely how to fool you into believing he barely knew you existed.

“Well, I only know this, Bucky – I’m pretty crazy about you.”

His eyes flickered. Maybe it was emotion, you weren’t sure.

“You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

This time, he blushed.

“So maybe, you should just lay back,” you said, helping guide him to do so, his head settling amongst the remains of the disastrous pillow wall and you kissed him, he moaned just loud enough to hear. “And we have a good time, okay?”

He nodded, nervously. “Okay.”

“Now, relax,” you said, unsure where your confidence was coming from but you knew he needed you to lead him and you were going to treat him right. He deserved this – you, and all of you. All for him.

You ungracefully tossed the sheets from the bed, they’d just be getting in the way and crawled towards Bucky’s feet, grabbing the loose elasticised ankles and pulling at them, the sweats he wore drawn from his slender hips, descending his powerful thighs and calves before you disregarded them all together, leaving him solely in boxer briefs. Calvin Klein, how so very rude.

And dear, if your mouth didn’t water at the surprise he poorly hid in them.

Kissing his ankle and working your lips up the inside of his legs, tickling behind his knee, he shuddered. He shuddered hard. “Fuck,” he muttered. You smiled against his skin, lips moving again, your hands massaging his powerful thighs. Stopping at his waist, you crept onto his lap and pulled away your shirt. Bucky sighed, his hand reaching out to touch you. You leaned closer to him as his arm skirted around you, pulling your body flush to his to kiss you, your tongue tracing his full lips as he enthusiastically opened his mouth for your tongues to meet. His hand scalded your skin as he groped at you lightly, cascaded your side and tangled into your hair, deepening the kiss as his hips started to move beneath your body, his cock needing the friction.

You paused and raised a finger to him. He raised a confused eyebrow as you scampered off him to lose your sweats, no panties underneath. You didn’t let him get a good, long look at you before you moved to rid him of his boxers, hard cock free and you gave him a few encouraging pumps, his eyes rolling back. “Sweet Jesus,” he begged for mercy. “Please.”

“Please?” you raised a teasing eyebrow and sat on your knees between his muscular thighs. He was asking you to go down on him. You’d never felt so willing before to please a man as you were for to do for Bucky.

“Please,” he tried again as you could see this man didn’t need to be teased, he just needed to be wanted. Adored. Loved.

“Okay. Okay, now you sit back, Barnes. And you let me take care of the rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he tucked his arm behind his head, licking his lips as you took him in your palms before an encouraging kiss to the head and taking him into your mouth. “Dear God,” he managed to say through groans. His hand found your hair again, pushing your hair from your face to see what he thought was the most beautiful mouth he’d ever seen work over his body. “Baby, that is so good. So hot,” he encouraged, clutching roughly but not enough to hurt, just enough to spur you on. You continued your ministrations for a few minutes more before he guided you away from him, gasping. “Baby, stop. I’ll come.”

You blinked at him. “That’s okay,” you promised. “I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

He grinned at you. “I’m sure you can. But I don’t want to come in your mouth,” he admitted shyly.

“Oh,” you gave a gentle nod. “I thought I was doing something wrong.”

He shook his head, alarmed. “God, no. You were a little too good at what you were doing,” he reassured you. “Get up here,” he pulled you to his face to meet him for a lingering kiss. “You could kill a man with that mouth.”

“I doubt that,” you got suddenly shy, burying your blushing face in his neck as he guided your face back to his.

“Don’t get bashful now, sweetheart,” he gazed at you like you were about the best damn thing he’d ever seen. You didn’t know how or why, but the look turned you on more than any act prior to right then. You just wanted to make him happy, release him, and feel him come apart under your hands. “I have an admission to make, and fuck, I hope this doesn’t come across as shitty…” he said quietly.

“What’s that?” you asked, suddenly feeling very exposed regardless of you lack of clothing.

“Uhh… I don’t know, logistically, how I make this work without you on toppa me, baby. I’m sorry, I don’t want to crush you if something goes wrong,” he looked as though he wanted the bed to eat him whole.

And why, you don’t know. But his admission gave you the confidence you didn’t expect. “Is this you suggesting I ride you?” you gave a small giggle as he chewed his lip.

“Lil’ bit, yeah. I know that sounds so goddamn selfish – ”

“Giving me the power over you makes you selfish?”

“Well, it takes away a fair amount of effort,” he reasoned. “And you know, I wanna show you what I can do…” his voice trailed off, timidly.

And suddenly you understood. This wasn’t just about a missing limb – this was the pain and terror from all those years ago. The raw, never-ending trauma of Bucky’s initial testing, falling from the train in the Alps. Losing his arm seemed so minute in all of it. Years of physical and mental abuse, and psychological torment at the hands of HYDRA, of the Soviets, whoever was the highest bidder for The Winter Soldier.

This was touch, connection, feeling wanted and adored – oh, how needed to Bucky understand how much you wanted to be the person to help him.

You tutted him and inhaled, gently cupping his cheek, choosing compassion. “Relax, handsome, lay back and enjoy,” you instructed as he nodded slightly and wrapped his scorching hand around your ribs. It was such a simple act, but it turned you on so much. It felt possessive, wanted. “I want to make you feel so fucking good – will you let me?”

You don’t know why you asked, but you knew you needed to hear him tell you he wanted this too. “Yes,” he nodded shyly. “Hell yes.”

“Okay,” you leaned down to kiss him, reached between your bodies and in your warm hands, adjusted your body on his. Viewing Bucky as he felt you sheath your body around his was as good as it could ever get – his plumb lips drawn into his gleaming white teeth, his bright blue eyes hidden behind his long lashes. Giving him some time to adjust, just like you were to his size encouraged you as he lightly raised his hips in hopes for you to move. “You good?” you asked again.

“Better than, amazing,” he told you, gripping your hip and your body slowly started to move above him. “Jesus Christ,” he uttered, raising his eyes to look at you.

Taking his hand and linking your fingers as you relaxed and stopped trying to ensure his good time (it appeared ensured) and sinking into feeling so good yourself, you moved your hips more, craving Bucky deeper, hoping to find that elusive little spot to make you explode.

“Touch yourself?” he pleaded quietly. “Please, sugar?”

Appeasing him happily, he watched your free hand creep down your body and open yourself up to where your bodies met, your fingers putting on a show as you toyed with yourself just for his dark, lust-filled eyes. Your body tightened under the pressure and Bucky’s pleasured grunts and curses was certainly on the rise. His hand relinquished yours as he clutched onto your ass, forcing you rougher into him, his tempo speeding up and urging you to do the same from the friction his body caused yours.

“God, you feel so good. So wet, so warm,” he muttered, his breathing deepening as his hips haphazardly fired into you. “Are you close?” he asked desperately. You were, you so fucking were, you realised, his simple question bringing you even closer. You nodded as you pressed harder against your clit, desperate for your own release and of course, his.

He needs this, you reminded yourself. You needed this. “Fuck, yes,” you replied as he used his abs to sit up, suddenly so much deeper into you as you looked at each other face to face, chest to chest and Bucky kissed you. He kissed you with those beautiful lips and a tongue that knew exactly how you wanted to be kissed as he moaned into your mouth. He wrapped his arm around your waist and took a nipple into your mouth as you started to come – that was the move, the special way to push you over the edge. Realising this, Bucky grinned and looked at you, using those pearly whites to chew lightly and you were coming. Coming so hard that you felt like you might have seen stars as he let out a litany of curses and came hard too.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Bucky breathed, chest heaving as he rolled onto his back, taking your body down with him, keeping you wrapped in his embrace and softening inside you. Bucky Barnes liked to cuddle, you realised.

“Holy shit,” you managed to say as you tried to settle your breathing. “That was fantastic.”

“Really?” he asked bashfully. He looked you in the eye and begged you weren’t lying to him. You nodded and tenderly kissed him. “Good,” he gave a small, shy smile and suddenly appeared so boyish. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have the thank me,” you told him. “Trust me, I’m just glad you stayed.”

“Fuck, me too,” he laughed. “Me too.”

Hearing your phone beep, you shot up through the heaviness across your chest and halted you. Bucky’s body subdued you – the body heat he exhumed was hot and stifling. He groaned, pulling you back down to him.

“They’ll call back,” he muttered. “Sleep.”

“It’s the team,” you whispered back. He breathed heavily, reaching out for the phone for you reluctantly and putting it in your hands. Relief washed through you. The team, including Wanda and Vis, were returning to Wakanda imminently. “Did you sleep okay?”

Yawning, Bucky slightly freed you from his grasp. “You weren’t wrong about sleeping comfortably – I mean, I don’t deserve to, but it was the most relaxing sleep I’ve had in years.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Bucky. Truly.”

He soothingly kissed your naked shoulder. “Thank you for last night.”

“I just hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“So much,” he breathed against your skin, rolling you to your back and lightly pining your body under his. You loved the feel of his weight on your body. You would come to crave it. Addicted and all in less than 12 hours. You’d fallen so hard, so fast. “Did you?”

“Yes,” you couldn’t lie. Bucky’s body was made for a multitude of sins and loving on a woman? The top. He kissed each eyelid that fluttered closed under his touch, the tip of your nose, his mouth travelling through your throat to your décolletage. “Behave…” you teased, your fingers lacing into his long, dark, loose waves.

He laughed into your skin. “Okay,” he nudged your knees apart, his hips meeting yours. He felt as if he was flying – he’d never imagined the confidence he felt, that you’d given to him. Or how you could have destroyed it by rejecting him. The power you had over him was stifling. That was a hellova lot scarier than what was to eventually come.

“What did I say?”

“You told me to behave.”

“And what did you do?”

“The exact opposite,” he admitted. “I just can’t seem to keep my mitts offa you. You’ve opened the floodgates, sugar. I don’t know if I’ll ever be the same again.”

Your phone beeping incessantly now, you found yourself in a world where only you and Bucky ceased to exist. The rest of the world could wait another hour.

#make me regret posting this 😬#bucky with the good hair #bucky fluff #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky angst #white wolf #notroosterbradshaw #reposting from another life #if this bombs I’m deleting it

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jadevine · 3 months

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Medieval Warhorses, Repost + additions!

Since people loved my "Preindustrial travel times" post so much, I decided to repost my "Realistic warhorses" info separately from the original link, where it was a response to "how to get the feel of realistic combat."

The original link is here.

The "Warhorse" post on my blog, plus a recent addition, is here.

And here's the text for people who want to go down my "grown up horse-girl" rabbit hole right away!

Medieval Warhorses:

First of all: DESTRIERS WERE NOT DRAFT HORSES. Horse/military historians are begging people to stop putting their fantasy knights on Shires, Belgians, and other massive, chunky farm-horses! The best known instance of “a knight needs to get lifted onto their 18-hand draft horse” is a SATIRE (A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, if I remember right), but somehow laymen decided to take it seriously.

Hell, I think the film’s historians knew that this was extremely inaccurate and begged the director not to do it.

For the purposes of this post, I will not get into the different TYPES OF WARHORSES. That is a hyper-fixation for another day, lol.

—

First problem with “Draft horses as warhorses:”

The bulk of modern-day “breeds” are far too recent for a medieval or medieval-fantasy story. Modern horse “breeds” began around the 1700s-1800s, so that’s in the EXTREMELY late-medieval/early-modern period. Before that, most medieval horses were referred to by “TYPE/PURPOSE” and maybe a “Country/Region.” “Spanish/Iberian horses” (the ancestors of modern-day Andalusians, Carthusians, and Lusitanos) were overwhelmingly popular for combat, and other baroque horses were also esteemed.

Destriers are physically average-height at 15 hands high (about 5 feet tall at the shoulder/withers), but the important part is that they are STACKED at 1200-1300lbs when most 15-hand horses are only 900-1000lbs, so that’s a quarter to a third more weight in muscle.

And remember, muscle will not make a given horse look “chubby!” Good ways to get across a warhorse’s muscles in writing is 1) how ROCK SOLID they are when you touch them, 2) their chiseled shoulders, necks, and butts, and 2) when they get into motion, especially for a fight, their muscles will flex and get REALLY defined. The three regions I mentioned are usually the most visible if they’ve got horse tack or a rider on them.

Think of the difference between “regular horse” and “destrier” as “regular Tom Hardy, who looks fit but normal,” versus “Tom Hardy playing Bane, where he put on thirty pounds and his torso and arms look like a fucking tree-trunk.”

Warhorses had nerves of steel, and the best-trained warhorses used could sprint and turn on a dime–they’ve been called “the sports cars of the medieval world.” This is a far cry from huge, sweet, and lumbering draft horses.

Besides Spanish horses, modern-day candidates for destriers would be European cobs (heavier all-purpose horses, large Welsh cobs are the best-known modern breed), and Foundation Quarter Horses (working/stock horses that can herd cattle and race and actually USE their muscles, not the bloated halter-horses who are mostly bred to look “good” to judges).

—

But if the destrier was supposed to be the horse equivalent of “Tom Hardy as Bane” and not “The Mountain from Game of Thrones,” then how could they carry a knight’s armor as well as their own?

First of all, human combat armor is different from JOUSTING armor and it is easily half the weight for better mobility. Warhorses from proper medieval times aren’t shown wearing much horse-armor, even in jousting. The stuff you see in museums is also frequently the custom-made armor for wealthy nobles, who either 1) wore it once or twice a year for public celebrations, which is also why the armor’s in pristine condition instead of dented and bloody like combat armor would be, or 2) wore it because they were rich enough to not want themselves OR their expensive horses to die too soon in combat.

Assuming that all destriers needed to carry 150lbs for an adult armored man, PLUS another 150lbs of the horse’s riding tack and armor, is like people from the years 2500-3000 assuming that everyone with a “car” must have a Lamborghini or a Ferrari that takes up a lot of maintenance (if you want to keep it looking nice, at least) and can go 200 miles per hour.

So the vast majority of realistic warhorses/destriers didn’t get much if any armor, because 1) horse-armor is for princes and dukes, not Count Whoever’s third son or his nephew that he tossed out on adulthood with barely any money, and 2) horse-armor is going to weigh down your FAST and NIMBLE warhorse. (Remember: Knights wanted sports cars, not tanks!) Take a look at the horses and knights of the website called “Destrier!” Most horses there aren’t notably tall, and they mostly wear head-armor and fancy but not heavy horse-tack like capes, instead of full barding.

Another reason average/short warhorses were preferred is for medieval safety issues: You wanted to mount your horse from the ground without help. The famous knight Jean Le Maingre was so dedicated to fighting that he could VAULT onto his horse in armor, without touching the stirrups. His instructions are, essentially, “put on your armor, find your horse, put your hands on the horse’s back/saddle, and FUCKING JUMP.”

Unless you’re seven feet tall or a gymnast, you’re not jumping onto an 18-hand draft horse.

So all those Red Dead Redemption animations where you get to alley-oop your way onto your loyal steed? POSSIBLE, IF YOU ARE CRAZY/ANGRY ENOUGH.

Quick note: In ancient Ireland, they refer to a “steed-leap” that nobles, warriors, and other “people rich enough to own RIDING horses” were trained to use–with the important distinction that Gaelic nobles often took pride in either using saddles without stirrups, or NOT USING SADDLES TO PUT ANY STIRRUPS ON. So the bulk of Gaelic Irish nobles could theoretically go Red Dead Redemption on your ass.

—

And the third reason most combat-ready warhorses didn’t get armor is because infantry (the vast majority of most medieval armies) just had a low chance of hitting them in the first place.

First of all, most horses are already faster than people. Destriers were EXCEPTIONALLY fast as the cream of the crop. For the horse to need armor, someone needs a good chance of hitting the horse.

Second, most horses are hard to kill physically because horses don’t tend to like getting stabbed or shot at, so they will likely try to kill YOU, which means that a knight and his horse are TWO fighters who are both very angry and very protective of each other. Most people love their horses, and many combatants share intense bonds! IMAGINE IF YOUR HORSE IS ALSO YOUR SQUAD-MATE!

And last of all, most horses are hard to kill mentally because when you want to use cavalry, you ALSO want the other side’s infantry to get consumed by panic and bolt for their lives, away from their companions and AWAY FROM THE CHARGING HORSES. (Which routinely leads to a slaughter, often called a “rout” in period literature, or a “curb-stomp battle” on TV Tropes.) While most knights could dish out one-on-one duels against EACH OTHER, a knight against a foot-soldier is going to have a huge and explicitly unfair advantage if the soldier is not specifically trained and equipped to take them on.

See, when you get a herd of knights on their steeds, the noise and the wave of horseflesh charging at you is going to make your reptile-brain instincts scream “NOPE NOPE NOPE, WE GOTTA GO!!!”

That instinct is so strong that infantry ACTORS in movies–who know that this is not a real war, and the riders don’t actually want to kill them–still routinely break formation and run.

It was possible to stop cavalry with infantry and end up slaughtering them instead of getting routed–it was just extremely notable.

Also, unless you’re specifically going for blood: You don’t WANT to slaughter a whole formation of knights! That means you’ve just pissed away a WHOLE lot of money that the knights represent!

You killed the horses that you could have used for your own side, and possibly bred for more high-end horses! You ruined the armor that you could have used for your own side, or at least melted down for high-quality, already-mined metal! You killed the knights that you could have sweetened up and used for your own side–or more likely, told their families to pay you if they wanted them home intact.

Barely anyone remembers that knights were as good for HOSTAGES as they were for actually fighting. (Except for Game of Thrones, and it’s still only plot-relevant for Jaime Lannister and Theon Greyjoy, and they explicitly did NOT get the protection a noble hostage should have.) It’s noted that Agincourt was a GREAT ending for England because capturing all those French nobles earned them TWENTY YEARS’ WORTH of regular income in ransoms. If they hadn’t won and gotten all that sweet, sweet French money, they would have been bankrupted and depopulated instead.

—

Two more strikes I’d feel are appropriate for “not wanting draft-type horses in combat:”

-Logistics 1: Too much food, too much hassle. Horses are already notorious for eating a lot, and a DRAFT horse that’s 2000lbs instead of 1200lbs will eat twice as much. No army wants to use their fodder for only half the number of horses they’d expect.

-Logistics 2: Too much hair, too much hassle. Shires and other British horses often have feathering on their legs, and anyone with long hair knows that loose hair/fur is a fucking PAIN. You can braid a horse’s mane and tail, but if you’re one of the many average/poor knights who DON’T have servants to take care of your horse for you, do you want to spend extra time cleaning and combing out your horse’s LEGS instead of necessary things? Like feeding them, grooming them, and checking for wounds? Nope, you’ll probably shave the feathering off or just pick a horse that doesn’t have it.

-Extra note on Friesian horses, who are RIDICULOUSLY common in “medieval” movies: Friesian horses are technically baroque horses in body form (Strong-boned! Big necks and butts!), but they’re also over-used in general, so most horse folks are sick of seeing them in movies. And if you don’t have the right kind of MODERN Friesian, you’ll probably be a laughingstock in addition to an eye-roll.

Some strains of modern Friesians are from carriage-horse lines, often referred to as “big movers.” This means “fun to LOOK AT, but terrible to RIDE.” Because, you know, those strains of Friesians weren’t meant for riding, but for PULLING CARRIAGES. Their movements are big, dramatic, and flashy… and their trot is notorious for bouncing people out of the saddle with every step. Not something you want for a knight who fills his opponents with terror.

A good riding horse’s movements are usually smooth and low to the ground, often described as “floating” and “effortless.”

—

A horse-note that I can’t figure out where to put: Many Western cultures love the idea of fiery stallions (intact male horses) for their noble knights and kings to ride into battle on, but realistically, stallions are only half of a given horse population. Many Western stallions are also gelded if they’re not the cream of the crop (which is probably at least the bottom half of the male horse population). So mares can be used by at least half of a realistic formation who just wants a warhorse, and doesn’t care about aesthetics or masculinity.

Also, mares can be ruthless and stallions can be nervous wrecks! Horses are living creatures, with personalities and feelings!

Horses also aren’t very sexually dimorphic, so a 1200lb war mare is DEFINITELY a match for a 1300lb war stallion. And remember how Loras Tyrell used a mare in heat to distract The Mountain’s stallion? That happens with a lot of stallions… almost like they’re living creatures, with instincts that they can’t always control! So if you know when your girl is ready to go every month, you can play dirty in a joust, too!

Just remember that you’re taking an equal risk, since your mare will possibly try to let a stallion mount her instead of fighting. You will either need to bail when she starts making googly-eyes, or you need to know you have ABSOLUTE loyalty from her, and she will listen to YOU instead of “the hot dude I just met five minutes ago!” HORSES ARE LIVING CREATURES, WITH INSTINCTS THAT THEY CAN’T ALWAYS CONTROL.

Then geldings will be used by at least another quarter of “the knights who cannot afford a horse good enough to keep his testicles,” so that leaves “a quarter or less” of knights who can realistically be mounted on stallions.

WORSE NEWS: If you geld a stallion too late (usually once they’re MOSTLY physically mature at 4-5 years old), that risk may never go away–so you’ve got a gelding who’s not breeding quality, but he’s still chasing mares in heat and fighting other stallions in turf battles, without understanding that he can no longer make babies!

On the other hand, some cultures don’t geld stallions because they view it as unnecessary or outright unnatural… but they also don’t want half the horse population distracted by pretty mares, or fighting with other stallions who walk by the pasture, so those cultures breed them to be sweet and easily managed (outside of battle, at least).

In short: ALL HORSES HAVE POTENTIAL TO BE WARHORSES, WHETHER THEY HAVE BALLS OR NOT.

—

Update, Feb 2 – Another day to expand on that “Different types of warhorses” mention!

Much like the common misconception of “all knights must be at least 6 feet tall and have 200 pounds of muscle” varied in real life due to genetics, cultural values, and logistics problems, the assumption that “all knights MUST have top-quality destriers that cost seven times the price of a normal horse” was not the case for the vast majority of “knights.”

Knights would have either “the best horse they could AFFORD” or “the best horse FOR THEIR SPECIALTY.”

A poor knight, or one of the early Middle Ages, would have “one horse that they’re with all the time;” that horse may not be pretty or come from fancy breeding lines, but they would get the job done and most definitely be taken care of. A wealthy knight of the later Middle Ages, when everything got more expensive and status more codified and finicky, would have two or three horses–one horse for warfare and one for regular riding, with the really wealthy knights having a third packhorse to carry all their stuff. (Moreover, they would have at least one servant to help take care of three horses.)

A muscled sprinter like a destrier is better in tight quarters and for short bursts of speed; to bring in the modern example of a classic/Foundation Quarter Horse, who are ideally “short-legged and low to the ground,” these dudes can literally hit the ground running and reach top speed in a few steps/seconds, so compare that to a sports-car going from zero to sixty miles. The tradeoffs?

1) You need to be able to hang the fuck on… and to avoid getting pitched into a wall/enemy WHEN THEY STOP.

2) That full-throttle gallop will really wear out your horse. A good commander will not bring out their heavy cavalry right away, because you also have to figure out how to get them back from the enemy’s side of the field.

In very simplistic terms, this is one of several problems that the battle of Agincourt had for the French; you had a bunch of hoity-toity noblemen with no proper battle experience who all wanted to do things their own way… and how do medieval noblemen usually want to fight a war? JUST FLOOR IT AND HIT THINGS AS HARD AS YOU CAN.

That went so badly that the recorded death-toll for the French side of Agincourt has been commented as “a roll call for French nobles.”

A destrier would not be suitable for a scout or light-cavalry; they’d need lighter and ground-covering horses to cover rough terrain, and to chase down the enemy for long stretches–akin to a modern-day Thoroughbred. For period pieces they might resemble an Akhal-Teke or “Turkmene” horse. A modern-day Thoroughbred horse can “only” reach forty miles per hour at a gallop, but they can keep that up for a whole mile or longer. So now your knight’s problem is “Hanging on for two or three whole minutes,” and anyone in performing or athletics will explain how long and agonizing a few minutes would feel on a rampaging horse. Have you seen how stacked a racing jockey is? The general consensus I’ve seen from equestrians is that barely anyone in any other horse-discipline is that built.

Meanwhile, an ideal light-cavalry horse would need longer legs for a ground-covering stride, and they may or may not be taller as well; as seen in the Akhal-Teke article, many endurance horses tend to show a lot more ribs and bones than other breeds, due to how lean they are. But think of them less as a dainty riding horse and more like a hunting greyhound/sighthound–all muscle, no fat!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

EDIT Feb 4, 2024: My post got cut off, so here's the rest of it!

The other type of light-cavalry horse would likely be a pony, used to going for miles on rough terrain, with little if any feed.

A period-accurate scout's horse was known as the Irish hobby, ridden by their eponymous hobelar troops. These little dudes were VERY little and about 12-14 hands high (48-54 inches, or 4 feet tall to bit under five feet tall). They were known to cover 60-70 miles a day in their raids, which my "preindustrial traveling" post notes is the EXTREME upper end of mounted distance travel. Their modern descendant is likely to be the Irish Connemara Pony.

Very wealthy and/or lucky European horsemen could probably manage to buy/steal an Arabian horse, as they remain exceptional endurance horses to this day. However, excessively cold/wet climates will need a lot of upkeep for a desert-bred horse to stay healthy.

While Arabians are known for their adorable "dished faces," this is not actually required! Many well-bred native lines have a regular face (ie, a "straight nose/profile") but they are from well-bred parents and have the capabilities of other Arabians. To the other extreme, you have some modern show/halter lines with REALLY exaggerated heads that hit a lot of people's "Uncanny valley" buttons, and they find it creepy/weird instead of refined. This kind of "seahorse face" would NOT be seen in a period piece.

Notice how the smaller a horse gets, the more ground it can cover? This is partly because size only matters TO AN EXTENT for "how long a horse goes," and partly because of physics! Less weight for a horse to drag around on its own body means more energy for putting miles behind them!

#writing #writing reference #medieval #preindustrial #horse riding #medieval warfare #horses

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legobiwan · 11 months

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Okay, ever since the concept art of the Mario Brothers movie got leaked on Reddit, I've been wanting to make this post. And I think now is the time. Gird your loins friends. I am about to overanalyze the hell out of thirty seconds and one concept art of a movie.

A Room of Their Own: An (Over)Analysis

To start with, I want to justify this whole treatise by comparing the concept art of Mario and Luigi's room with what we get in the movie.

Concept Art

Movie

These match up incredibly well. There are a few poster swaps on Mario's wall, the generic baseball team versus an obvious reference to the Mets (a point I'll talk about in a moment); Beastie Boys for the fish person poster (and it's bugging the hell out of me, because the green guy is wildly jogging my memory and I can't quite place it). Luigi's side of the room also gets slightly rearranged, although the objects are mostly the same, minus the swap of the anime mecha figure for an art mannequin.

Now that we've established continuity, let's talk about why we're exploring this in the first place.

I love analyzing people's living spaces in media. They tell such an intimate story about who a person is, what they value, what they're hiding, and so on. And the snippets we get of Mario and Luigi's room, both through the movie and the concept art, say so much about them and (arguably) connect in some measure back to the games and even the cartoons of my youth. So, let's dive in, shall we?

Mario

In both the concept art and the movie, a couple of themes emerge from Mario's side of the room.

Plumbing

It's obvious that Mario's passion is plumbing. There are pipes sticking out from under his bed, pipes stacked in the corner, books on plumbing stacked on his desk, along with all kinds of other related paraphernalia. Regardless of Spike or his father, Mario seems genuinely into plumbing as his vocation (remember, he was the one who was the driving force behind that commercial). Keep this in mind for when we talk about Luigi, because there's a divergence there.

Sports

We know from the movie and general lore that Mario is quite athletic, and seems to enjoys sports. Here, we see posters for baseball and what is presumably the New York City marathon (at least in the movie still); we see a football helmet and some small trophies that one might assume are related to his own sports activities. Is he the absolute, number one winner in all of Brooklyn? Unlikely, given his insecurities about always being "small," about wanting to amount to something. This being said, it's obvious he has some prowess and accomplishment in the world of sporting, perhaps on a high school level. And the whole parkour scene shows that he trains, keeps himself in shape for this type of thing. (As an aside, can you blame Luigi for not being able to keep up? Forget the knees, he's hauling a 15-20 pound bag of plumbing equipment with him! Give the guy a break).

Anyway, this is all unsurprising for our hero archetype. The marathon poster - grit and determination. Baseball and football - all-American sports. Central casting, call one wannabe hero. (Remember, what people showcase in their rooms is generally what is important to them, what they value).

There is a small wrench thrown in here, however (ha! a pun!) And that would be the foam finger featured in the concept art which is a very familiar orange and blue. And that along with the baseball figurine and posters - which have similar coloring and iconography of the intersecting "NY" - lead me to believe that Mario is a Mets fan.

Now, I need make a small digression here to explain why this is important to his character.

The Mets are the long-suffering little brother to the perennially-successful New York Yankees (booooooo). They still hold the modern era record for most losses in a season (their inaugural year, 1962, where they went 40-120). Over the decades, they have been plagued by inept ownership, catastrophic end-of-season collapses, and bizarre events that can only be categorized as "LOLMets." (This Reddit thread is a particularly entertaining history of the franchise's tragi-comic moments).

And aside from being a lifelong masochist fan of this team, I think it's important to bring this up in terms of Mario's character because he sees himself as the underdog while in Brooklyn; as little, as constantly underachieving. It's extremely fitting for Mario's movie depiction that he roots for the eternal underperformer, for a team that has historically been supported by the more blue-collar areas of New York, a fanbase which suffers year after year and yet always comes back for more.

Mess

This is actually my favorite part of Mario's section. Canonically, Mario is a kind of a slob. In both the concept art and movie stills, we see plumbing bits and parts strewn all over the place, pipes shoved underneath the bed, pipes stacked in the corner, half-finished projects and tools running amok his desk. (Note, he's not dirty, just disorganized).

And the thing, this isn't the first time we've seen evidence of this. Luigi, on two separate occasions, either complains about or encounters his brother's habits in the Luigi's Mansion series. (Although the first quote below could be more of a commentary on Luigi's persnickety-ness rather than Mario's laundry habits).

(seriously, Mario. Just how many pizzas did you need?)

There's something...I don't know, endearing or somehow fitting that the titular hero of the Mushroom Kingdom is a domestic disaster. Almost as if whatever energies he can muster are focused solely on hero-ing and plumbing and anything else just...falls by the wayside. (Understandable. There's only so much all of us in our lives have energy for. You have to prioritize). Still, it sets up this contrast between the front Mario puts up and how he's received by the Mushroom Kingdom and who he really is, which he definitely reserves for a select few closest to him, the prime candidate being his brother.

And speaking of that brother...

Luigi

It's unfortunate that we don't get as many quality shots of Luigi's side of the room in the movie, but from what can see, the concept art is pretty consistent with the film.

And I'm being adamant about the consistency of the concept art and the movie, due to the fact we get so little Luigi screen time and yet his room tells us so much about him.

Science

We've got a tech-mech boy here, my friends. Note the somewhat advanced microscope perched on the headboard, the calendar of the motorcycle, the schematic of the racing car, the little jet-rocket ship. Note, in the concept art, the mecha sat prominently on top shelf.

Now, what does this tell us? (Aside from the fact Luigi is a total nerd, which we knew already).

Firstly, Luigi is very into motor vehicles, science (fiction), and possibly robots. That he possibly has some interest in engineering and robotics. This may sound familiar.

Yes, the Super Mario Brothers movie, by intent or not, kept Luigi's mechanical engineering interests intact. (There's a whole other post in here where I could provide further proof of this outside of SPM. I suggest watching the SMB 3 cartoon episode, "Mind Your Mummy" which not only wildly showcases Luigi's engineering skills, but is pretty hilarious).

But I digress.

Here's the interesting contrast. Mario is obvious about his passion for plumbing. Luigi, although canonically more reserved, does take the effort to highlight what is important to him in his room - namely his interest in science and engineering (and photography, which we'll talk about in a minute).

It makes you wonder...Luigi is not a confrontational sort. He goes along with what Mario does because he loves his brother and perhaps he either doesn't know what he wants or is afraid to express it. I personally doubt Luigi's true passion lies in plumbing, from what we see here. It's a means to end.

Now, whether Luigi disavowed engineering due to finances, low self-esteem, family pressures, or if he just wasn't ready to declare who he was...we don't know (I would posit it's some tasty combination of all of the above). But I do feel like it's fair to say Luigi is along for the ride at this point. He loves his brother, is possibly a little too dependent on him. It's not like he's bitter about it (well, on the surface. The Mr. L persona raises some interesting questions) - he's just doing what Mario does because...that's what he's always done. Luigi hasn't found his true footing yet. (You can even look at the fact he carries the toolbag throughout the movie as a kind of metaphorical weight of Mario's interests and goals over his - which, I realize, for a Mario property, is a reeeeeaaaaal stretch. But since I'm overanalyzing three stills from an animated movie about video game plumbers, I might as well go for the gold).

The other aspect of Luigi's interest in fast cars, fast bikes, and fast rockets is how that contrasts with his reserved nature. Luigi is, supposedly, the scaredy cat, the one who won't take risks. And yet what we see fascinating him the most are chunks of metal being hurled through time and space at ridiculous speeds. Wish fulfillment? Or maybe another side of Luigi that even Mario doesn't always get to see.

We also see two ribbons pinned to the wall near the sciency/tech items. Most likely, this had to do with academic achievement I would bet good coins that these achievements were in STEM. Again, Luigi is showcasing this, meaning it's important to him.

In this context, him gravitating towards E. Gadd and his experiments is wholly in-character, despite Luigi's (understandable) anxiety about dealing with undead (but does he say no? Much like his rocket cars, there's a kind hidden recklessness to his character). Mr. L and his robot obsession (and skill) make perfect sense. Luigi's probably been looking for that kind of outlet for quite some time. I can pretty firmly state that the engineering aspect of Mr. L was not brainwashing and it makes you wonder if the other facets of Luigi's personality that rise to surface during that whole episode were planted or there already, just suppressed.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

Luigi is just a bit of a neat freak. We see this in the hat-cleaning episode referenced above, in the way his side of the room is somewhat meticulous in its organization (in contrast to his brother). He also has a few hilarious quotes in the original Luigi's Mansion that are worth including here that really highlight this side of his personality:

Now that I look at it-- it's full of moth holes! Yecch!" "So much dust! This will never pass the white-glove test!" "Well, they sure did pile odds and ends everywhere… Filthy." "I should probably give that a quick vacuuming…" "Oh, what's this?! Just how I like it… Nice and clean!" "Do Boos wash their faces?"

And what I find interesting about this tendency toward order is how it relates to Luigi's anxiety. I would argue that part of his clean streak is an attempt at controlling his environment, a way to counter that ever-present anxiety. It also seems fitting for the engineer to be far more fastidious about things being just so. Yes, it's a bit of a stereotype - a trope, if you will - but one that might have some teeth in this situation. After all, if you're building race cars that go ridiculous miles per hour, there's no room for error. I think the contrast between the two brothers - Mario's outside world is consistently on the edge of chaos while Luigi's inside world is the one on the precipice - is fascinating.

Sports

Now, it's not like Luigi has zero athletic ability (despite his complaints). We see a tennis racket in his room and a dartboard. He helped Mario beat up Bowser with zero training montage. It's just that Luigi seems to gravitate towards athletic endeavors that require more pinpoint accuracy (not that baseball and football don't, but it's a little different in my mind) and that avoid almost all risk of physical collision. Again, those interests are not what we think of as "stereotypical" of the big hero. And Luigi is a hero, but in a very different way than his brother.

Camera

I don't have too much to say about this one, but I think it's delightful that Luigi owns and uses an old-school camera. We can actually see two black-and-white photos pinned to his wall in the concept art, showing us Luigi's more artistic side, which is kind of neat (and let's not forget the movie subs in an art mannequin for the mecha, which only strengthens this notion of art interest. Maybe he's into the notion cybernetics? It's possible). I suppose I could read into camera thing as an observer vs. participant dynamic (Luigi behind the lens observing while Mario is always in the action), but I wouldn't make an argument any more in-depth, and even that statement is a bit of a leap in a document chock-full of leaps.

Conclusion

If you're expecting a thesis out of this, I'm sorry to disappoint - I don't really have one. I suppose this whole rundown is more of a literature review than anything else, but what I do want to stress is what can be read from the objects in the room and their placement. I can't and won't pretend to know the intentions of the artists here. It's very possible there was far less thought put into the design and layout of these rooms than the long treatise I have just given over to it. This being said, because there is a fair amount of consistency between the concept art and the movie and because there is a fair amount of subtle character moments throughout the film (which have been broken down by other intrepid Tumblr friends), I might lean towards the notion that these design choices do have some degree of intent in subconsciously shaping how we, the viewer, read the brothers.

(And yeah, maybe I just wanted an excuse to pin more evidence onto my "Luigi wanted to be a mechanical engineer and is actually really skilled at robotics and other science" conspiracy thread bulletin board :D

#hello there #luigi #mario #meta #in which i overanalyze the hell out of a piece of media #and give myself an excuse to not only promote my luigi-engineer agenda #but also talk about baseball for a paragraph #hahahaha #self indulgent nonsense #smb movie #you guys asked for it

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maximoffwitch · 2 years

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Cheater, Cheater (Pumpkin Eater)

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

warnings: none really

summary: Natasha cheats.

word count: 601

a/n: this is pretty short but it was just an idea that came to my mind so i hope you guys like it :))

“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” you yelled, slamming your hands down on the table with frustration.

“Baby—,” Natasha went to interject at an attempt to placate you.

“You cheated, Natasha!”

The room went silent, as the weight of your words hung in the air.

“You cheated,” you repeated, out of breath, your chest heaving as you ran your hands through your hair.

“(Y/N), I didn’t,” Natasha defended, remaining steady, “I swear.”

“I literally saw you,” you scowled, the image of your girlfriend’s sneaking under the table to do God only knows what, “with my own two eyes. Are you calling me a liar, Natalia?”

The redhead rolled her eyes at the use of her birth name. “No, baby, I’m not calling you a liar.”

“Don’t,” you pointed your finger at her, as she raised her hands in the air, “call me that.”

“Look, (Y/N),” Natasha took a step towards you, but you moved back, “it’s not what you think. I didn’t even—,”

“Save it,” you snapped, not wanting to hear your girlfriend’s excuses. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

Natasha sighed, her shoulder sagging in defeat, as you turned on your heels and made your way to the bedroom.

“And don’t even think about following me,” you shouted over your shoulder, leaving Natasha standing lamely by herself in the living room.

She could only grumble under her breath before clearing the dishes, working to clean the kitchen. If Natasha knew you at all, which after two years of dating she’d like to think so, she knew you just needed a couple hours to cool off before the two of you could talk reasonably.

—

“(Y/N),” Natasha knocked softly, opening your shared bedroom door, “can I come in?”

“Mhm,” you hummed barely loud enough for the other woman to hear.

As she entered the room, Natasha had to bite back a chuckle when she saw your state. You were curled up in a thick knit-blanket, a birthday gift from Laura, and were wearing Natasha’s old New York Yankees hoodie.

“Baby,” she started, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, “are you ready to hear my side of the story?”

You could only nod, the betrayal still too fresh for you to speak.

“My money must have fallen off the table earlier, and I didn’t even notice until the end of the game,” Natasha explained. “I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose. I would never cheat.”

“Nat,” you sat up abruptly, “there’s no way that your whole stack of hundreds fell onto the floor and you didn’t notice!”

“But it’s true!” Natasha insisted, scooting closer to you. “I didn’t even want to buy Broadway but you left me no choice.”

When you gave no response and only pouted, Nat chuckled, pulling you into her side and kissing your forehead.

“How about this?” she kept a soft grip on you, as you playfully tried to wiggle away. “We play again tomorrow, a rematch. I left the board out and everything, and I promise to make sure all my money stays on the table.”

After a moment of contemplation, you gave in, grumbling, “Fine.”

Natasha climbed over you onto the bed, settling on the other side of you, as she grinned down at you, chastely kissing your pouting lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you sighed contently, letting all the tension from earlier leave your body, as you leaned into your girlfriend’s comforting presence. As you felt your eyelids drooping, you poked Natasha’s side, “But you still cheated.”

“Why would I cheat in Monopoly?!”

---

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @freewaysigns-underpasses @togrowoldinv @likefirenrain @amasimpformilfs @crescent-witch @iliketozoneout @fxckmiup @inluvwithfictionalwomen @chelleztjs18 @mediocre-writerr @milfloverslut @fayhar @kermy48 @nataliasknife @noaaas-world @luvwanda @lalisastar @wandaromanoffsblog @bentleywolf29

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #natasha x y/n #natasha x you #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #my writing

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theomnicode · 10 months

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Spirit of heroism

We see many types of heroism in the latest chapter, some of which are not so clear. The most obvious type of heroism displayed is defeating monsters so they do not cause chaos. Saitama is most apt in this type of heroism, defeating enemies with one punch.

Another type of heroism is recognizing what is right and wrong. Mad devil yankee used to be a delinquent, but he's shaped up to be a decent lad. Gambling on hero lives and rigging the matches is like OPM version of squid game and he calls it out as it is.

The worst part is that despite idolizing Mumen rider, Mad devil Yankee does not see himself gain any support nor see himself in the same light as the hero he wants to become, despite showing his heroism in more than one way. Instead he's blackmailed into doing what he believes is wrong.

(sheesh, that's a heartbreaker)

He became a hero so he could get his mom into the Hero hospital with the benefits of being a hero, a very noble deed. Being a hero is not an easy job and he's already risen up to B-rank. Shame someone like McCoy got wind of this and pushed him into partaking one of his games.

It is one thing to face against the evil, knowing you cannot win with full support of the populace on your back, than knowing you have zero support while partaking in morally ambiguous sport of kicking down overgrown, experimented on chihuahua monster who feels threathened enough to strike back. He knows this, yet he has to stand and fight back.

I sure do feel bad for this guy but I also feel bad for the monster who had to be put down like a rabid dog it was, because of schemers like McCoy.

Saitama fortunately comes to save the day and puts the monster out of it's misery.

Another type of standing up for the spirit of heroism is when Child emperor shows up. He wants to make sure that the dark roots of the association are dug up and cleaned up and he stops McCoy on his tracks and makes sure that the credit goes to the actual hero who defeated the monster. Credit goes where credit is due and Saitama rises in ranks from 39 to 29. He's sincere when he says he also feels bad when he doubted Genos before.

(McCoy keeps taking L's haha, sucker)

Moving onwards, in a most classical Mumen rider style, he performs his heroism by taking Mad devil yankee to the hospital on his bike. But he's more than just his actions of standing up against evil villains and being spiritually very heroic, doing what is right despite the odds and always in the thick of things making sure people get out alright.

(Mumen is such a nice guy, you gotta love mumen)

Pick-me-up for the people who really need encouragement is also in the spirit of heroism that Satoru is known for.

Words can be wielded just as any weapon or in this case, ointment for the wounds in Yankee's own spirit of heroism that suffered a major blow in thinking losing his life was the divine punishment for his wrong-doings.

Lastly but not least, we have Saitama but not in the way you think.

It is one thing to keep punching things in classic Saitama fashion and be very heroic in doing so, saving people in the nick of time like so:

(We love it when Saitama suddenly just appears to punch the monster)

It's another to go against your own desires, depression and lack of wealth when offered easy money by gambling and coming out on top against the temptations of the dark side of Hero association squid game. And recognicing the dangers of potential root for addiction such as gambling when depressed and when short on money.

Saitama embodies the spirit of heroism of the self in this chapter, by overcoming the temptations and doing what is right instead and not gambling for easy money. He's one of the few heroes who could even catch Formula 1 car by foot.

The temptation to join the illegal gambling because the odds are stacked against him is massively high and he could easily get bucks by betting on himself, but he chooses not to and stays on the good side. It is not the last time Saitama's moral compass is seriously being tested with money and will not be the last time.

A hero of his own life, so to speak.

(bets it was a fake jewel anyway and not worth much, with his luck)

He's not a hero for the money or the fame, he's just a hero so he can help people like this poor lady whos purse got snatched.

All the needs is a thank you, so he can get the sense of accomplishment from doing a good job.

(Ironically, the only one who got "divine punishment" in this chapter was probably McCoy)

#opm #one punch man #opm meta #mad devil yankee #saitama #child emperor #mumen rider #mccoy #heroism #long

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poem-today · 8 months

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A poem by Brian Brodeur

THE CARPENTER'S TALE

There's going to be an accounting. And it'll be the weird stats that come out of somewhere. And this is one of the stranger ones.

—Kerry Breen, This American Life, 8/13/2021

Most of us laughed at being called "essential" in those first weeks of New York's quarantine. We'd grease a hinge or patch a rotten sill,

replacing sunk beams under a snack machine, painting classrooms. Though it felt like cheating, I'd never seen the schools look so pristine.

Then, in April, at our team meeting, our boss clears his throat and his voice softens. Putting down the cruller he's been eating,

he says, "Next week, we start building coffins." One of us laughs. Another spills his coffee. I tell my boss, "Get out of here. Build coffins."

He looks up from his clipboard and glares at me, then gives us all the plans his boss gave him: "We'll be building coffins for the city."

On Monday, I show up at this school gym outfitted as a shop. On cinderblocks, beside the bleachers with the lights turned dim,

our prototype: a six-foot plywood box standing on its end where the feet would be. Above the prototype and scoreboard clocks,

a championship banner's "Victory" had begun to sag where flags of UN nations cling to the ceiling. Under Germany,

we set up cutting and assembly stations, a place where we can urethane the boards. Electricians rig fans for ventilation

and 10 of us plug in extension cords. We stack up drafts of plywood on the floor— a draft is 50 sheets. Our only words

concern the lack of Mets and Yankees scores, how hot the gym gets, who brought Gatorade. We run through 2x4s and they bring more—

wash, rinse, repeat. I mean, we're getting paid, but after so long it occurs to me: My god, they really need this many made?

No one gives us an end. We build 150, stacking them from one side of the gym to the other, five coffins high—no one can see

above the shrink-wrapped freight pallets of them. I back the forklift into the elevator and drive down Concourse near the stadium

and down another street to a tractor trailer. The forklift's so slow people honk at me. Honk at a guy carrying coffins—or

scream at me to move. This goes on three weeks. I find it—I don't know—bizarre, I guess, not one person ever stops to ask me

what I'm doing, everyone obsessed with toilet paper. Then, passing on foot, a guy who speaks Spanish stops to zip his vest

and says, "Morte," finger-slicing his throat. "Sí," I say, and he just shakes his head and walks away. I slam the trailer shut.

Our team built 450 in the end, and there were other teams in other districts across the whole Department of Ed.

No one I tell has ever heard of this. Why would they? Not exactly good PR— Guess what we used schools for. You'll never guess. …

But now that things are waning, more and more I feel alright, like I can let it out. It wasn't war—if it had been a war

we'd know what happened, what it was about, how much we'd lost, what people did out there. I'm sure someone will make a final count,

and we'll deal with each last expenditure, but that's years off, and this is not a war.

Brian Brodeur

More poems by Brian Brodeur are available through his website.

#brian brodeur #american poetry #the carpenter's tale #covid19 #coffins

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theamericanpin-up · 1 year

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Alberto Vargas - Beauts and Saddles - November 1942 Esquire Magazine Varga Girl Gatefold Illustration – Gatefold # 24 of 63 – Verse by Phil Stack -

Beauts and Saddles Here's a pretty Prairie Blossum And she isn't playing possum But you'll find her in there "punchin'" in a jam, For her cowboy, tall and lanky, Is a patriotic Yankee And he's roundin' up some rogues for Uncle Sam; So this little cactus cutie Will be proud to do her duty And she'll wear his pants until he wins the war-- Then with hearts in sweet communion They will stage a western union And I bet she wears the pants forevermore!

#alberto vargas #november #1942 #esquire magazine #varga girl #gatefold #illustration #pin up #american pin up

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calliecopper · 1 year

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I feel like it's pretty clear that in RDR Arthur was more Hosea's son than Dutch's, and John was more Dutch's son than Hosea's.

John, especially in RDR1, has a very eloquent way of speaking without saying much at all. He uses his language to convince others hes more than what he is, that hes an educated respectable man rather than an ex-outlaw who can barely draw a duck. He uses frilly and grandiose language as a way of confusing and distracting others enough that they don't think twice about a gunslinger asking them to help him track down notorious outlaws. I feel like he definitely gets that from Dutch; talking big words and acting like you know everything when really you're just a clueless fool.

Meanwhile Arthur, he's conning everybody. He plays the big dumb heartless bastard who can't think an original thought, because he looks like a big dumb heartless bastard who can't think original thoughts. He acts a fool who's better for being a work horse than a prize pony because that's exactly what's expected of him, and he can catch people off guard by being surprisingly cunning and quick-witted. Nobody expects the dull yankee to have the foresight to stack the deck and give himself a pair of aces. He definitely gets that from Hosea; play a role, and take advantage when people let their guards down.

I don't think one is necessarily smarter than the other, but I think John definitely tries to flash a sense of knowledge and education that isn't there, while Arthur tries to hide the knowledge and education that is there. Both are to catch people off guard.

#people expect less of john being an obvious gunslinger in 1911 with scars on his face #so he gives them something they dont expect #a dignified and eloquent speaker who talks of philosophy and morality #meanwhile people expect less of arthur being a burly sourfaced brute and obviously an outlaw #so he gives them something they exactly expect #a brash dumb heartless outlaw #but in the end theyre both facades meant to manipulate people #maybe not maliciously but to manipulate nonetheless #nobody would expect an eloquent and clearly educated man to be an ex outlaw no matter his appearance #its to protect his family #nobody would expect a dumb uneducated outlaw to be able to get the upper hand in any way but with force #its to provide for his family #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr #rdr2 #arthur morgan #john marston

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milfzatannaz · 10 months

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one my favorite smells is walking into aging media shops. my favorite comic book shop has 70s and 80s comics lying in piles, old action figures in their boxes stacked on top of each other. the combination of a dingy shop, old paper and dusty plastic is kinda heavenly to me. it’s like if you bought a yankee candle that was “time capsule” scented.

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doomandgloomfromthetomb · 9 months

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The Fania All Stars - Yankee Stadium, New York City, August 24, 1973

For your hot August nights in 2023 — a very hot August night in 1973 ... in more ways than one! This Fania All Stars extravaganza must've been an incredibly fun night in the Bronx, a half-century ago this week. A double LP of highlights came out a few years later, as did this somewhat hard-to-come-by documentary. The transfer here on YouTube is not the greatest (it deserves a high-tech cleanup a la the Summer of Soul footage) but that's OK, the footage itself is phenomenal. And hey, we get Geraldo Riviera popping up occasionally to give us some of the finer points of Latin music ... thank you, Geraldo.

Things got fairly wild towards the end of the night, as detailed in Will Hermes classic Love Goes To Buildings On Fire:

"By the time the Fania All-Stars get into their own set, the crowd, which has been prohibited from going onto the field, is getting restless. The band launches into [Larry] Harlow's fire-spitting 'Congo Bongo,' and by the end — with Ray Barretto and Mongo Santamaría dueling furiously on tandem congas, and Billy Cobham, wearing a football jersey, thundering beneath and between the beats, lifting everything skyward — the crowd erupts. They burst past the barricades and swarm out over the field, dancing, cheering, and waving Puerto Rican flags. Jerry Masucci's brother Alex, one of the co-producers, is freaking, because he knows he can kiss that $50,000 deposit on the field adios. He tries to get the orchestra to stop, but they keep pounding it out, Johnny Pacheco conducting wildly in an unbuttoned white dress shirt and stacked heels, hair flying like a crazed Caribbean Beethoven."

#fania all stars #ray barretto #billy cobham #mongo santamaria #johnny pacheco

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quill-pen · 1 year

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Just so Punny

18+ MINORS DNI

Summary: So... Bess likes puns. Ebenezer? Not so much.

Warnings: Groping, dry humping, making out, genitals mentioned, idiots in love, declarations of love, and PUNS--or more so one specific pun

A/N: This is definitely canon. I imagine it takes place during the first summer after they realized their love for each other.

@rom-e-o, this is all your fault. (Though, I'm not a lick sorry.😝)

"You fiendish, maddening woman. Have you any inkling of what you do to me--what you put me through?"

Ebenezer and Bess were in a tangle against the table of the laundry room, arms around each other, hands roving and groping, lips and mouths and tongues dancing and leaving hot, wet trails and marks along flesh. The gentleman had broken his work early, thoughts so full of his young, raven-haired Yankee bride, he was quite unable to think about ledgers and numbers any longer, making him essentially useless to the cause. With a vague excuse and hasty apology, he had rushed out the door of his counting-house, leaving the closing of the day to his business partner and young apprentice; a decision for which he was admittedly a bit regretful. But only just a bit. Because she was absolutely worth fudging his duties a little.

Bess made a breathy giggle as her husband's mouth located and attached itself to a sensitive spot below her jaw, starting to suckle. Trying to ground herself, she braced one hand against the table as the other curled around and groped the man's tight little ass, pulling him closer. Ebenezer had immediately searched her out the second he arrived home, ultimately discovering her here, helping their maids fold the linens. The second his eyes had landed on her--hungry, wanting, already so dark she almost couldn't see their captivating slate-blue tone--the young woman's heart had immediately begun to race in exhilaration. She knew what he was after, as she was after the same but in reverse. The maids had been asked to leave and the door had quickly been shut and barred behind them. Now here they were: an already heaving, sweating, partially disrobed mess amongst the clean laundry. (Some of it would absolutely have to be washed again--Bess would be sure she gave the launderer a hefty tip for the trouble.)

"I-I'm not sure I do... as it happens," the American gasped, working hard to find and utilize the ability to talk. She moaned and her eyes fluttered shut as Ebenezer's mouth trailed down her neck to bite at the point where it joined her shoulder. God above, he was amazing with that mouth, and it wasn't even where she really wanted it yet! "Perhaps-ah... perhaps you'd care to-ooh!... enlighten me?" She couldn't stop the devilish smirk that curled her flushed, kiss-swollen lips.

The Englishman growled against her, sending a tingle straight through the woman and down to her core, making it ache with need. "You wicked female," he rasped darkly, still trailing kisses along her collarbone. "I believe you know exactly what you do to me." Without warning, he slipped his hands from her fit waist down to her thick thighs and grabbed them to rather unceremoniously hoist her up onto the folding table.

Bess shrieked in surprise, accidentally bumping into a few stacks of clean towels, sending them to the stone floor. Then she laughed as Ebenezer pulled her back to the very edge of the table and wrapped her back up in his arms. Uninhibited by skirts as she was already stripped down to her chemise, the woman parted her thighs wide around the gentleman and coiled her legs around his waist, locking her bare feet at the ankles against the small of his back, her heels nudging him closer. She made a shuddering gasp and bit her lip as she felt his solid length pressed against her. Even through his trousers and her drawers, she could feel the heat, and it made her instinctively shift against him in search of friction.

"Oh, you believe so, do you?" Bess asked after his previous statement, voice sultry and playful as she met his dark, unwavering gaze. She threaded his cravat through coy fingers, deftly untying it and slipping it away from his neck to finally let the man's already unbuttoned shirt fall open completely. Bess' eyes slipped down to catch a peek and her mouth watered. Oh, that's lovely.... "And, uh..." she looked back up, "... just what makes you say that, Mr. Scrooge?" To counteract her feigned ignorance, the woman wrapped the silky tie about her neck and loosely knotted it in place. A shiver went through her and her breath caught in her throat as she watched her husband's eyes black out and his nostrils flair with harsh breath at the action. She could feel the man trembling between her thighs, restraining himself from taking her and rutting into her like an animal in heat. Why he held back, she didn't know; to be claimed was exactly what she wanted.

Without thinking, Ebenezer slipped a hand up and hooked his fingers beneath the loosely knotted tie. With a gentle jerk, he drew his wife's face to his, making her squeak and grip the table's edge. "You are an absolutely intractable little minx, Mrs. Scrooge," he rumbled, his nose nudging hers as he gazed into her lusty blue eyes. A fiendish smile pulled at his mouth.

Bess matched it. "Am I now?" she purred. "Do tell."

Ebenezer tugged the cravat again, drawing her closer still, his lips just ghosting over hers. "As if you didn't know what you were doing when I came home for lunch, traipsing about the premises in your hiked skirts, bare legs and feet on full display the moment I walked in the door." His voice was rugged, husky, full of subdued feralness.

Bess' blush deepened as she played dumb. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Good Sir--it was a warm day and I was merely attempting to stay cool."

"Then you just so happen to mention how you bought a new pair of stockings this morning as you send me back out the door for work."

"Well, forgive me for wanting to keep you informed on any and all purchases I might make. I assumed you would want to know when and how your hard-earned money is being spent; I was only thinking of your balance book."

"Not to mention you're brazen enough to have your sleeves rolled back and your blouse already unbuttoned when I find you in here."

"Only a couple. Again, I point to the heat of the day. And you would be surprised to learn how much of a sweat a person can work up folding laundry, Ebenezer."

"All little enticements to bait me into your trap-"

"I assure you I'm not trying to entice or bait anyone."

"-to fill my head with thoughts of you until I can think of nothing else-'

"Now that's just a lack of discipline on your part."

"-making it impossible for me to play my part as a functional member of society-"

"Again, lack of willpower and discipline, I'm afraid."

"-so that I'm forced to come running back to you in search of relief."

"Baseless accusations."

Chuckling darkly, Ebenezer finally pressed his lips to Bess' smiling mouth in yet another passionate kiss, his tongue surging forth to meet hers. He let the tie go and smoothed his hand over her shoulder and down her chest, stopping to cup a breast and gently massage it. Bess moaned into his mouth and arched into his touch: He could feel her nipple already peaked through the thin material of her shift and gently tweaked it, earning a needy whine in return. The Englishman continued to slowly trail his hand down his lover's body, reveling in the sensation of the soft fabric and the curves beneath it against his palm and fingers. Coming to grip her thigh, Ebenezer brought his other hand around to mirror its twin's action and pulled his wife even closer still, so she was almost hanging off the table. He pressed her thighs farther apart, causing Bess to hiss at the delicious sting of being spread so wide. Then the man began rocking his hips, grinding his clothed core against hers. He groaned into the kiss; she echoed him. It was slow, sensual, pleasurably frustrating--magnificent.

Ebenezer broke away from Bess' lips and began to suck down her neck again. Bess keened and made a breathy moan of his name, bringing her hands up, one to thread into his disheveled locks, the other to clutch and claw at his shoulder. The man rewarded her for the enticing action with a nip to her collarbone and a hot tongue to soothe it after. "My Sweetness," he murmured into her flesh as he pressed kisses along her heaving chest. "My beautiful, gorgeous Sweetness. You fill my every waking thought; when I sleep I dream only of you."

Bess felt her heart flutter with love for the man. "Oh, Ebenenzer..."

"I see your face everywhere I look. I hear your voice in every sound that reaches my ears." The man trailed his soft lips up the woman's throat again until they graced against the tattered shell of her left ear. "You are my sun, moon, and stars," he whispered, as Bess nuzzled her cheek against his. "My entire world." His hands slipped from her thighs around her back again and twined around her, bringing her close in an embrace yet again even as he continued to roll his hips against hers. "You are my sustenance, Bess--my very breath--my life. You are my life's purpose--the very reason I was put on this earth. You complete me; without you, I am lost." Groaning pleasurably, the man buried his face in his gasping wife's hair, breathing her in as she held him closer. "I love you, my darling," he murmured. "I love you more than I have ever loved anything or anyone. I love you so much, my heart aches to be parted from you even for a second. I only ever want you. I need you. I crave you. You drive me positively mad with your mere existence."

Despite how her head was swimming with lust and how her heart was completely awash with adoration, due to Bess' fine-tuned wit, a clever little quip flitted through her mind in response to her husband's declarations. "So..." she panted, her voice airy with bliss, "... o-one... one might say... y-your... ob-Bessed with me?" The corners of her mouth turned up in a cheeky grin. She couldn't help but quietly titter at her own pun.

Almost immediately, Ebenezer ceased all movement. For a minute he remained frozen around her, then he pulled away and backed up. He met his wife's gaze with an unamused look, his eyes no longer filled with desire but exasperation. He shook his head, thick eyebrows knitting together. "That," he grumbled, "was horrid." And with that he pulled out of her grip and walked away, redoing his buttons and tucking his shirt back in.

Bess glared in indignation, highly offended by his statement. "It was not!" she huffed. "Ob-Bessed? "Obsessed" but because it's specifically about me it's "ob-Bessed"? Come on--that's clever! That's a good pun!"

Ebenezer sent the woman an unimpressed scowl as he slipped his suspenders back on and grabbed up his waistcoat. "There is no such thing as a "good pun", Elizabeth. And even if there were, that wouldn't be one of them." With that, he unbarred the door and left the laundry room.

Still perched on the table, Bess watched after him in disbelief. "Oh, come on, Wolf! At least it was funnier than that "EbeSneezer" one I made the other day! Ya gotta at least give me that!"

His voice echoed back to her: "You are maddening in every possible way, Wife!"

Bess crossed her arms over her chest and hmphed indignantly, shooting daggers at Ebenezer's back as he disappeared down the corridor. "There are, too, good puns," she muttered to herself. "And that was, too, one of them!"

All at once Prudence came clicking through the door from around the corner. She stopped just inside the door and looked up with big, soft brown eyes at the half-naked woman still seated among the laundry. Cocking her head curiously, she whined, her tail wagging slightly.

"What do you think, Prudie?" Bess asked the mastiff. "Ob-Bessed: good pun or no?"

Prudence's face scrunched up into something like a scowl and she sneezed. Then she turned and trotted out of the room.

"Yeah? Well, you're a dog--what do you know about comedy, anyway?"

Taglist: @oldmanlusting @themostanonymousscribbler @the-house-of-auditore-frye (if anyone else would like to be added, let me know in the comments)

#scrooge #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge 2022 #scrooge a christmas carol #netflix scrooge #scrooge x oc #ebenezer x bess #puns are punny #they are so CUTE #they are also so frickin' HOT #but not even their heat can overcome ebenezer's absolute hatred for puns #especially bad ones #'IT'S A GREAT PUN!' - Bess Scrooge #'No such thing!' - Ebenezer Scrooge #*agreeing wuffs* - Prudence #ebeness

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mollybecameanengineer · 1 year

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Immunidad

word count: 9437 | Teen | MSR | @today-in-fic

Summary: A rewrite of Vienen. When Mulder and Scully suspect the black oil is on a drilling platform in the Gulf of Mexico, they realize they are the only ones who can stop it. Too bad he doesn’t work for the FBI and she’s thirty-three weeks pregnant.

This is the third part in my A Second Chance series, which is AU from DeadAlive, in a universe where Mulder never leaves. The series is episodic, like the X-Files, so each piece can stand alone.

Part 1: Reentry -- Mulder tries to get used to being back from the dead.

Part 2: Lots and Lots of Boxes -- Mulder takes a trip down memory lane while cleaning out his storage unit.

Read Immunidad on AO3, or check out the prologue below the break.

April 2001

“Are you still planning to come to work with me tomorrow?”

She and Mulder were in the living room, folding laundry. The TV was on, a Yankees game playing with the sound turned low. It was all horribly domestic.

“Yup, my appointment with HR is at 8:30, and then Skinner at 10,” Mulder replied.

He was being reinstated. Finally. After the weeks it took to get his identity sorted out, he’d turned his attention to getting things in order at the FBI. He thought it would be easy, as Scully had no trouble after her abduction. But she hadn’t been declared dead. So, rather than coming back to a job, he had to be hired again. Which meant applying for his old job and interviewing.

Some days he wondered why he was trying so hard to return to the FBI.

“What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”

Mulder shrugged, folding one of Scully’s bras. “I figured I'd hang out in the office.”

“You remember it’s not just us anymore.”

“Well, I have to meet the new people at some point.”

Scully bit her lip. She seemed to have no confidence in his ability to behave himself.

“If I get bored, I’ll get a cab home. Or you can knock off early and we can spend the afternoon fooling around.”

She rolled her eyes as she sorted socks. “Oh, before I forget, my mom is coming for dinner Friday.”

“Oh?” Mulder picked up a pair of pajama pants. “Does she know I’m living here?”

Scully looked pensive for a moment. “She helped me clean out your place, so she knows you didn’t have an apartment to go back to.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Scully sighed, throwing a matched pair of socks into his pile. “She probably assumes you’re living here, but I haven’t said anything.”

“And does she know I’m the father?” Mulder dug one of Scully’s shirts out of the pile. Despite being eight months pregnant, the shirt seemed impossibly small.

“I think she assumes.”

“But you never told her.”

“She never asked.”

Mulder groaned, placing the folded top on Scully’s pile before digging a new article out to fold. “Well, I guess I should be comforted that I’m not the only person you’re not always forthcoming with.”

Scully threw a paired sock ball at him. It hit his forehead and dropped to the floor. He picked it up and put it in the correct pile.

“Does she know we’re ‘an item’?” he asked, drawing out the last two words in a playful tone.

She rolled her eyes. “I actually don’t know. I think she assumed we were together long before we were.”

“Good lord, Scully. You talk to your mom every week. How has none of this come up?”

Scully shrugged. “I mostly listen.”

Mulder grabbed the last item of the pile, his jeans, folded them, and then started transporting the stacks of clothes to the bedroom. Scully followed with the socks. “Well, do you want me here Friday night?” he asked, plopping the clothes on the bed.

“Of course.” Scully was putting her socks away. Her sock drawer was impossibly neat. Mulder had no idea how she managed that.

“Well, then how should I act?”

“Normal?” She was done with socks and headed out to the living room for the next batch.

“Should I act like your boyfriend?”

Scully returned with the underwear, her face scrunched in disgust. “Boyfriend?”

He shrugged. “What else would you call me? Once and future co-worker?”

“I think of you as my partner,” she said, putting his boxers away.

“Well, that’s wonderfully ambiguous.” He put the last of her pajamas away and went to get the rest of the clothes from the couch. The Sox had scored another run while they’d been arguing. Nothing was going his way.

Back in the bedroom, he said, “Look, I don’t really care what we call each other. The thing is I don’t want to get my foot stuck so far in my mouth it will take a surgical team to remove it. Can I say I’m living here?” He looked down at her stomach. Though he questioned if the baby was made the old fashioned way, Scully didn’t. And no matter what, it would be his child too. “Can I say ‘my son’?”

“Oh, she doesn’t know the sex.”

“Good to know, but not actually the part I was focused on. Are you being purposefully obtuse?”

Scully threw the last of her underwear into her drawer and slammed it shut. “What the fuck do you want, Mulder? For me to call her up and say, oh, by the way, Mulder and I started fucking on New Years Day last year. In fact, he fucked me so good, it popped and egg out of my defunct ovary, and now he’s my baby daddy! Oh, and we are shacked up, too!”

They glared at each other, silent except for Scully’s huffing. She cracked first. “Sorry. Sorry.” She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him as much as her stomach would allow. He returned her hug. “I’ll call and tell her. Before Friday.”

He kissed the top of her head. “While you can do whatever you want, may I suggest you clean up your language a bit? For instance, I’d change ‘fucking’ to ‘making loooove’.”

She pulled back and slugged him. Granted, he did deserve it.

Keep reading on AO3

#x files fanfic #msr

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