#next step is decent pickles

[verdiesque]

Found buckwheat in this shithole maybe life can be livable here

[wtfaniii]

Could you do the squid game characters x reader who likes to eat weird food combos?

I keep getting judged for my food choices 😔🤘

I understand you, HAHAHA I also tend to eat strange things sometimes

Squid game characters reaction to strange food

Your palate is very versatile and there are some people who may or may not like it.

We return to the requests!! Thank you for your wait and sorry for the delay ♡ I haven't reviewed this yet so sorry for any spelling mistakes :D and tell me if you would like me to add any character to my list

In-ho

Due to him job he rarely eats at his respective times so you are in charge of bringing him food and making sure he doesn't starve.

He appreciates what you do, he means it, he appreciates knowing that there is someone who cares about him even in the smallest thing like food, but every time he sees you enter his office with a covered silver tray he feels like his soul leaves his body for a few moments.

But seeing you smile silences any complaints he has, the food you make him knows that you make it with love and effort but damn, ¿hot cakes with bacon on top?

"¡Taraa!" You said proudly, putting the tray in front of him after having uncovered it and revealing your peculiar food combo "¡You have to try it! It looks weird but feels like a party in your mouth!"

The emotion in your voice silenced him for the second time, with a tight smile he took the cutlery and took a piece of the soft hot cake and joined it with the fried bacon, he brought it to his mouth under your watchful gaze and took a bite, he admitted it, sometimes he threw away your food but this combination definitely looked more decent than the previous ones.

And to him surprise it didn't taste bad.

"Mmmhh, it's delicious" He admitted eating his breakfast more enthusiastically, salty and sweet would be his favorite combination.

Jun-ho

The work day was quieter than usual, so you and Jun-ho had free time to talk and relax in the seats of the patrol car, being a traffic officer was boring sometimes.

But fortunately for you and unfortunately for him, you always had your favorite snack with you.

“Fries with honey” he sighed as he leaned back against his seat, watching as you pulled the bag of fries and a jar of honey out of your backpack.

"If you gave them a chance you'd see how good it tastes" you said flashing your tongue at him in a childish and playful manner to which he just laughed as he took the bag of chips from you and took a handful to eat.

"No thanks, the last time I listened to you I was in the bathroom for three hours."

You laughed out loud at his comment, he was right, you made him eat pizza with honey and his poor stomach suffered all day, maybe he didn't have the same resistance as you but you still enjoyed forcing him to eat sometimes just to make his body uncomfortable, that way Jun-ho would have fun and embarrassing anecdotes to tell.

The Salesman

"I finished my round for this day, it's your turn" Exclaimed the elegant and well-groomed man, standing next to you to hand you the briefcase, but a clear expression of disgust formed when he saw the food you had in your hands "¿What are you eating?"

You swallowed the bite in your mouth and excitedly showed him your peanut butter and pickle sandwich.

"My lunch, ¿do you want some?" You asked getting up from the park bench you were on and bringing your food closer to him face, a gesture that was out of pure kindness, he saw it as a threat to his person.

"Take that abomination away from me" He demanded with an expression of disgust and taking a step back using the briefcase as a shield "And look how dirty you got, go to the bathroom and get ready, we must have an impeccable appearance"

You looked at the candy stain on your jacket and twisted your lips when you saw that effort for your appearance had been of no use, as recruits they had a dress code.

"Hold this for me" you said and before he could complain you handed him your sandwich and walked to the nearest public women's bathroom.

This combination continued to seem strange to him and he held it away from him as if it were some toxic food, but after a few seconds his curiosity got the better and he took a bite of your lunch, when you returned, you surprised him eating and you smiled triumphantly, from that day on, you always brought an extra sandwich for him.

Gi-hun

For him, the food you brought him was horrible, he could barely swallow it or hold it in his mouth, so every time you brought him a snack he would throw it in the trash without you noticing.

Until one day he came home disappointed at not having found the salesman and found you standing in the middle of the living room with your arms crossed and a look of annoyance on your face.

Out of inertia he tried to back out and close the door, you didn't get angry often but seeing you do it meant risk and he definitely had in mind the reason for your displeasure, he had forgotten to take out the garbage bag this morning and if you took it out you probably found all the food you had made during the last three days.

"Don't even think about leaving" you threatened him with just your voice, forcing him to stay completely still "If you didn't like my food, you could have told me"

Now your voice didn't sound angry but yes hurt and disappointed, Gi-hun felt terrible and went to you to explain "I appreciate what you do for me, ¿but should I really eat pizza with applesauce on top?"

"You don't appreciate the art of cooking" you said dramatically, putting a hand to your chest "If you don't try it, you won't know if you like it"

He knew you were right, but damn, eating that was a sensation quite comparable to when he was in those games, however, as long as he saw you happy he agreed to try one of your peculiar combinations in front of you so that you would be sure that he tried it, he didn't like it but making him try new dishes was a success for you, now you just had to know which combination would be his favorite.

Gyeong-seok

This man is used to seeing and trying strange food, his daughter sometimes made him eat combinations without being entirely willing to do so, so he didn't complain when you put a spicy French fry with cream cheese in his mouth.

"Mmmhh, it's delicious, you always surprise me" he said, showing you a smile with his mouth closed while he chewed your strange combination.

"¡I knew you'd like it!" You said enthusiastically, taking another chip with cheese and bringing it to him mouth, he was busy painting another simple but beautiful canvas to sell his hands were full of paint stains so he was grateful that you were there to feed him with your peculiar snacks.

He admitted it, there were times when your food mixes didn't taste that good but he was too kind and cute to let you know, he'd rather stay in the bathroom for an hour with a stomach ache than hurt your feelings and never try these snacks again.

He opened his mouth waiting for another of your delicious snacks and you gladly did so, he enjoyed trying each new dish you invented so almost every day you appeared with a new mixture, he tried it and gave you his opinion which was mostly positive, anyway even if he didn't like it he wouldn't tell you unless really is an abomination to the culinary system, in which case he would be the kindest and gentlest with his words.

Dae-ho

¿Were your culinary tastes strange? Him are worse.

He needs to have something in his mouth every time he is stressed or nervous, he bites his nails, the collar of his shirt or in these cases snacks that you carry with you in the pocket.

At first you felt confident when you saw that he also had an exotic palate, but when you saw him eating avocado with cold coffee you rethought all the decisions you had made when it came to satisfying your cravings and hunger.

"¿Are you seriously going to eat that?" You asked him entering the kitchen where he was already drinking his morning coffee.

"Yeah, it tastes good," he assured with a funny smile when he saw your expression. "You can't judge me, you eat scrambled eggs with gelatin."

You laughed softly because you knew he was right, you approached him and he offered you to try his exotic drink, what a surprise you were when you tried it and admitted that it exceeded your expectations "Weird but good" you said taking another sip of coffee.

Dae-ho drew a triumphant expression on his face and offered to make you your own coffee. It was nice to have someone to share your culinary concoctions with.

Hyun-ju

She was curious to see you eating your chocolate chip cookies and ¿ham? with so much joy. You felt her gaze and believing that she was judging you, you returned a look with a frown.

She quickly realized the confusion so spoke up to apologize "oh no no no, I wasn't looking bad at you just… ¿What are you eating?"

"I have no idea" You admitted downplaying it as she sat next to you without taking your eyes off your snack. "¿Do you want to try?"

Hyun-ju nodded and you handed she a cookie wrapped in ham, hesitant but with curiosity on the surface she brought this small snack to his mouth and tried it.

She really tried hard not to spit out the food, ¿how could you eat it? However, she knew what it was like to feel judged, so with a lot of effort, swallowing the bite in his mouth and smiling at you.

"¿Do you like?" You asked excitedly but she just shook her head with a tight smile on her lips.

"No" she continued to keep a smile so as not to make you feel bad and it worked, not everyone will share these culinary tastes with you but you appreciated that there were those who gave you a chance without judging you.

Jun-hee

She wouldn't tell you anything about your meals, ask you to share them, or comment on how repulsive can sometimes seem.

But when her are pregnant you will have to get used to her taking away your snacks prepared in the kitchen, while you were preparing some Oreo cookies with peanut butter on top you barely turned around to take your glass of yogurt and when you saw there was nothing on the table.

Now next to you was Jun-hee eating your dessert with a happy smile.

"I thought you didn't like it" You said with a hand on your hip looking at her accusingly for taking away your snack.

"It's not as bad as I thought," her admitted, shrugging his shoulders casually and reaching out to take the entire package of cookies and jar of peanut butter from you.

You saw her walking back to the living room with your lunch and you gave up, but internally you smiled evilly when saw that you were finally going to share your creative food ideas with someone, you should take advantage while she was pregnant.

Myung-gi

For him it was already customary to see you eat anything edible that you found on your way, from pickles with chocolate and ham to spicy stuffed cheese,

He didn't say anything to you except certain expressions of disgust when he saw you eating those combinations, you weren't stupid, you noticed each and every time he looked at you as if he were going to vomit and instead of getting angry he made you laugh.

Every time you had the chance you made fun of him and teased him by threatening to force him to eat one of your lunches like now.

"¡Get off me!" He demanded, placing both hands to prevent you from putting whatever you had in your hands in his mouth.

"¡Oh come on! ¡Just one bite!" you said between laughs and without stopping

You weren't actually going to force him to eat this, you just wanted to scare and annoy him a little for fun, the only way to stop was for him to accept and then there would be no need for him to really try it, you just wanted to prove to him that shouldn't always reject the invitation to new experiences.

You held a piece of sausage with strawberry jam centimeters from his face while he grimaced in pain and anguish as if he were being subjected to the worst punishment in the world.

"Dramatic" you said getting up from the bed where you were fighting with him as you put the food in your mouth but before could eat it he hit your hand causing the lunch to fly "¡Hey!"

"Don't eat that, let's go, I'll take you to eat something decent." Myung-gi took your hand and dragged you out of the apartment to buy you an ice cream or a regular sandwich, maybe you should bother him more often if that was going to be your reward.

Choi Su-bong // Thanos

He didn't judge you at all, quite the opposite, he was even willing to try some strange foods you made, of course, some of the times he had to be high to be able to pass it down his throat.

"Look, spaghetti with melted chocolate on top" He told you, showing you a photograph of said food that he had found on his cell phone.

You grimaced when you saw such a thing, maybe it tasted better than it looked but still just seeing such a photograph made your stomach clench.

"I like to mix flavors but this is extreme" You said letting out a sigh and walking towards the couch, Thanos seemed offended by your comment, he wanted to help you try new things, adapt to your palate, but you weren't cooperating at all.

"¿What? I thought this would be like a five-star meal for you" he said dramatically.

Some might say he was joking but you knew him well enough to know that wasn't the case, he truly believed that you would be able to eat even the strangest food but you had certain limits.

Still, you appreciated the attempts he made to keep a smile on your face and make you feel comfortable in his company.

And poor soul of the one who dares to look at you with disgust while you were eating next to him on the street.

[prongspower]

Grind Therapy- A Jason Todd one shot.

~ ⚠️ warning a bit suggestive and on the fence of 18+ NSFW it’s not outright but just being cautious. Also brief mentions of past infidelity and past abusive relationship~

Jason Todd x OC

💥 Breakup. Breakdown. Then Jason Todd walked in. 💥

Julia Calen’s night hit rock bottom the second she caught her cheating boyfriend with one of Falcone’s dancers. With rage in her heart and glitter on her boots, she storms into a Gotham punk club, ready to drown her pain in bass and bad decisions. She didn’t expect to cross paths with Jason Todd—a man who wears trouble like a leather jacket and knows exactly what to say to make a girl forget everything that came before.

One drink. One dance. One night that might change everything.

—————————————————————

The Wasted Wing – Gotham’s Underground Emo-Punk Club

The bass thudded like a heartbeat through Julia Calen’s boots as she pushed open the rusted door to The Wasted Wing, Gotham’s favorite haunt for the broken-hearted and blackout-ready. Her eyeliner was smudged, her mascara had turned warpaint from crying in the alley just ten minutes ago—but now her jaw was set, shoulders squared. Screw him. Screw them both.

She should’ve known her ex was a walking red flag. The temper. The gaslighting. The way he flinched when her phone lit up. But catching him in the act with a Falcone club dancer? That was poetic. Tragic. Gotham-tier betrayal.

The club was soaked in red and purple lights, industrial beats pulsing, bodies grinding in sync. She slid into the chaos like a blade into velvet—sharp, determined, untouchable. But not quite invisible. Because from across the bar, a figure leaned against the edge with a half-empty bottle in hand. Leather jacket. Combat boots. White streak in his dark hair and that reckless gleam in his eye.

Jason Todd clocked her in an instant. The fury in her step. The heartache beneath the eyeliner. The “don’t touch me unless you’re funny or on fire” energy radiating off her like heatwaves.

He pushed off the bar top and made his way through the crowd, cutting through like a knife. Then—

“Rough night?” he asked, smirking just enough to spark irritation—or intrigue.

Julia turned, her glare locked and loaded. “Do I look like I want to talk?”

Jason shrugged. “No. But you do look like you could use a drink, a distraction, or a good punchline. Lucky for you, I’m decent at two out of three.”

She narrowed her eyes, taking all of him in. “Let me guess. You’re either here to save a damsel or start a bar fight.”

Jason raised a brow. “Why not both?”

Julia huffed out a bitter laugh despite herself. He took that as a win.

“I’m Jason,” he said casually, offering his hand. “And I’m not trying to fix you. Just thought you might want someone who doesn’t suck to stand next to while you plot your revenge.”

She stared at his hand for a beat… and then shook it.

“Julia,” she replied. “And I don’t need help.”

Jason grinned. “Didn’t say you did. Just figured you might like some company while looking this hot and pissed off.”

And for the first time that night, she almost—almost—smiled.

“I’ll go get you a drink” he winked and was off.

Julia barely had time to decide whether this Jason guy was annoying or dangerously charming when he returned from the bar, two drinks in hand. He set one in front of her, golden and mysterious with a pickle brine chaser beside it.

She raised a brow. “You trying to poison me?”

Jason smirked. “Pickleback. Jameson and pickle juice. Heard it’s a favorite for girls here who look like they bite.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How did you—?”

“Lucky guess,” he said with a wink. “But the fact that you didn’t flinch when you saw the pickle juice tells me I’m right.”

She took the shot, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—but wasn’t far off. She slammed the glass back down. “Damn it. You’re annoyingly good at this.”

Jason leaned in, elbows on the sticky table, eyes dancing in the red club lights. “So… who’s the guy I should be thinking evil thoughts about while pretending I care about your tragic backstory?”

With low, bitter laugh, she ran a hand through her messy waves. “Just some Gotham trash with expensive cologne. Abusive. Controlling. Caught him screwing a Falcone dancer like it was a damn soap opera.”

Jason’s expression hardened for half a beat. But he masked it with a cocky shrug.

“Well,” he said, draining his shot, “good news: nothing gets over trash like setting it on fire. Or—if fire’s off the table tonight—getting under someone way hotter and less emotionally constipated.”

Julia blinked.

Jason raised a brow, tone somehow playful and serious all at once. “Not saying it has to be me. But if you’re looking to make him feel small? There’s a dance floor. And I have my masters in grind therapy.”

She laughed despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still standing here. Which means I’ve got at least one thing going for me.”

He stood and extended a hand, palm open, a challenge sparking in his eyes. “What do you say, Jules? Let’s make a few bad choices together.”

Julia stared at him for one long beat. She’d let the nickname stick for tonight. Her head was spinning with the beat of the bass, the burn of Jameson, and the echo of betrayal still stinging her ribs.

Then, finally, she downed the pickle juice chaser and slid off her stool.

“I swear,” she said, taking his hand, “if you can’t dance, I will punch you.”

Jason grinned. “Baby, I move like I fight—dirty and with intent.”

And with that, they disappeared into the writhing crowd, the music swallowing them as her ex became a distant memory and revenge tasted like sweat, rhythm, and something dangerously close to fun.

The club was alive with pounding bass, strobes flashing against black brick walls, and the writhing pulse of bodies lost in sound.

“Come on,” he said, close to her ear, his voice warm and smug. “You need a better memory to burn over the one you just walked in on.”

She didn’t fight him. Not tonight. Not with her heart still thudding like a fist in her chest and his hand curling around hers like it belonged there.

The crowd swallowed them whole, and the music shifted—darker, dirtier, seductive. Jason moved like he owned the space around him, broad shoulders cutting through the chaos, his smirk practically weaponized under the red club lights.

Julia matched him beat for beat.

Her back arched slightly into him, hips rolling with the rhythm. He didn’t hesitate—his hands found her waist, gripping her like she was something worth anchoring down. She turned in his hold, pressing her back to his front, grinding slowly, deliberately.

Jason let out a low, appreciative sound just for her ear. “Damn, sweetheart. Trying to kill me already?”

“Depends,” she breathed, tilting her head to glance back at him. “You make a habit of rescuing angry girls on rage benders?”

“Only the ones who look like they bite.” His voice rasped just behind her jaw.

“I do,” she replied. “Hard.”

Jason laughed, deep and rough. “Now you’re just showing off.”

“Maybe.” Her fingers slid up around the back of his neck, nails gently raking through his hair. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re worth forgetting him for.”

He leaned in then, lips grazing her ear, breath hot. “News flash, baby—you already did.”

The moment cracked wide open. The heat between them wasn’t just in their movements anymore—it clung to every brush of their bodies, every glance. There was nothing casual about the way his hand settled on her lower stomach, how her own reached behind for the hem of his jacket and tugged him impossibly closer.

The music throbbed, wild and fast.

And still—they danced like they were the only two people in the world who mattered.

Julia didn’t know when the line between dancing and devouring had disappeared—only that Jason was pressed against her now like he meant it. Every beat of the music was matched by the grind of her hips, the slow, controlled tension in his hold, and the way their bodies fit like a perfect, bad idea.

Her head tilted as she rolled her body back into his, and Jason’s mouth found the curve of her neck.

Not a kiss—yet.

Just the soft press of lips against skin, right beneath her ear. Warm. Lingering.

Julia gasped quietly, eyes fluttering shut, and Jason smiled against her neck like he’d been waiting for that exact sound.

“Still thinking about him?” he murmured, voice low and hungry.

“Who?” she asked, breath catching.

“Exactly.”

Her fingers gripped his forearm where it rested against her waist. His other hand had wandered lower—guiding, holding, teasing. The hem of her short black dress crept higher as they moved. Her leg slid between his, and his breath stuttered at the contact. His lips finally dropped to her shoulder, then the base of her neck, slow and deliberate.

She turned to face him again, chest rising fast.

Jason’s eyes burned beneath the shadows of the club lights. “You’re killing me, Jules.”

She smirked, lips parted, eyes heavy with heat. “You don’t look dead yet.”

He leaned in—foreheads nearly touching—and asked against her lips, “Wanna finish what we started in a booth?”

Julia dragged her fingers down the front of his shirt, nails catching fabric.

“That depends,” she whispered. “You gonna keep kissing me like that?”

Jason chuckled darkly. “Oh sweetheart, I haven’t even started.”

Julia stumbled into the velvet-lined booth, half-laughing, half-breathless, as Jason slid in beside her—close, too close, thigh to thigh. The thrum from the club still pulsed through the cushions, vibrating against her spine like a second heartbeat. Or maybe that was just him.

“You good?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow, lips curled into a lopsided grin. His jacket was open now and the tight black T-shirt he wore clung to every muscle like it had a grudge.

“I’m tipsy and pissed off and I haven’t danced like that in years,” she said, kicking off her heels under the table. “I think I’m amazing.”

“Yeah, you are,” he said, and he wasn’t smiling now. His voice dipped low, intimate. “You’ve got that whole ‘vengeful goddess who just got out of a toxic relationship and might set the building on fire’ thing going on. It’s working for you.”

She laughed—sharper this time. “My ex would hate this.”

Jason leaned closer. “Then we’re definitely doing something right.”

Before she could say another word, he dipped his head, mouth brushing just beneath her jawline. A spark snapped down her spine. Her breath caught. His stubble scraped deliciously against her skin, his lips trailing a slow, lazy kiss toward the corner of her mouth—but stopping just short.

Julia turned, fast. Their noses bumped, and then their lips met—hot, insistent, hungry. It wasn’t a careful kiss. It wasn’t sweet. It was weeks of betrayal, months of tension, a whole damn lifetime of bad choices finally tipping into something good and wrong all at once.

Her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands slid over her thighs, gripping, thumbs grazing the edge of her dress where it had ridden up from dancing. The booth’s low lighting cloaked them in shadows, tucked away from the crowd but still humming with the same heat.

He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, “You still mad at that loser ex?”

“Furious,” she whispered, tugging him closer again.

“Good,” he growled, lifting her leg slightly to rest across his lap. His palm slid along the bare skin, warm and possessive. “Let me help you forget his name entirely.”

She smirked. “You already have.”

And then his mouth was on hers again—rougher this time. Hungry. Her hand slipped under his shirt, grazing hard muscle, while his hands skimmed up her thighs like they were learning every inch by heart.

They didn’t care who saw. They weren’t trying to be subtle.

This wasn’t the start of something healthy or safe.

This was revenge with tongue and teeth, hands and heat.

This was exactly what they both needed.

Julia shifted in Jason’s lap, her legs straddling him now—dress bunched high on her thighs, her hands braced against his chest. They were still in the booth, but the room had faded away. The pulse of the music, the neon haze, the chatter of Gotham’s angsty nightlife—it was all background noise now.

All she could feel was him. His hands gripping her waist, holding her like he didn’t plan to let go. His breath, hot against her neck. And the way his eyes—stormy, amused, hungry—drank her in like she was the only woman in the room.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered with a grin, voice rough from want.

Julia rolled her hips against his, deliberately slow, and watched his jaw tense, and his grip tighten. A rush of satisfaction bloomed in her chest.

Jason groaned low, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. “If you keep doing that thing with your hips…” His hand slid up her spine, pulling her flush against him. “I swear to God, I’m gonna take you right here in this damn booth.”

She smirked, breathless and wicked. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He barked a soft, incredulous laugh that trailed off fast and was replaced by something darker, more electric. Their mouths crashed together again, all teeth and tongue and no patience. The kiss was dizzying—reckless and hot and so much more than either of them had expected.

But just as his hand began inching beneath the hem of her dress, she pulled back slightly—just enough to see his face.

“Your place or mine?” she whispered, her voice teasing but serious beneath it.

Jason’s brow arched, surprised and amused. “I live over a garage, sweetheart.”

“Mine it is.” She smiled, brushing her nose against his. “It’s finally ex-free. You can even help me christen the couch he pick out with out asking.”

Jason grinned wide, equal parts amused and turned on. “You’re dangerous.”

“You’re into it.”

“Damn right I am.”

She kissed him once more, slower this time—a promise rather than a tease. Then she slipped off his lap, tugging her dress down and reaching for his hand. “Come on, handsome. Let’s go see what kind of trouble we can get into somewhere with a door that locks.”

He stood, towering behind her, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt as they made their way through the crowd—her hand in his, their bodies still buzzing from the heat they’d left behind.

Neither of them looked back.

They didn’t need to.

The night wasn’t cooling down—it was just getting started.

The air outside still buzzed with the sound of neon lights and bass when they stepped out of the club, but Julia didn’t feel the chill until it hit her bare shoulders.

Jason noticed.

Without a word, he shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over her arms. She blinked, caught off guard. It was warm from his body and heavy in that comforting, protective way.

“You looked cold,” he said with a casual shrug.

“And you look hot,” she shot back, tugging the jackets collar up and inhaling deeply. He smelled like leather, spice, and something dangerous. Something she shouldn’t want. But God, she did.

They didn’t say much on the short walk to her place—just a few teasing touches, her hand brushing his as they crossed the street, his knuckles grazing her lower back. By the time she unlocked the door and pulled him inside, the silence was screaming with tension.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Julia turned—and Jason was already there.

He kissed her like he was making up for lost time. Hands in her hair. Lips bruising with intent. Her back hit the wall and she let out a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

“You always make a habit of coming home with strangers outside of grimy punk clubs?” she whispered against his lips.

“Could ask you the same thing, Jules”Jason smirked, low and feral. “But to your question, only the ones wearing my jacket.”

She teasingly shoved him lightly toward the couch. “Lose the attitude.”

“Only if you can lose that dress….”

That made her snort, but she was already pulling his jacket off and tossing it over a nearby chair. Jason’s hands found her waist—strong, calloused, and sure. He tugged her into his lap, and she straddled him like it was second nature.

Her short dress rode up with the movement. His jeans did absolutely nothing to hide what she was doing to him.

“Jesus,” he muttered against her neck, voice ragged. “You’re so damn hot. I’m not sure I can hold back.”

Julia grinned, lips brushing his ear. “Was that not the plan?”

Jason didn’t answer with words. His mouth crashed into hers again, rougher now, more desperate. Their hands were everywhere—hers under his shirt, his sliding up her thighs. He pulled her tight against him and the moan that escaped her lips told him exactly how much control he was losing.

The couch creaked under them. A leg knocked the coffee table over. Neither party cared.

“Bedroom?” he rasped.

She shook her head, breathless. “Too far.”

His chuckle rumbled against her chest. “You’re insane.”

“You started it.”

The rest came in fragments—her dress slipping over her head, his shirt discarded somewhere behind a lamp. Her fingers tangled in his hair, his teeth grazing her collarbone. The press of skin against skin, the breathless laughter, the look in his eyes when she gasped his name.

They certainly didn’t make it to the bedroom.

The couch earned every damn cent that night.

****

Sunlight crept in through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the living room floor. Jason woke to the scent of cheap coffee brewing and the sound of Julia humming something sweet from the kitchen.

His head rested against the back of the couch, one arm slung over the edge, the other reaching out across empty cushions.

She wasn’t beside him anymore.

But her scent still was—warm skin, hair product, and his damn leather jacket.

Jason smirked.

For a second, just one second, he let himself enjoy it. The weightlessness. The not-thinking. The soft ache in his muscles and the fact that—for the first time in weeks—he wasn’t waking up alone with guilt pressed into his ribs.

Then Julia called out, “Hey, Mystery Man, you want coffee? Or did you sneak out while I wasn’t looking?”

Jason grunted and sat up, dragging a hand through his chaotic hair. “If I were gonna sneak out, you think I’d leave my pants still halfway up your curtain rod?”

Julia poked her head around the corner with a sleepy laugh. She was wearing his T-shirt, way too big, and somehow she looked even hotter in the morning light with bedhead and no makeup.

“Fair point. I almost broke my neck trying to get your shirt down from the lamp, by the way.” She smiled and went back to work.

Jason stood, stretching his back, and headed toward the kitchen. “Did we wrestle or have sex? I honestly can’t tell.”

Julia handed him a chipped mug. “I think we did both. You lost. Multiple times.”

Jason took a sip, eyeing her over the rim. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

She leaned against the counter, suddenly quieter. “So, uh… thanks for not being a total creep. I’ve had worse nights.”

Jason’s smirk faded just slightly as he shrugged. “You said last night was about revenge.”

She nodded, tracing the rim of her mug with one finger. “Yeah. My ex was garbage. I was mad, drunk, and you were… there.”

“Ouch,” he said with mock outrage, a hand to his chest. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

Her lips curved into a grin, but there was a pause. Her voice dropped. “But… you were also kind. And funny. And didn’t push.”

Jason stepped closer, searching her face. “You want me to say it meant something?”

“I want you to tell me if it did but it’s also not what I was expecting,” she said.

They stood there a beat too long. Coffee steaming between them. Truth crawling up both their throats.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not… I don’t do the whole ‘define the relationship’ thing. I’ve got a messy life. Real messy.”

Julia raised a brow. “Yeah? Try me.”

He hesitated.

Then smirked.

“Another time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Mysterious and emotionally evasive. Just my type.”

He chuckled and gently tapped the side of her mug with his. “Regardless, I’m glad I met you. Even if we were both kind of disasters.”

She smiled. “Same.”

Jason reached down to grab his undershirt shirt from the back of a chair, slipping it on as he moved toward the his jacket by the door.

Sliding it on, he hesitated with his hand on the door knob.

“Hey,” he said, turning back to her. “What’s your last name?”

Julia laughed, eyes twinkling. “Calen. Julia Calen.”

He nodded, grinning and gesturing to himself. “Todd….”

“About time.”

Jason winked. “Maybe I’ll see you again, Jules.”

“Maybe,” she said, leaning against the doorframe, still wearing his T-shirt . “Next time don’t lose your clothes.”

He gave her a mock salute and headed out into the morning sun, heart weirdly lighter and his smile lingering longer than it should’ve.

[kengan-daddies]

The Boy Next Door Baki HanmaX Motherly! Older Female Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4

Anime : Baki: Son of Ogre Character : Baki Hanma Warning : Mention of child neglect, child abuse

The Boy Next Door Baki Hanma X Motherly! Older Female Reader

The Boy Next Door Baki Hanma X Motherly! Older Female Reader

Your morning routine has been modified and changed, it was hard but it was worth it. Waking up from your usual time to 5:00 a.m. Getting out of bed, and drinking coffee to give you a pep in your step. You took your usual wash-up routine, then you got dressed and did your makeup. You cooked an extra breakfast before eating your own, done any chores you could think of that needed to be done, and then you waited... And waited... And waited... Your alarm went off and you sprung into action. Jumping up you grabbed your bag, put your shoes on, and dashed outside, slamming the door behind you as you ran towards the sidewalk.

You stopped short, catching your breath quickly, fixing your skirt, checking to make sure you looked decent and then you walked a few steps, stepping on the sidewalk you looked towards the left, and you smiled. There he was, the reason why you changed your morning routine, the reason why you tried to look as nice as you could, the reason why you ran towards the sidewalk, the boy next door, Baki Hanma walked down the street. His little home was back behind him as he walked, one hand in his pocket while the other held his bag, looking lost in thought.

'Silly boy... He's always deep in thought at this time of morning.' You thought as you stared at him, your eyes looking over his built form hidden under his school uniform. 'He's grown so much over the years. It makes me oddly proud to see him like this.' You thought as you shifted your weight in your heels. He seemed to have noticed you, his face brightening up in a happy smile. 'He so cute, he's like a little dog.' You thought as you smiled back, waving at him. He started to a light jog as he sprinted towards you, slowing once he got close enough.

"Hey, (y/n). How have you been... I haven't seen you in a few days." He said a nervous gleam in his eyes as he stared down at you. You smiled up at him, placing a hand on your hip as you did. "Yeah, I was busy with work, my boss is a real ass, he gave me extra work last week making me do some major overtime." You explained, a relaxed smile on your face. "Oh... Damn, that really sucks actually." He said. Your smile widened as you gave him a hard pat on his chest. "Don't worry about it, I'm a tough lady ya know." You said as you playfully flexed your arm.

He chuckled at you, his eyes gleaming happily. "Yeah, I guess you are." He said. Your smile faded as a look of shock crossed your face as you snapped your fingers. "Oh yeah!! I almost forgot!!" You said as you opened your bag. He stared down at you in question. "Here you go, your lunch." You said as you held out the bento box towards him. He stared down at it, marveling at how you had the chopsticks in a case the box was a pretty blue with a golden dragon going across it, written in Kanji was his name.

He smiled as he saw it, happily grabbing it. "Thanks (Y/n), man I really missed your cooking." He said as he placed it carefully into his bag. You smiled. "Why thank you Baki, I'm glad you love it so much." You said, your chest swelling in pride. He chuckled. "It's hard not to, you make the best food." He said softly.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

You both walked down the street together, waking through the crowds as you both spoke to one another, Baki wasn't much of a talker, he enjoyed hearing your voice, but it's been almost a week since you last spoke to one another, so Baki had a lot to tell you. He told you about all his fights and his newest friend who was a primitive man named Pickle. You shook your head as you heard about what happened to his friends. "My god, that's awful... To lose a limb..." You said, you couldn't imagine the gruesome pictures that Baki explained to you... "Don't see it as something terrible... See it as a badge of honor." Baki said. You looked up at him a look of confusion on your face.

"How is that a badge of honor, Baki? You lost a piece of yourself forever." You said in a scolding voice, he never looked down at you as you both walked together, a knowing smile on his face. "I'm not expecting you to understand, I don't expect anyone to even begin to grasp the understanding of it... It's such a deep meaning to a warrior when they lose a limb to a worthy opponent... It's a symbol of strength... A trophy to wear... It's a beautiful way of saying 'I survived from fighting my strongest opponent.' ... It's a beautiful thing really." He said. You stared up at him, a puzzling look on your face, it melted into a relaxed stare before you looked away from him, staring at the scenery before you a small smile gracing your face.

"You're right... I don't think I'll ever understand Baki, but I can accept it... Because it's something you love." You said. His eyes widened and he looked down at you. You never looked over at him, but the sweet, genuine look on your face and the tender gleam in your eyes remained. He smiled slowly as his eyes relaxed. The happy gleam in his eyes shone harder than before as he looked ahead of himself as well. 'Damn... She's one hell of a woman.' He thought.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

You sat in your cubical, sighing tiredly as you hung up the phone, you leaned back in your chair, making it incline back, you raised your arms, stretching them high above your head as your back arches, you squealed in pleasure as you sighed, you relaxed against the chair, resting your elbow on the armrest as you held your head up. Your eyes closed as you listened to the phones ringing, hanging up, and people answering calls. The sound of rushed steps sounded out, the rustling of paper, stapling, printing, and shredding.

It was an atmosphere you've grown accustomed to but never really loved, but it brought you comfort from how familiar it was. 'I wonder how Baki's doing... I hope he's doing good in school, talking to friends having fun, learning... I wonder if he's still talking to that girl, I forget her name... Kozue??? That sounds about right, but I could be wrong, he doesn't speak about her often, but when he does he always looks so happy... Yet so troubled... I hope he didn't get into any more fights, but if he did I'll just have to bandage him up and give him a good lecture.' You thought, your eyes mindlessly roaming around your cubical.

Pictures of family and friends hung up on the walls of your cubical, your desk organized yet messy, your laptop open to a document page, sticky notes stuck to the frame of your laptop marking important dates and time frames from customers and employees. You sighed as you looked down at the bottom of your laptop screen checking the time. '11:40 am... It should be lunchtime for Baki, I wonder if he's enjoying his bento.' You thought as your chest filled with warmth at the thought of the young man.

'We go way back, he and I... He always loved those bento boxes I made him... He was always so grateful... He'd hold onto them for years, even after they were old and broken, and he'd place them on his shelf as souvenirs... He's always been such a sweet boy.' You thought fondly, reminiscing his younger years. 'And now. He's a young man now, about to graduate high school and be out there in the world... And I'm pretty sure that I'm still gonna be making him bento boxes.' You thought as you chuckled to yourself.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

Baki sat on the roof of the school, the bento you gave him this morning was opened and was nearly empty, he was slowly eating the food you cooked for him, 10 sausages sliced to look like little squids, 10 rolled omelets, and 4 large rice balls. It was never enough to get him stuffed, but it was enough to get him satisfied. He smiled as he swallowed the last of his rice ball, reaching down for the last rolled omelet and soon after the last two sausages. He chewed it slowly, savoring the taste like it'd be his last meal. He placed it down gently, putting the lid on it, sliding his chopsticks back into its case closing it before he placed it on top on the bento box.

He clasped his hands in thanks before he leaned back on his hands and he let out a burp before he sighed happily, patting his stomach with a satisfied stare. "Whoo!! Man, that hit the spot... She always knows how much to feed me... No matter how old I am, she always somehow knew when my appetite grew... Is that what the other kids at school are always talking about... How their mothers always know without them saying anything?... Is that what they call 'A Mother's instinct?' " He questioned aloud to himself as he stared at the sky, watching the clouds slowly drift by.

"I wonder what she's doing right now?... Probably eating... Maybe still working... Talking on the phone with a customer... A co-worker... Hopefully, it's a lady and not another guy.... Ha, now I sound like those guys who are protective of their moms." He said with a chuckle, a small smile on his face. He lays there in silence a little longer, lying down on his back as he crosses his arms under his head. "I wonder... How would she feel if I called her 'Mom'?... I mean, I would be shocked if she called me 'son'... But she already calls me things like 'sweetie', 'dear' and 'love', so... Maybe she wouldn't mind?.... Who am I kidding, of course, she would mind... Would she though?" He questioned as he lay there.

He stayed there for a few more minutes before he sat up, his legs bent and his arms resting on them. He stared down at the bento box, a gentle look on his face as he did. "I wouldn't know, If I don't try, right?" He asked himself aloud.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

You sighed tiredly as you placed the stack of paper down on the counter in the lounge area, you sighed as you leaned on it, your arm resting on the stack while your other hand rested on the table. "Man, I can't wait for my shift to be over, I'm so ready to go home and relax with a nice dinner." You said, you stood there a little longer before you began separating the papers alphabetical order. 'Hmm, I wonder if Baki would want to come over for dinner today, it's been a while since we had dinner together.' You thought as your hands worked on autopilot, your eyes keeping tabs on the letters while your brain wondered.

'I should ask him after school today if he wants to have dinner together, knowing him he'd say yes, little foodie.' You thought fondly, a small smile gracing your face as you thought about him stuffing his face. You loved seeing Baki happy, he had such a rough life, and you were proud to be another constant form of normalcy in his life aside from school and having a girlfriend. You shook your head, remembering the sight of a young Baki, hungry and tired after constant training and depression, he wasn't frail but he wasn't exactly a normal thickness for a healthy child either.

A sad look crossed your face as you thought about it. 'Child neglect... It's a high rise here in Japan... And it's always so sad to see... Some women and men just didn't need to be parents.' You thought, Baki's mother crossing your mind, her arrogant stare as she glared at you, a saddened Baki by her side as he stared up at you with those big sad eyes. You hated that woman, she didn't deserve to be a mother... She was a monster, a selfish bitch, chasing after a man who didn't even want her, taking her frustrations out on a child. Your jaw clenched at the thought of her

Over the years of taking care of Baki, you've come to love him as your own child, you wished he was yours. You loved having him around, he made you feel so complete. Hearing him laugh in your living room as he watched TV, like a normal child, hearing his footsteps as he walked around, getting ready for school or to hit the gym, hearing him coming in from gym or school, a proud look on his face as he told you about him breaking his limits or about his grade improving. You watched him grow from a young teen to a young man, it made you proud to be in his life.

You stood there quietly for a while, the sound of shuffling paper was the only sound as you placed them in order, you paused halfway through, and you looked up in thought for a moment before you went back to work. "I wonder what I should make for dinner." You said aloud.

The Boy Next Door

The Boy Next Door

Baki walked down the street, hand in pocket while the other held his bag, a thoughtful look on his face as he walked. 'I'm gonna do it... I'm gonna walk in, like normal, I'm gonna sit at the table, like normal, and then I'm just gonna say it... It's just a simple word... Nothing too extreme... I'll just sit there casually, and I'll just say. "So, what's for dinner, Mom?".... Damn this is hard... I don't wanna make things awkward between us... But I also don't wanna constantly guess and wonder forever... Damn, this is tough.' He thought as he looked up, his brows creased in worry.

He sighed as he paused, his chest expanding before he held it for a moment, exhaling and his shoulders relaxed. A determined gleam in his eyes as he put a pep in his step. "I'm gonna do it!!" He said aloud, his walking picking up speed as he walked home. He walked for a while, his fast pace never slowing as he walked, he felt energized, nervous, nauseous, excited, worried, motivated... He was buzzing with so many emotions. His determined glare softened to a gentle gleam when he saw your form from a distance.

You were walking at a simple pace, you looked so small, so tired, yet still strong and sturdy. 'That's a mom for you, she's tired, she's beaten, she's bruised, but she still laughs, she still smiles, she still gives time for her young, she still carries on... The strongest human on earth is Yujiro Hanma, but the hardest to break is a Mother's Love.' Baki thought as he watched you walk ahead. His steps picked up speed as he caught up to you, it didn't take long, and once close enough he tapped your shoulder.

You jumped a little, looking over your shoulder and you relaxed the questioning look on your face into a happy smile when you saw Baki. The loving gleam in your eyes shined brightly and he stared at them, soaking up the stare. "Oh, Baki!! There you are, I was just wondering what I should make for dinner tonight." You said. He stared down at you sweetly as he smiled walking towards your home, you followed, your steps side by side as you both walked together through the crowded streets. Baki's eyes gleamed brightly as he steeled his resolve. 'Now.... This is the best time to do this.' He thought as his hand in his pocket balled into a fist.

"How about grilled fish, miso soup, and egg rolls with some rice... Mom?" He said, his voice wavered nervously at the end. Your eyes widen and you snatch your head to look over at him in question. 'Did I hear him right?... Did he just call me "mom"?' You thought, the soft yet scared look on his face, the cold sweat his eyes locked ahead of him, it all answered your question and you smiled. You wrapped your arm around his making him look down at you in shock with a questioning look. The happy look on your face, your eyes gleamed with unshead tears as you looked up at him.

"That sounds like a good idea, Son." You said. He slowly smiled at you, the scared look in his eyes relaxed and melted into a happy gleam as he tightened his arm around yours slightly. "Great... I was actually craving that at school today." He said, you giggled. "Really now? Well, it's a good thing you told me then because I was gonna make some fried cabbage, rice, and omelet." You said through a chuckle. "What!? Again!? Come on, Mom, you gotta eat better than that." He said playfully. You chuckled. "I know, I know... But I'll eat better now, I promise." You said.

You both walked together down the street, arms locked, happy smiles on your faces as you both looked like a mother and son having a playful banter.

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

Part 3 – When the Boys Ship Out

WC: 1500 +

TW: Deployment, Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader If you'd like to be a part of a masterlist please lmk, I appreciate all more than you know!

The street was too quiet that morning.

Brooklyn never stayed still, but that day, even the air felt like it was holding its breath. You stood at the window, arms folded, hip leaning against the peeling frame, watching as Bucky Barnes adjusted the strap of his duffel bag for the tenth time.

He looked too good in uniform. It made you want to cry and punch something at the same time.

Steve was a few feet away, smaller in every direction, hands jammed in his coat pockets, jaw clenched. He looked like someone trying not to sink into the concrete.

They didn’t speak much. Not down there. Not yet.

You ran your thumb over the edge of your ring.

You hadn’t taken it off. Not once. Not even when Mrs. Ginsberg from next door muttered something about “wearing something before a man’s earned it.”

You didn’t need to defend it. The silver did that all on its own.

Down on the sidewalk, Bucky laughed—too loud, too forced—at something Steve said. It was the kind of laugh that kept the panic from crawling up the back of your throat. You recognized it. You’d made it the night your brother left for the Pacific.

You stepped back from the window and grabbed the wax-paper wrapped sandwich off the counter. Egg and pickle. He’d said it once, offhand, that it was the only decent combination the Army couldn’t mess up.

You ran down the stairs two at a time.

Bucky turned as you reached him.

“There’s my girl,” he said, eyes already burning under the swagger.

“You’re early,” you said.

“You’re late.”

“I was folding your damn socks.”

He laughed and took the sandwich from your hands. “You spoil me.”

“Try not to die with that in your pocket,” you said, smoothing the lapel of his coat.

“I’m gonna die choking on this sandwich if you made it the way you like it.”

Steve looked away, lips pressed thin.

Bucky shifted, trying to hand the moment off to someone else. “Steve’s got that face again.”

“I’m just wondering why I’m still here,” Steve muttered.

You didn’t touch that.

Bucky did.

He stepped forward and clasped Steve’s shoulder. “You’ll get in. One of these days, they’ll see what you really are.”

Steve didn’t look convinced.

You reached out and tugged Steve’s sleeve gently. “Come walk with me for a second?”

Steve hesitated, then nodded.

Bucky watched you both go, chewing slowly. Watching your hand brush Steve’s sleeve and knowing—just knowing—that part of him would always be jealous. But never threatened.

Because you chose him.

“You okay?” you asked once you were out of earshot.

“I hate this,” Steve said quietly.

“Which part?”

“That he’s going. And I’m not.”

You stopped, turned to face him. “Steve. You’ll get there.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t want to sit here while people I love get ripped apart.”

You looked up at him. Really looked.

There were so many things you could have said. So many promises you could try to make—for him, for Bucky, for the world.

Instead, you said, “Then don’t. Find your way in. But come back, Steve. Don’t get lost in trying.”

He nodded.

You walked back together. The bus was pulling up.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped into Bucky’s arms and kissed him like you were trying to push oxygen into his lungs through your mouth.

He didn’t let go right away.

When he pulled back, he brushed your ring with his thumb.

“Every time I close my hand,” he whispered, “I’ll imagine this.”

You grabbed his coat. “You knock first when you come home. If you just show up, I’ll scream.”

“I’ll knock,” he said, smiling crooked. “But I’m not waiting for an invite.”

He clapped Steve on the back, muttered something about keeping his damn boots dry, and then he boarded the bus.

You stood with Steve on the curb, not touching. Just waiting.

And when the bus pulled away, taking Bucky with it, you didn’t cry.

But you didn’t speak again until Steve walked you home.

_____________________________________________________________

Steve’s apartment was too quiet.

Not like Bucky’s place, which had always smelled like soap and bread and warmth—even when he was gone. Steve’s smelled like pencil shavings and boiled potatoes, and the kind of silence that settles when someone’s been living alone too long.

You sat at the tiny kitchen table, cutting gauze.

Steve stood near the sink, shirt off, knuckles red and torn open from punching a brick wall behind the enlistment center.

“You know,” you said gently, “there are easier ways to lose a fight.”

“I wasn’t trying to fight anyone.”

“Then why’s your hand broken?”

He didn’t answer.

You leaned forward, took his wrist carefully. Cleaned the cuts with alcohol. He hissed, flinched, but didn’t pull away.

“You shouldn’t have followed me there,” he muttered after a while.

“Why not?”

“You think I don’t know how they look at me?”

You didn’t respond.

He looked down. At your hand on his.

“They see the body. Not the rest of it.”

“I see all of it,” you said.

He met your eyes—just for a second. And you saw it: that flash of something bitter and aching and old. The grief of being small in a world built for giants.

“(Y/N)...” he started.

You stood quickly. Too quickly. The chair legs scraped across the floor.

“You’re not going to talk your way out of this one,” you said. “You’re not angry at them. You’re angry at you.”

Steve leaned on the counter, exhaled through his nose.

He looked like he wanted to scream or cry but didn’t know how to do either.

“You think it should’ve been you?” you asked, arms folded.

“No,” he said. “I think it could’ve been. If I had more time.”

“That’s not how war works.”

“I know.”

You stood in silence. The clock ticked too loud on the wall.

You crossed the room. Put your hand on his chest. Not romantic. Not tender.

Just there.

“You’ll get your chance, Steve.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then we figure it out.”

He didn’t say thank you. He just nodded.

That night, when you got home, you opened Bucky’s last letter again and pressed your ring to it. You didn’t reread it.

You just held the words to your heart and closed your eyes.

______________________________________________________________

The train ride to the facility felt like something out of a dream you hadn’t asked to be in.

Steve sat beside you, hands clenched on his knees, posture rigid and upright—military straight—even though no one had told him to sit that way. Across from you, Agent Carter stared out the window like she already knew something was coming that none of you could stop.

You’d tried to ask questions.

No one had answered.

They walked him through a steel door marked Project: Rebirth. You followed without permission. No one stopped you.

Inside, the room was chrome and shadow and the low hum of science trying to act like certainty. Scientists buzzed around a strange-looking chamber like bees around a hive. A man in a white coat approached Steve with a clipboard and a kind smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Dr. Erskine.

You stood back. Watched.

You hated watching.

“You ready?” Erskine asked him.

Steve glanced at you.

You nodded once. Arms folded tight across your chest, like if you let them fall, you might unravel entirely.

He stripped off his shirt. You tried not to react, but your breath caught.

It wasn’t the body—though it was shocking, how small he still was, how fragile he looked standing inside that machine.

It was the bravery.

That he still stood tall, even when the whole world expected him to break.

They strapped him in.

The machine closed.

You didn’t blink.

The serum injection made Steve scream.

His back arched. His eyes rolled. The chamber hissed and steamed, flooding the room with searing white light. There was a moment—a heartbeat—when you thought he’s dying.

Then silence.

The hiss faded.

The machine cracked open.

And he stepped out.

Larger. Taller. Sculpted in ways that looked almost unreal. Still dripping sweat.

But silent.

He looked at his hands like they didn’t belong to him.

You stood frozen.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say it.

Peggy moved first. Walked straight toward him. Touched his chest like she didn’t mean to.

You just stood there.

When Steve’s eyes finally met yours—you smiled. Small. Strained.

“You’re still short,” you said.

He laughed.

It shattered the tension like breaking glass.

______________________________________________________________

That night, you sat on your cot, legs tucked under you, writing by lamplight.

The pen stuttered in your hand.

You tried to explain it. To Bucky.

Buck—Something happened. I was there when they did it. They changed him. His body. His voice. His presence. I don’t know how else to say it. He’s not just Steve anymore.

But here’s the part I didn’t expect: he’s still him. He still looks at me the same. Still laughs too loud when I insult him. But something behind his eyes is... different. Like he knows they’ll never let him be just a boy from Brooklyn again.

I don’t know what this means for him. Or for us. Or for you.

But I needed you to know. He made it in.

—(Y/N)

PS, Still yours, Always. Part 4

[deada55]

When the River Meets the Sea - Chapter 12

crossposting: ao3

work summary: A nine-year old in Tomahawk, WI gets glaucoma surgery over Christmas break.

chapter summary: Pickles doesn't want anything. Molly, Calvert, and Seth go to a family function in Fond du Lac.

The freeway was stuffed with holiday travelers. Molly shifted into park in the middle of a two-mile standstill and turned off the engine. The cars in front of her smoked like soldiers in a bar. Exhaust from the next lane dragged across the hood and lingered along the embankment and the road was buried in leaded fog. Delicate snow wove through the standing crowd.

Without running the heat (to save gas), the cab slowly cooled. Without the radio, Molly could hear the other cars’ holiday music cassettes and wheel-clutching profanity to her right and left. The gray sky shone on every empty seat in her car while the station wagon in front of her was bouncing from kids waving their arms and licking windows. 

She started counting Seth’s presents in her head. A new bike, a chemistry set, a pair of green pajamas, a freckle-dipped boy with red hair, sleeping as still as an infant— no, but there was a miniature etch-a-sketch she found that would be fun for Seth’s stocking.

And there would be candy, and more room under the tree. What she bought for Pickles would wait in the bottom of her closet until he came back, sanitized and surly but largely unchanged. Pickles was stubborn, Pickles was insistent, and like any pest, he wouldn’t, can’t, break. He’d come back to more sameness than change, himself included.

_____________________

Now, Molly, being the oldest daughter, couldn’t step foot in her little sister Carol’s house without trying to jump in with the food or Carol’s little ones, who were only five and two. Her family was full of decent people and enough kids to make a football team. In the storm of whining and acrylic sweaters and scuffed patent leather shoes milling around the house, Pickles’ absence went largely unnoticed, so Molly committed herself to the ruse of being a mother of one for Christmas. After all, Seth was the only one she talked about; there’d never been much to say about Pickles.

Of course, Molly’s mother and her oldest little sister, Elaine, wouldn’t let her have it that easy. All four of the women (Molly, Elaine, Carol, and their mother) were at work in the kitchen, browning the tops of wet casseroles and arranging cookies on aluminum platters.

“Was Pickles not feeling well? You know, I’ve been trying to get Ben and Sue to catch chickenpox for the past year and—“ Poor Carol always sounded so frenzied, but she really didn’t have a care in the world between her ears. Her short hair bobbed around with her, and her glasses threatened to come off her nose as she constructed a cheese cube hedgehog with a lump of aluminum foil, toothpicks, and raisins.

“Yeah. He just couldn’t swing it.”

“What’s the matter?” Elaine stopped grating fresh cheese over the wet pineapple casserole Jack’s wife had brought. She pushed her feathered, mousy hair out of her face with her bicep and was careful not to smear any makeup onto her rough, red, wool sleeve.

“A fever he got from sleeping over with a little friend. They both came down with it at the same time, so his mother and I thought it’d be nice to let them weather it together since their family wouldn’t be going anywhere for Christmas.”

Elaine sighed. “He must be pretty sick… It’s a wonder Seth didn’t pick it up. Thank goodness, since Frances’ baby is here.” Three-month-old Holly was delicate but finally well. The front of her green velvet dress was black with drool. She looked just like her grandfather, Molly’s older brother, Thomas.

“Elaine.”

“She looks healthy, that’s all.”

Molly and Elaine looked up from their cutting boards. Elaine turned away and slung the glassy red onions into the salad bowl.

Carol’s son, Ben, made a game out of yanking his sister’s, Sue’s, braids on the living room floor. She left to investigate the screaming, and their mother followed just to stand behind her and get in the way, leaving Molly and Elaine to finish everything.

“Molly,” She began, “where’s Pickles?”

“Don’t test me.” Molly flung open the oven with a thermometer in hand and started poking casseroles.

“I know he’s not sick.”

“Glaucoma is sick.”

“And it’s not contagious.” Elaine halved cherry tomatoes one by one. “Gail and Sue love to see him. I don’t think it’s fair to ground a kid from a family function.”

“Then you’ll love to hear that he isn’t grounded.”

“Then what is it?”

The green beans were at a mean 160 F. Before Molly could dig around in the drawers, Elaine handed her two square potholders.

“He’s sick, I told you. He’s getting his eyes treated.”

“Over Christmas?”

“They had an opening.” Molly pulled an iron trivet off the wall and used it to hold the green beans off of the countertop. “What do you want me to say?”

“I can’t believe you!” 

“Drop it, damn it!”

“Molly!” Bewildered, Elaine jabbed her hip into an open drawer when she tried to lean back onto the counter. 

“Jesus Kelly Christ! I can do what I want with my kids. It worked out the best for our schedule, Pickles doesn’t have to miss school, and he’d hate getting the surgery anyhow. He’ll have more Christmases. It doesn’t mean anything to him.”

“How do you know?” Molly was a year or two older than Elaine, and though she’d always been a little reserved and a little cold, Molly had never been stupid. It wasn’t unlike her to be careless, but Elaine knew Molly could read someone, and Elaine knew Pickles had a hard time keeping secrets. All kids were sentimental, despite how badly they wanted to mimic the easy breath of knowing you had the time and transportation to replace a beloved artifact.

Elaine swallowed and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. “I’m not trying to be upset with you, but why can’t someone stay with him? He’s all by himself—“

“I did it, too, you know,” she snapped. “When I got my tonsils out? There wasn’t any fanfare.” Molly ducked down to check the other casseroles a second time like it’d help them bubble faster. “And I need to take care of Seth and Cal. We can’t afford a hotel. What would they do for Christmas?”

“Surely Calvert can—“ Molly’s forehead crumpled like paper. On cue, Calvert’s laugh burst through the living room, too boisterous and drawn-out for 2:00, louder than the din of the party.

Molly shut the oven and wiped the hot tip of the thermometer on a Santa-printed hand towel, leaving one jolly fellow with a beard full of Cream of Chicken soup. The coffeepot sputtered. The women worked on opposite sides of the kitchen, gathering trash and stacking lids between paper towels. Instead of coming to the center by the stove, Molly started to sort hot trays of breadcrumb-coated slop for a buffet processional, starting by the arch leading to the living room  and ending at the fridge. A layered crown jewel jello salad, standing at a towering twelve inches tall, guarded a public of meringues, Kahlua kisses, and shortbread.

Elaine came around Molly’s left and pecked her on the cheek while she rolled silverware in red paper napkins.

“Want a cigarette?” Molly took it out from Elaine’s fingers and the sisters lit them from the same match from the book in Carol’s spice drawer. Molly pulled the ashtray down from on top of the fridge, and Elaine went bobbing for a couple of beers in the cooler by the back door. 

When they were finally facing one another, flicking the ash off their Winstons the minute a millimeter showed up to protect their new sweaters, Elaine tossed her bangs out of her face and gave Molly a flat-lipped smile.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“If anyone mentions Seth’s eye…” When they were all at the door taking their coats off, Molly explained that smacked into the mirror of a car in the parking lot of the grocery store a couple days ago.

“Is he OK?”

“That’s what he’s telling me. It just looks bad.”

“The concealer does help, really. It does.”

“It’s a lot of concealer.”

“Avon?”

“Avon.”

“I bet.” They exchanged a chuckle. “Should we call Pickles’ room to say hello tonight? Would he like that?”

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have the number with me… and I doubt he’d want anyone to know. He’s private like that. Half of me thinks he’d be angry if we came to visit.”

“You know he wouldn’t be.”

_____________________

The recovery room got dark; the night sky siphoned away at the fluorescent lights in the ceiling and left the ward in shadows. He still wasn’t thirsty and he still didn’t have to pee. He’d taken a frigid tour of the bleachy green bathroom three times already “just in case,” from a nurse guiding him by hand.

His toes had been cold since he woke up the second time around. When he broke out of his confusion, he was greeted by a lone, mousy nurse with downturned eyes with a cup of water, and she stayed for twenty minutes before he soaked his tongue with the tiniest tipple he could sip, but not swallow. 

“I can’t let you go until you use the bathroom.”

The nurse for the evening shift, with upturned eyes, was a broken record. Her pen tapped and her shoes clacked as she walked up and down the hall. She was nice enough, and she wore Pepto pink lipstick, which Pickles could recognize through the shields.

“Can you try one more time? I’d like to get you moved out before it’s time to go to bed.” She came over and pushed down the rail, and he swung his legs out. The first time he stood up, they held his hands, but now they let him step down alone and remember his way to the bathroom. Before he’d stepped off the toilet, he heard her chirp from the other side of the door:

“Did you do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Very good. Come lay back down, and we’ll move you soon.” When he climbed back up, he scrambled under the sheet and the blanket to keep from losing what heat hadn’t evaporated from the mattress. The nurse with the pink lips left. Before too long, a couple more sets of steps came up the hall with a set of squeaky shopping cart wheels. They whispered, “Six hours? Was he holding it?”

“I’m not sure, but it’s done. Are you sure there’s no room in the children’s ward?”

“That’s what I was told, but he’s on a good wing—“

They yanked the curtains open and shoved it around the tracks, pausing only for a second to tell him they were moving him to his real bed for the night. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light before they lifted him up from behind his knees and around his back and wrapped him like a crescent on the gurney while he traveled through a long yellow hallway.

At the end of the hall was a fork to the left and the right. They ducked into the double doors to the left into a ward of curtained sections, some open, some closed. Men of all ages snored and slumbered, aluminum frames and green curtains brought a barnishness to the great display, the oxygen hissed and swore through tubing and masks, and the clicking pens of the medication cart made their rounds. He was put in the bed closest to that ward’s bathroom and the nurses’ station. The curtains were drawn while they tucked him into the bed. This mattress felt wider and softer but still stiff and rustly. The sheets felt looser.

The recovery room nurses left; the ward nurses said their names once and handed him pills to swallow. He could only manage a meager puff of his inhaler, after two other tries where he didn’t breathe in enough, according to a wiry woman whose white gown hung off of her like a starched men’s dress shirt. She laid him out flat, turned off the light over his bed, said goodnight, and left. 

He curled onto his side when his arms started to get numb and drew his feet in when they got numb and folded his hands in front of his chest when his fingers got numb and buried his ears in his shoulders. Pickles waited all night for sleep. 

It’s not that bad, it’s OK. I’m OK. It’s OK. You got it. It’ll be over before you know it.

His blankets wouldn’t cover him. He gathered them so they’d lay thicker over his folded body and his bare feet, but they slipped around like buttered noodles when he wanted them to stay put, and clung like burrs when he tried to move them. 

Whenever he accidentally opened his eyes, all there was to see was the glowing privacy curtain. Deep coughs and thick, growling snoring echoed and built off of itself like a fugue. As soon as he started to nod off, someone would choke and bark and strip the back of their throat in their sleep. It felt too disrespectful to ignore. His nose was freezing, so he stuck out his bottom lip and blew upwards.

His thin pillow whispered about his parents into his ear.  Their faces sat in his chest like a feeling that could be relieved, like a belch, from giving it voice. How satisfying it sounded to want your Mommy! Crying had never done the same thing for Pickles as it had for Seth, so he’d guarded it like a secret sickness. He mouthed it against the pillowcase.

They’re not coming. You can’t leave but it’s ok. You’re ok. We’re ok. Go to sleep.

As the night went on, he shivered on and off. 

He saw the morning lift the colors of the curtain from dusky blue to peach. A first-shift nurse with obnoxiously tinkly bracelets and more pills jingled towards his bed. He quivered when he sat up, so she reached around his arm to support his back. “Ooh, you’re cold!” she said, and she pulled a second blanket off of the bottom of a metal cart.

The person who came to him with a tan plastic bowl of high-fiber breakfast brushed his fingers when he handed him the silverware, then flat-lipped a goodbye and told someone in the hallway that he looked like he had a fever. While he hovered over his food, a couple different people laid hands on his forehead and the back of his neck and put thermometers under his tongue. They asked him if he felt alright and he nodded for lack of a better answer. A nurse stood back and rapped her pen on her clipboard a couple times.

A pair of socks and a third blanket later, they took away his untouched oatmeal and let him be. He gathered the corner of one of the blankets up and away from the fire-retardant pile growing on his legs and laid his face against it. As he laid down on his side, he closed his eyes and waited to feel better.

If he listened hard, Billy Joel sang over rolling wheels and coughs and grunts.

And when you wake up in the morning,

With your head on fire,

And your eyes too bloody to see;

Go on and cry in your coffee

But don't come bitchin' to me.

He heard one of the rails on his curtain click and broke out of his trance just in time to be sitting up all the way when his lunch tray was brought in. He picked at the army tan broccoli.

“Are you hungry?” This nurse was tall with short hair and dangly earrings that swayed with every word she said.

The most he managed was a shrug.

“Does your stomach hurt?” 

It started hurting in November. He shook his head.

“Have you tried any of it yet?”

He shook his head again and thought about cutting a piece off of the fried fish.

“You need to eat to get better. Everybody knows that! I’ll come back in a minute. Try and take a couple bites.” She wore a smile, even as she turned to check on someone else.

He put a cold piece of bloated broccoli on the end of his fork and into his mouth and the feeling and taste of it made his insides flip. The little bread roll was stale and tough between his teeth. The wet breading on the fried fish patty tasted like freezer, corn oil and salt. He laid himself back against the crushed pillow, pulled his covers higher up on his chest and rested his eyes.

“Did you take a couple bites?” The evidence he left behind was the bitten bread roll, a runaway broccoli bud outside of its pre-portioned section, and the exposed white fish flakes where he’d cut a fish stick in half with the side of a spork.

“You didn’t like it?”

He sat back up for her and shook his head, smoothing his covers back out on his lap before wrapping his arms around his stomach. 

“You didn’t want any water?”

The water cup was still waiting, but he couldn’t touch it. She pulled a clipboard off the end of his bed and flipped to the back until she found one of the intake forms, where “chatty, obnoxious, and contrary” were written to describe his disposition. He stayed sitting up for the nurse with his eye(shields) cast down.

“I tell you what, if you drink that cup of water, I’ll try and bring you something sweet, OK? You need it, I promise. It’s not a trick. Sipping water with medicine doesn’t count.”

She left again and he drank a couple swallows. His lips had been thoroughly bathed in his cup, and bringing himself to drink instead of only holding something in his mouth required focus. An older man down the hallway started talking about cosmic visions and government spies and the USSR.

They took his temperature again and let all the heat out of the bed to check him for a rash. When they were done, a cup of orange Jell-O and the same cup of water were put down on his tray.

“Go on and taste it, will you?”

He sighed and reached for the spoon, but once he’d scooped up a bite, all he wanted to do was put it back.

“Eat it, kid. I don’t have time for games.” 

Her earrings stopped moving. He straightened out his pinched lips and put a scoop in his mouth. She didn’t leave until he’d gulped down every millimeter of tepid gelatin.

“Great.” She took the cup, spoon, and tray and closed the curtain behind her. Pickles sank back and put his pillow over his face… The radio station kept repeating itself.

You had to open up your mouth.

You had to be a big shot, didn't you?

All your friends were so knocked out.

[tokuvivor]

For a character dynamic, could I please choose Launchpad and José?

You absolutely can! Very interesting idea! I’ve never written José before, so just bear with me.

And I know we said no anons, but the idea is just too good to pass up!

I give you…

Dança, Dança

Originated from this post.

José and Panchito had been enjoying their visit to the United States to spend time with Donald. Given Donald’s family, there was never a dull moment abound with the Three Caballeros reunited.

One morning, José woke up to his phone ringing. He answered it.

“Alô?”

“Uh, is this José Carioca?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

“Sim, this is José. Who might this be?”

“Uh, Launchpad McQuack.”

“Ah! Launchpad! How are you doing?”

“Well, to be honest, José, I’m in a bit of a pickle right now,” Launchpad admitted. “Drake’s birthday is coming up, and I want to surprise him. So I’ve decided to take him to a dance club.”

“Ooooh!” José gawked. “Very fine choice.”

“The only problem is,” Launchpad continued, “I’m not that good of a dancer. Mr. D said you were, though, so that’s why I’m coming to you.”

“Ahhhh, you’ve come to the right man,” assured José. “Fear not, meu amigo. I shall help you out for your gentleman friend.”

Launchpad sighed in relief. “Perfect. Thanks, José. You’re a lifesaver.” And the two men hung up.

José booked a studio for himself and Launchpad. He advised Launchpad to wear some kind of workout gear, because, as he advised Launchpad, “Dancing is a workout in and of itself.”

“Launchpad! Good, you’re here,” José exclaimed when Launchpad arrived. “So, shall we begin?”

Launchpad raised an eyebrow at the parrot. “Uh, wouldn’t it probably be helpful to stretch first? Prevents injury.”

“Sim, of course. I apologize, I usually just jump right into dancing, especially when I’m just, uhhhh, shall I say, feeling it,” explained José.

So the two men did some basic stretching, and then they were ready to begin.

“Okay, let’s see,” José began. “What is your level of dance experience?”

“Honestly, not that good,” Launchpad admitted. “Besides what basically constitutes novelty dances, like the Macarena. Drake loves dancing, and he wants to be as good as those dancers he sees on TV. Or football players; I sometimes get the two confused with how good the celebrities can be.”

José tapped his chin. “I see,” he commented. “Well, we can work with this. You are a lump of clay, and I am the sculptor, ready to shape you into a Latin god.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say god…” Launchpad replied, blushing a bit.

“I think I know what I can do here,” José explained. “I am going to teach you the Brazilian carnival dance, the samba.”

“Okay,” remarked Launchpad. “I certainly know of it decently well. How exactly does it work?”

“So,” began José, “we start out standing with the legs together.”

“Legs together,” Launchpad repeated, following José’s lead.

“Put the right leg back, and bounce for two beats,” instructed José. “Make sure to put your weight back on the rear leg. Like this. One, two.”

“One, two,” Launchpad followed.

“Stand up straighter,” advised José. “Keep your core strong. Just like that. Bom.”

“Okayyy,” Launchpad responded, trailing off. “What’s next? The other leg?”

“Yes,” confirmed José. “Left leg back, bounce for two beats. Try it. One, two.”

“One, two.”

“Good,” complimented José. “Now try a few sets in a row, alternating between legs. Right leg back, and…one, two. One, two. One, two. One, two.”

Launchpad worked through four pairs of bounces, alternating between legs. Since his upper body was so broad, he wobbled a little bit on his transitions. He noticed that when José was demonstrating, he had his hands on his hips, so he tried that himself.

“Magnífico!” exclaimed José. “Just keep the balance, and you cannot go wrong. Now let us try moving our arms with our legs.”

Launchpad gulped. He had just gotten the hang of keeping his balance on his leg transitions. How was he going to do this?

“When you step back on the right leg, you bend the right arm,” José advised. “And stepping back on the left leg means the left arm is bent. The arms come forward from a straightened position to a bent position, and are rotated back into straight. Like this.” He demonstrated to Launchpad what he meant. “Notice how my arms are not like windmills, and that I am keeping the upper arms level.”

Launchpad nodded. Maybe that would help him maintain his balance somewhat!

“So we double bounce, just to work into the arm movement,” continued José. “One…two…three…four. Aaaaand arms.” He looked over at Launchpad. “Not bad. Speed the arms up a little. Let’s just work it up gradually.”

So the two went through a few rounds of bounces and arm movements, until Launchpad was able to get down the quicker speed.

“Alright, I think I’ve got it,” Launchpad remarked. “How did it look for you?”

“I would say you had it down very well,” said José.

“Okay, good,” Launchpad replied. “I noticed something, though. Are there, like, different kinds of samba?”

“Mm?” José questioned.

“Like, between this kind of samba here, and the kind Drake and I’ve seen on TV before.”

“Ohhhhh,” replied José. “That kind would be the ballroom samba. Fairly different, and it relies more on the harmony between two partners.”

“Okay,” acknowledged Launchpad. “From what I’ve seen of it, it looks kinda complicated, but the steps are fairly recognizable, so that you know what to look for in it.”

“Yes, and the samba is certainly one of the hardest dances to get right,” commented José. “Now, let us put our moves to the music.”

He clicked on the stereo, and a man began to sing in Portuguese, “Vem Magalenha rojão, traz a lenha pro fogão, vem fazer armação…”

José counted out the beats, and he and Launchpad worked through the repetitive movements.

At one point during the song, José broke from the bounces and proclaimed, “Okay, now move your hips!”

“Huh?” Launchpad questioned.

“Like this.” And José put both of his arms out, wiggling his hips and shoulders at the same time. “Now you.”

Launchpad repeated the movement. It felt good.

“Sim! And back to the base movement.”

The two made it through the home stretch of the song firing on all cylinders. Launchpad was relieved to have finished it out, but he was also happy that he could do it.

“And we have reached the end of our journey,” José said sagely. “Now you can go out and show Drake what you have learned.”

“Wow,” breathed Launchpad. “Launchpad McQuack, samba dancer. I like it. Anyway, thanks again for the lesson, José.”

“Any time, meu amigo,” answered José. “Let me know how it all turns out.”

“I will!” And Launchpad headed back out into the world. He may have been a big guy, but now he was a big guy that could dance, at least a bit.

Author’s note: The song that Launchpad and José are dancing to is “Magalenha”, by Sérgio Mendes.

[cenizasdelaurel]

k, every time I try to explain my meal prep method to somebody I think I sound pretty normal when in reality I look like this:

But I'll share it anyway for the depressed besties out there for them to see that you can actually beat the what's for dinner demon once and for all, and the solution is, as usual, BE MEDIOCRE ABOUT IT.

You're gonna choose two protein sources ,could be some kinda meat, or some grains. I usually choose both so I cook let's say, chicken and black peas or chickpeas. Now, you're going to cook TRIPLE the ration you'd usually cook: if you eat a chicken thigh per meal you cook three, or a whole chicken. The same for the peas.

Then you're gonna choose two vegetables for the fibre, or maybe one. But I like variety so I always get carrots and cabbage, which last an eternity in the fridge without getting stale. You can choose some canned goods, if you're feeling fancy, like corn or whatever.

Lastly you will choose your carbohydrates. I usually pick rice. And you are going to cook a gross amount of rice, which is not difficult BC measuring rice is ridiculous you just do it by heart and then deal with the consequences.

Now you're left with everything needed for a whole meal: protein, carbs and fibre. Next step is to combine them however you like. Could be chicken with rice and peas with a carrot side salad. Carrots and cabbage are easy to season, you can use whatever you like: salt, vinegar, soy sauce, Cesar and mustard. And it's always good. Could be rice and peas and an egg on top. Chicken and cabbage salad with spicy black peas, throw some garlic at them and boom, magic. Leftover chicken salted with soy sauce and spicy cabbage, you already have this in your fridge, boom, meal!

This method usually lasts me at least three to four dinners. If I get bored I add something more, like canned corn, or pickled stuff which always go well in salads. Sometimes it won't be as yummy but hey, you're getting nutrients. That's the important thing I guess.

This method also helped me with my eating disorder. Sometimes it doesn't have to be a tasty meal, food is food and this helps me maintain a neutral attitude towards eating because it erases it from my daily thoughts. I'll eat whichever combination of things I already have prepared and bye. Also it keeps me away from ultra processed foods and it's extremely budgety. You can replace chicken with just peas, or some eggs or some tofu.

I know that finding time to cook it's very difficult. I usually do this one time and then it lasts, but this method has its limitations, without a fridge I'd be dead. Fuck the capitalist system for robbing us from our capacity to prepare decent meals.

I hope I helped!

What are you even supposed to eat for dinner

[flayote]

I have a bobcat hide I am attempting to tan. I am using the orange bottle tanning solution. The directions indicate after salting to soak in salt water. Should I have pickled it first?

(apologies for the very delayed response, but i wanted to answer in case you or others could still get something out of it)

that orange bottle tanning solution ("deer hunter & trapper's hide tanning formula") is awful both as a product and for the directions it gives, and i strongly advise against using it. based on my and others' experiences with it, i'm not convinced it actually is a tanning agent at all. it's what i started out using as many folks do since it's so readily available and makes the process seem easy, but the results were never good. when i got more experience and went back to rework some of the pelts i used it on- because they always turned out stiff- upon rehydration they started shedding like crazy and when i began thinning them down some, the skin under the surface was reddish and raw- not tanned. most were squirrels so it wasn't a case of them being too greasy or thick skinned for the tan to have worked properly, i followed the instructions exactly and it just did not actually tan them. i've heard similar issues and more countless times from others who have used that orange bottle stuff.

but even if it was a decent tanning agent, the directions it gives you will not result in a proper tan regardless. one of the main issues, as your question implies, is the lack of a pickling step. after the salting stage it tells you to soak the hide in salt water for a few minutes to several hours- presumably the rehydration step- and then thin down the skin. it's pretty much asking for slippage here, instructing you to take a wet, raw skin and spend time trying to thin in down. raw/unpickled skins are very difficult to actually shave down even with a fleshing machine, and you're really not going to be able to be thorough enough on most critters in the timeframe you'd need to be done with it before it begins to slip (especially as a beginner and with no fancy equipment). pickling is a crucial step in the tanning process not only because it breaks down untannable proteins within the skin to prepare it for tanning, but it also toughens up the skin/changes the texture to allow you to shave it much more easily, as well as preserves and stabilizes it so you can spend as much time as you need to on shaving it.

the next major issue with the directions is the lack of a proper degreasing step. fully and completely degreasing the skin is imperative for any tanning agent to work, so you really need to get it right, but the orange bottle does not tell you how. what it tells you to do is wash the hide with dish soap, or if it's a very greasy skin like raccoon or bear, wash it twice. problem is, you could wash a raccoon ten times with dish soap and it's not going to fully degrease that thing- especially if you could only do a rushed shaving job because the instructions put you in a race against time trying to shave a raw skin before it spoils. very lean critters like squirrel or deer can be fine with just a wash in dish soap, but for most furbearers like coyote, fox, mink, opossum, raccoon, etc, that won't cut it. in order to get degreased properly these animals need to be thoroughly shaved, and soaked in a solvent-based taxidermy degreaser. as a surfactant, dish soap is just not effective in dissolving the grease deep within the skin.

you can get a decently preserved pelt with the orange bottle stuff if you follow the proper tanning procedure instead of its instructions (flesh, salt, rehydrate, pickle, shave, degrease, neutralize, apply tan). but at that point if you're already buying the extra supplies to do that you might as well just get the trubond tanning kit instead, which has a very high quality tanning formula and much better instructions. the orange bottle formula itself just not good even when used right. i reworked a squirrel i 'tanned' with the orange bottle by just oiling it with trubond 1000B and the difference in how soft it turned out was night and day. even on its own without the proper tanning process, the trubond worked so much better. i stopped using the orange bottle and never looked back. even with my very limited experience level when i switched, my pelts immediately began turning out SO much better when i used trubond and followed their instructions.

i'm sorry i couldn't help with your bobcat in time! if you happen to see this i would be very curious to know how it turned out

[babyboywilson]

For @dadstielweek, day 6: family and @spnprideweek, day 7: free space

Moving out of the bunker and into a house of their own felt monumental in ways Cas couldn’t quite comprehend. A way for them to have their family in a little house that was entirely their own. Dean kept getting this watery smile, squeezing Cas’ hand anytime they walked past each other as they packed.

Jack was crawling through the packing paper, spinning the rolls of tape and attempting to pack pillows and shirts himself with proud little smiles at his haphazardly wrapped items.

“Good job, buddy,” Dean said, ruffling the toddler’s hair before moving over to help Cas take the furniture apart. “How many more boxes do you think we need?”

Cas looked around the room, the stacks of boxes larger than he expected. Somehow, after years of living in the bunker and collecting their own possessions, they’d amassed quite a decent amount of belongings (now mostly toys and clothes for Jack). “Can’t be many more. I think we’ll be done by this afternoon,” Cas said, unscrewing the headboard from the bed.

“Pretty sure some of us have decided to stop packing because this afternoon is too far away,” Dean said, nodding his head towards the floor.  

Cas propped the headboard against the wall and looked over to Jack. The toddler was angrily tearing at the paper, his face red and blotchy as tears started to cling to his lashes. In a matter of a couple of minutes, Jack had gone from cheerfully playing with the packing paper to frustrated and upset.

Time to step in and cheer Jack up.

Just as Cas bent down to scoop Jack up, Dean squeezed at Cas’ shoulder. Cas looked up at Dean, a questioning look on his face, when Dean nodded towards the empty box and mouthed, ‘play a game.’

Oh.

Cas could definitely do that. “Hey Dean, is there anything else we need to pack?” Cas deliberately asked.

Dean grinned at Cas’ playful tone. “I think there’s something down there that needs to go into a box.”

“Oh, I see. Let me grab that and box it up,” Cas said. In one quick move, Cas crouched down, scooped up some of the paper and Jack in one move, and he spun them around. “Time to be packed,” Cas said, tickling Jack’s side before moving towards the box.

“No, no!” Jack squealed, bursting into laughter as he wiggled in Cas’ arms.

“This definitely has to go to the new house. Definitely needs to be in a box,” Cas said, hovering Jack above the box.

“Papa, I don’t need a box! Daddy, help!” Jack giggled, tears replaced by a massive smile at the game.

“Box time,” Dean cheered, dropping a pillow into the box before stepping back from Jack’s flailing arms.

“Noooo,” Jack said, word breaking apart as Cas gently plopped Jack down into the box along with the paper.

“There we go. All packed. I think we’re done now,” Cas said, closing one flap of the box and looking over at Dean. “Oh no. Dean. Have you seen Jack? I can’t seem to find him anywhere.” Cas dropped down to his knee, pretending to look on the floor for the toddler.

“Papa, I’m in here,” Jack said, pushing the flap open again and poking his head out.

“I haven’t seen him. Squirt? Where are you?” “Daddy, daddy, I’m behind you,” Jack called, reaching out and tugging at the corner of Dean’s flannel shirt.

“Jack? Sweetheart? Where’s my favorite little one gone?” Cas called, searching the room while deliberately missing the box.

“Papa! I’m in the box!” Jack giggled, ruffling the paper in the box until Cas finally looked over.

Bringing his hand to his mouth in fake shock, Cas nudged Dean. “I found him. It looks like he decided to pack himself.”

Jack laughed again, squealing with happiness as he tapped on the box. “Nooooo Papa you packed me,” he giggled.

Looking at Dean, Cas smiled and flashed him a wink. “Oh? I’m pretty sure I didn’t do that. Dean? Did I pack our little man?”

Making a pondering face, Dean shook his head. “Nope, not possible,” Dean teased.

“I don’t wanna be packed,” Jack said while sticking out his tongue, reaching out his arms to be picked up.

Swooping down, Cas plucked Jack from the box and tucked him against his hip. “There he is,” Cas said, tickling along Jack’s stomach and kissing the top of his head. “And there’s that smile I love so much. What do you say we take a break and make some lunch?” Cas asked, stroking along Jack’s forehead before looking at Dean.

“Daddy make mac’n’cheese,” Jack demanded with a giant grin, looking over Cas’ shoulder towards Dean.

Cas smiled, stepping up next to Dean and ghosting a kiss to Dean’s cheek. “Lunch time?”

“As long as you’re helping,” Dean replied, kissing the corner of Cas’ mouth before kissing Jack on the temple. “Let’s go then, little pickle.”

Giggling at the name, Jack wiggled in Cas’ arms until he was put down. Grabbing one of Cas’ hands and one of Dean’s, Jack tugged them both towards their last lunch in the bunker before they moved to their new home.

Tag List Below- (tag list closed at this time! please let me know if you’d like to be added to the waitlist if a spot opens up!)

Tag List: @likepurplemuses @expectingtofly @neo-neo-neo @shadowywerewolfqueen @feraladoration @adsp-destielcockles @milf-dean @y-yo-a-ti-cas67 @toxic-nebula @proudace

@galaxymysteryelephant @you-changedmedean @destielfactory @welcome-to-crowleys-hellhole @12x23 @galaxycastiel @belacoded @bennedict @amirosebooks @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you

@cassiecasyl @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @bichaoticdean @wigglebox @50shadesofcockles @trasherasswood @spittingpagan @top13zepptraxx @love-neve-dies @annissina

@one-more-offbeat-anthem @naturallyathief @queen-rowenas @seffersonjtarship @imjustgenerallyclueless @wormstacheangel @bubblecarr @unamusedelipsis @i-know-like-four-things @lifbitch

@starlightcastiel @sinnabonka @cas-and-dean @faithcastiel @leftistcas @footstepsontherun @apatheticanvas67482 @deancas-bumblebee @professorerudite @llamasdumpsterfire

@alovesthis @earthangelcastiel @ensignabby @fandoms-and-things @y-yo-a-ti-dumbass @aphroditeindisguise01 @fanv3rgent @morrisonmanning @ironkissedmage @harmonyhelms

@kaylee-tam @donvex @petrichoravellichor @takemetotheworld @ireallydontknowhowtolife @moirindeclermont @casthyelle @lateral-org @im-sam-fucking-winchester @dont-steal-my-demons

@jmjlover @chocolatecakecas @ishipdestiel-lovesofmylifeistg85 @tasersloth @casbelieves @castiels-bumble-bee @destieldisaster @lovesagoodstory1 @marvolord @dean-humanity-winchester

@deanwinvhester @falling-through-void @all-bi-mysellf @cassgirl11 @missingthegayangel @dailydestieldose @theeditchablepromdate @manifestingdestiel @ciniluv @organicpurplepants

[author-morgan]

more halfdan, please? 🥺 he needs more love. could you maybe do something for Halfdan where he's traveling and meets and stays with a fem reader?

bless i am not alone in the simping. have a little fluff for Halfdan, as a treat. Halfdan x fem!Reader

THE HOUR IS late, but the storm raging outside makes it seem far later. Lightning streaks across the sky —Thor striking his hammer on anvil, the clash of iron echoing over the sky. The winds howl, and winds lash, shaking the planks and shingles of the wood and earth home. It’s been years since you’ve endured a storm such as this, and it shows no signs of stopping, having raged on since midday. It would be nearing sundown soon by your reckoning. You pity the poor souls who must endure Thor’s wrath without shelter and a warm hearth.

There’s a deceptive lull in the bedlam, the lightning and thunder subsiding though the wind and rain do not. Pausing in an attempt to tidy up after dinner, you take the moment to urge your daughter to bed. Þóra protests, with it still being so early, but there’s scarcely anything else to do on a dark and stormy evening. It takes a small bribe with half a honey cake and a tale of the gods for her to settle in, eyelids drooping shut —curling into the raised cot lined with wool and pelts. With a long sigh, you rise, having pressed a kiss to her brow.

Stripping down to your linen shift, you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers combing through the knots in your hair —watching water drip down into a bucket at the edge of the room, a leaky roof in need of fixing. You barely hear the knocking above the wailing wind, but when you crack open the door, you find a man looking up from under the hood of his oiled leather cloak. “Refuge from the storm?” The stranger asks. His stringy blond hair clings to his face —hiding part of the dark tattoos on his cheek and forehead— and his dark eyes are warm but dangerous.

Snapping from a trance, you move aside, opening the door farther for him to step into your home. “Of course,” you nod, offering a kindly smile. The gods often showed themselves as weary travelers. He steps over the threshold, untying his cloak, hanging it on an empty hook by the door. Out of the night and the storm, you recognize him as the brother to King Harald —Halfdan the Black— as he stands with water running off his sodden clothes and dripping from his hair. “I’ve some spare clothes,” you tell him, quickly moving behind one of the partitions blocking your bed from the rest of the home.

Rummaging around in the chest kept bedside, you return with a dry tunic and pair of britches in hand. Clothes you have no need of any longer but haven’t the strength to give away yet, so you keep them tucked away with part of your heart. “Please, take these” —you hold them out for Halfdan to take— “elsewise, you’ll catch your death.” He lowers his head in thanks and begins working the ties of his tunic and britches loose. Turning, as not to stare at the lithe muscle spanning his chest, you set the table with a bowl of the pot of stew still simmering over the hearth and a cup of ale. A warm meal always did the belly wonders after being soaked to the bone.

You motion for Halfdan to help himself to the stew and ale, taking his sodden clothes to string up to dry on a line spanning the low hanging rafters. “Far better than pickled fish and salted deer,” he jokes when you slide onto the bench opposite him.

“It’s been years since last I saw you and your brother,” you tell him, pouring a cup of ale for yourself and refilling his cup. You’ve rarely returned to Tamdrup in recent years, and the few times you had gone to market to trade livestock or buy fabric, Harald and Halfdan were scarcely around —too busy conquering and unifying the petty kingdoms under one crown. Once, you might have called the two brothers friends, but those days were long past, and many friendships were lost upon your marriage.

“Harald is why I am caught in this torrent,” Halfdan laments, none too happy about it. The two brothers are rarely parted from one another, but there are times when Harald only trusted one person, aside from himself, to deliver word and accept oaths of fealty. This is one of those times. It’s ill luck that his journey back to Tamdrup has been plagued by storms and exiles who unwisely mistook him for a simple vagabond.

“Well” —you reach across the table, resting your hand over his— “you are most welcome here, Halfdan.” His lips twitch upwards, his hand loosely curling around yours.

“Móðir?” A small voice calls, and then there’s the patter of small feet on the rough wooden floor.

“Þóra,” you sigh, knowing it was a fool’s hope to think she would sleep through the storm and night, especially given the arrival of an unexpected guest. She potters to the table dragging a ragged blanket behind her. Þóra stops, looking between you and Halfdan. Her wide amber eyes are glassy and still heavy with sleep.

“A little shield-maiden,” Halfdan notes, flicking his hair away from his eyes, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips. Þóra grins, giggling, swaying on her feet. She’s been bugging you of late about training with her cousins —pointing out if she’s to become as famous as Lagertha, she needs a sword and shield. “Or maybe a princess.”

It surprises you when she goes to him, but Halfdan doesn’t hesitate to lift your daughter onto his knee. He’s not particularly versed with children or women, but he tries his best to be decent company, at least. You see the sharp flash of light through the crack under the door; a heartbeat later, the house rattles —it sounds as though Ragnarök is upon you. Þóra jumps. “It is only Thor, little one,” Halfdan reassures her.

“Is it just the two of you then?” He queries, eyes darting around the single-room home for any signs of Þóra’s father —your husband. His quick search yields nothing besides hastily made arrows, a rusty sword, and a shield with fading orpiment and hematite paint. You glance at your hands —the first wrinkles beginning to show among rough patches from years of doing the duties of both a mother and father.

“My family is not far,” you answer, meeting Halfdan’s curious stare, smiling. It’s a rare occasion when your brothers do not come for a daily visit and to help with the farm labor. Your sister and her husband make sure to come weekly too, bringing their children for Þóra to play with. It’s not always easy, but you make do. Halfdan glances down at the little girl, holding her blanket tight as her head rests on the center of his chest, almost asleep once more. He’s met with your smile, wider than the last, and a silent thank you, though you still see the question lingering in his eyes.

“My husband was killed in the raid on Paris,” you explain, remembering how you waited in the central street of Tamdrup to see your husband return, only to hear he was taken to Valhalla. It was not a day you were like to forget, especially given the little girl holding tight to your hand, waiting to meet her father for the first time.

Halfdan nods. Many women were made widows by Ragnar’s pursuits against his brother. There’s a tingle at his shoulder as he remembers the crossbow bolt that could’ve killed him and the scar it left behind. “He waits for you in Valhalla then.” The encouragement somehow lightens a weight on your chest —that one day you and your beloved will be reunited, but until then, you must care for Þóra and maybe, in time, find someone to love as you once loved your husband.

Þóra is fast asleep by the time you and Halfdan finish reminiscing about the days when you were both younger and twice as foolish. Halfdan lays your daughter down in her small bed made of wool. “Thank you,” you breathe, lightly touching his arm before kneeling to cover her with a wolf pelt and her cherished blanket, parting with a kiss upon her cheek.

“I’ll take the floor,” he offers, reaching for the wool blanket and the pelt draped across your arms —he’s slept in far worse conditions than a warm and dry home.

You shake your head, extending your hand toward the bed. He has been on the road for many days and still has at least four more before. A good night’s rest would do him well. “You are my guest, Halfdan, I insist.”

Halfdan looks between the bed and down at himself —he’s never had the same breadth as other warriors, not even the same as his brother and given the size of the lumpy mattress. There’s mirth shining in his eyes. “I do not take up that much room,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. You laugh softly, knowing this back-and-forth banter could go on the rest of the night. Instead, you fold back the blankets, sliding between them, and gesture for him to take the space next to you.

THERE’S A GLIMMER of light and a low rumble of thunder —the storm is dissipating or at least moving farther away. You stir, feeling a heavy warmth draped across your middle. It takes a moment to remember Halfdan lays next to you, occupying a space that’s been empty for years. You’ve woken him too, or he has failed to find rest. His eyes shine with the embers still glimmering in the hearth, a warm amber —like dark honey or fresh soil. “What is it?” He asks, voice rough and low, hand curling unwittingly around your hip, warm breath hitting your neck and shoulder.

Your heart leaps at the thoughts crossing your mind, but you’re quick to shake them away —it would be improper. “It’s silly,” you whisper. Halfdan raises his brow, and though it’s dark, he can see the flush on your cheeks. “I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since my husband left for Paris,” you admit, eyes flicking down, unable to hold his intense gaze. A piece of him finds it difficult to believe —if he recalls, you had a fair number of willing suitors. He imagines the number has not dwindled should you wish to remarry. Halfdan’s fingers uncurl from your hip, tracing a long line up your arm until he pauses, cupping your cheek —thumb running just under your bottom lip.

He’s so close and warm and handsome, and you can’t help the fluttering in your chest or how your stomach twists. You press your hand against the bare skin of his chest exposed by the tunic’s open neck, unwilling to back down from the newfound boldness. “Halfdan?” He moves closer as if anticipating your next words. “Will you kiss me?” His dark eyes flit down to your lips, and he does. The hand on your cheek slides back into your hair until he leans your head back and kisses you, softly at first, then with a swift increase in intensity that makes you cling to him. His lips are warm and soft, opening you to his insistent mouth, parting your shaking lips, sending wild tremors racing through your veins, and you kiss him back with the same fervor and longing.

You part with a hazy smile —it is good to know you remember how to kiss a man. He presses his forehead against yours, fingers still trailing through your hair. For a moment, you draw back, tracing the intricacies of the blue-black tattoo on his brow and down his cheek, until Halfdan pulls your hand away and draws you into his arms, repaying your kindness by taking away the deep-seated loneliness plaguing your heart, if only for the night.

HALFDAN SLIPS FROM your arms at first light and dresses in his dried clothes, laying the borrowed tunic and britches at the foot of the bed. When he turns back, Þóra is awake and staring up at him with eyes that mirror his own and blond hair to match. Is this what my children will look like? He wonders, crouching down, level with Þóra, and lifts a brow as if to question her intentions. She grins, shoving him back and off-balance, and so begins a silent tussle with kindling stacked by the hearth as swords. “Our battle cries are heard,” Halfdan proclaims from the floor, seeing you emerge from behind the partition. He sits up, brushing back his dirty-blond hair. “This one is a fighter,” he says with no uncertainty. “She should have a sword and shield.”

Þóra clambers over to you, giggling, and you scoop her up into your arms as Halfdan rises, brushing the dust from his shoulders. “We’ll have to see if one of her uncles can fashion her a sword and shield that’s her size,” you concede, seeing no use in denying her dreams. She could be both a farmer and a warrior —just as her hero, Lagertha. Þóra wraps her arms around your neck, hearing the decision.

You share a simple breakfast of smashed berries and brown bread and soft sheep’s milk cheese made in yesterday’s morning hours. And afterward, Halfdan readies to leave, buckling his sword belt and replacing the cloak on his shoulders. He musses Þóra’s hair, leaving her laughing and grinning. “Maybe another storm will bring you back,” you think aloud, leaning against the doorframe, each of you looking at the clear skies left in the wake of the gods' anger.

“Only the gods know,” Halfdan tells you, a glimmer in his dark eyes. He steps toward you, his hand extended —the backs of his fingers brushing across your cheek. It’s unspoken when you both move at the same time, closing the distance. His lips brush yours, hesitant then firmly —unwavering. You draw him closer, hand at the back of his neck, thumb following a raised scar wrapping around his neck. “Though, I do not think it will take Thor’s wrath for me to return,” he whispers upon parting. Smiling, you watch him step back, turning down the path that will lead him to his brother and Tamdrup and the same path that will lead him back to you.

[ taglist: @elizabethroestone @naaladareia @charming-merlin (because i know you like Halfdan) ]

[nightklok]

Kloktober Day 1 Prompt

Prompt: Favorite Character and OTP Pairing: Picklegail (Pickles the Drummer/Abigail Remeltindtdrinc) Title: The war is over and we are beginning Characters: Pickles the Drummer, Abigail Remeltindtdrinc, Eclair (cat), band members and charles are only mentioned Trigger Warnings: Very slight angst, very slight mention/discussion of trauma/PTSD. Tags: Some dark humor, mentioned trauma, discussion of trauma, fall, post galagtikon 2, hopeful/happy ending Summary: It's the first fall Pickles has realized he's lived through in years.

Author's Note: Yes this is...6 days late-But i still wanted to publish this anyway so enjoy :')

Read this fic on AO3 or read below!

The first day of fall fell on a Saturday.

And Pickles would realize it was the first time he had actually been aware of fall in years.

He couldn’t remember the last time he saw the leaves change or pumpkin picking or any of the fall activities he sparingly went to as a kid. He simply had no time, family, or desire to do any of those things as he grew older. He had the sudden moment of sadness that he had missed another fall but told himself fall was gonna come back next year and he’d just look at the leaves harder next fall. But he never did.

But now, he had the time. A lot of it. And a fresh perspective on life and just how wonderful living a quiet life was.

Getting to sleep in on a Saturday morning with the person he loved the most and having nothing else to do for the day was one of them. Normally, Abigail was the one who woke up earlier but for the weekend, it got to be the opposite. He could get up in an hour, make some breakfast and they could see about doing something together. Whether it’s going outside or staying in and watching something. But at the moment, he was content enough just sleeping.

But it wouldn’t last long sadly. Despite nothing important needing to be done for the day, he was woken up by the sound of meowing and a cat smacking his face.

Éclair, their beautiful cat they found outside a K-Mart, happened to like going on walks in the morning. And she was very persistent about her walks being exactly at 7:13 AM. It was 7:13 AM.

“C’mon, it’s Saturday,” He murmured as he pulled the blanket closer to his face, hoping that he could sleep for just a few more minutes.

But Éclair had no concept of time and would continue pawing at the sheets and when she began whining, he knew that his time sleeping in was already over. He didn’t want to wake her up and figured she deserved the extra hour of sleeping.

“Okay, okay, I’ll take you on a walk,” Pickles finally answered as he used a hand to gently push her away just so he could sit up. He was careful to not disturb Abigail but he saw her move and murmur something he couldn’t quite hear. He had to assume by the tone that she meant she was gonna do it. She always tried to even when he told her to sleep in on weekends.

“Just go back to sleep, babe, I’ll take care of it.” He answered quickly as he got out of bed but she was already sitting up.

“I’ll come with you.” She answered, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes., “Just give me a few minutes.”

There was no convincing otherwise and he was too tired himself to argue. He quickly snuck in a kiss before he got out of bed, “Alright, take your time.”

By the time he had thrown on some clothes and made himself look presentable enough, Abigail was already by the front door, kneeling down to leash Éclair. Despite them taking the same time to get ready, she looked like she had spent much more time doing it. Then again, she always looked beautiful to him regardless of how much time she spent.

He really did save the world to get to see today huh.

She stood up once she leashed the cat and turned to look at him with that small smile he always loved, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” He answered as he made sure he put the house keys in his pocket before opening the door to let her out first before himself. Éclair already began wandering around the front lawn, as far as her leash would go.

They were hit by a cool breeze that gently swayed the trees surrounding them, causing some of the red and orange leaves to fall gracefully onto the ground. The trees weren’t entirely turning their leaves yet but the appearance was showing much more by the day. And each day only meant another normal day. The worst was behind them.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a jacket?” She asked.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Got my own body heat.” He answered before he pulled her slightly closer enough to feel her skin heat up by the touch, “Besides I know how you can warm me up if I get cold.”

She wanted to mention about the neighbors or anybody seeing them but there was no one around at the moment. It was just them enjoying the early morning fall, the cool breeze and quiet excitement for a new season that just begun.

“Well, are you cold now?” She asked as she pulled him a bit closer.

He didn’t say anything else but reached up to kiss her, feeling her warm lips as they pressed against his. It felt as compassionate as the other thousands of kisses they must’ve shared in their lifetime. Honestly, he could probably find the same feelings he felt kissing her when he got a first kiss; the excitement, anticipation and pure love that he got to kiss someone he loved.

Their kiss was interrupted when she felt her leash getting tugged by Éclair who had grown impatient of them. She sat as far as the leash would let her, looking up at them expectantly. Amused, they walked past their front lawn to the sidewalk but felt the leash being pulled once again. They turned around to find her sitting still, meowing impatiently.

“C’mon, wanna walk a bit more? No? Okay.” Pickles answered with a laugh as Abigail went to pick her up. Almost immediately, she climbed up on her shoulders as she always preferred.

Her idea of walking outside was to walk a few steps and one of them had to pick her up for the rest of the walk. Walking around a block required too much energy. Did they expect her to actually walk alongside them every morning? Yes. Did she never fulfill that dream? No. But they also fed into her routine and nature, it wasn’t just their house anymore after all.

There was no use in arguing with a stubborn cat. She had made her territory in Abigail’s shoulder and they simply had to go along with it. She adjusted the leash so the other end of it would hook onto the inner jacket pocket that had a small sewn in hole meant for earphones. Once she made sure that the leash was secure inside, she reached over to hold his hand who quickly took it.

They took the usual route around the block. Shoes crunched against freshly fallen leaves, the wind picked up slightly again causing the leaves around them to move gently against the wind to a new area. If Pumpkin Spice Lattes and Apple Cider weren’t a symbol that fall was approaching, it was the leaves.

Pickles did try to remember when he last fall. Was it when he was a kid? A teen, maybe? He always fled before fall approached somehow. Always ended up in an area where he could not see the seasons change and everything remained a stagnant season the whole time.

But there was nothing to run from anymore. He could stay and watch the seasons change and turn forever if he wanted to now. Is this what freedom really feels like?

“Do you wanna go grab some coffee at the coffee shop?” She asked, interrupting his thoughts.

He quickly snapped his attention back to her and nodded, “Yeah, actually, the one two blocks from here, right?”

“Yep.”

He knew she knew that something was on his mind but she thankfully didn’t say anything. She already knew enough that he would speak when he was ready and he was always thankful for being able to fill in the gaps when he couldn’t speak. And she would always be thankful when he knew what she meant to say when she could barely get a word. It was a secret language between the two that no one but them knew and it was one they were both incredibly fluent in.

The coffee shop was a mom-and-pop one located on the end of the corner. LGBT friendly (Did he ever find those kind of coffee shops growing up?) and even had a small corner of the area for younger kids to play with. It was one of the places that they always loved frequently going to-if they weren’t well known to the world, they would’ve been known pretty well to the baristas.

“I can take Éclair, you can go order for us.” Pickles said. There were seats outside and given the weather, it wouldn’t be so bad to just sit outside and drink coffee while enjoying nature.

“Alright. The usual?”

“Surprise me.”

Pickles managed to take Éclair off her shoulder and set her down when he found a seat with decent shade. He tied the leash to the pole of the table but she seemed uninterested in exploring and instead jumped on his lap, presumably to take a quick nap.

He checked his phone while he waited, trying to catch up on whatever missed emails and posts from friends he had missed. Admittedly, going from seeing his friends everyday to now once a week at most was one of the toughest things to shift to. From knowing everything that went on in their lives, his knowledge of their whereabouts now came from whatever they posted in the group chat or social media.

Toki’s selfie with Magnus over the Eiffel Tower during their backpacking in Europe route. Nathan’s blurry image of a kid playing with a gator from the alligator rescue/children’s daycare he had started with Rachel. Skwisgaar’s video of one of the songs he was working with Nathan. A prototype rollercoaster blueprint from Murderface for the Dethklok amusement parks he and Knubbler were in charge of. And Charles not sending a photo but reminding him through text about a meeting regarding his solo album.

It was a crazy feeling to have looking at the boys he had lived with for more than a decade suddenly doing their own things. Did he feel left out? Maybe things were moving too fast? Miss the old times? He didn’t really know.

He found himself staring at his screen for far too long until Abigail came back taking a seat in front of him, “They’ll be coming over in a few minutes.”

He set the phone down, “Alright, what’d you get me?”

“You did mention you wanted me to surprise, didn’t you?” She answered with a playful smile that was clear she wouldn’t go easy on him.

“C’mon, I gotta know if I’m allergic to it or not. Could very well be allergic to milk today and might not even know it.”

“Guess it’s up to you to find out then; I’m sure there’s an EpiPen somewhere.”

Of course, she wanted to ask what was wrong but she didn’t want to press him. She knew he would budge eventually, he always did, but it was just a matter of patience and hoping to catch him at the right time.

Eventually, the barista came with the tray of coffees and food she had ordered, including a puppuccino for Éclair who woke up and hopped down to get her treat when Abigail set it down to get everyone’s orders.

She set the pumpkin spiced coffee, cinnamon rolls and a breakfast sandwich in front of him. She had ordered the same pumpkin spice coffee and breakfast sandwich; she always tried to avoid desserts for breakfast but he quickly shoved in a cinnamon roll in her plate anyway, “Here it can be your cheat day.”

“But you made me macrons yesterday.” She pointed out.

“It was sugar-free. And you can’t just pass off on a warm cinnamon roll. It’s bad for the environment I saved.”

She contemplated not even long enough before agreeing. They were pretty good cinnamon rolls…, “Guess I’ll need to pay for your contributions. Alright, I’ll take it.”

Pickles grinned as he took a sip of the coffee. It was still hot but he refused to even express he burnt his tongue for the sake of looking cool, “Great, glad my hard work paid off.”

For as much as he joked around, he didn’t mention anything about what was bothering him for the rest of their breakfast.

He would mention it on the walk back home when it was Pickles’ turn to let Éclair lay on his shoulder and Abigail holding a bag of free treats that the baristas insisted they take home. A few desserts as payment for saving the world. It was well worth it.

“I forgot what fall was like.” Pickles finally said as he looked at her. He didn’t downplay his feelings by joking

“You did?” She asked.

“Yeah. It had been too long since I last saw leaves and everything else and whatever. I guess it’s making me realize how long I missed out on some things, y’know?”

She had to wonder how he even forgot about fall. Or the fact that his hair color always reminded her of it. It was the color of vibrant red autumn leaves, not quite ready to fall yet but when the sun hit it, it showed the intricate details and would even shine as bright as it sometimes. And how could she ever put that into the right words? Maybe it just wasn’t the right moment, “Nostalgia?”

“I-I guess it’s that. Yeah. Nostalgic for the old things I guess. I was too used to that life. And I’m very happy with you, I really am! I’m doing more of the things now than I did before, but it’s hard to just completely let go of the past.”

Of course, he thought she would get offended which is why he didn’t look at her. Here he was clinging to his past again like some spoiled brat. If only he didn’t open his mouth. He probably seemed so ungrateful-

But he was met instead with warm hands taking his and he looked up to a very understanding Abigail, “I understand. There’s some things I miss and feel nostalgic for too. I don’t expect you to not miss those things. These things just end up happening, it’s part of natural life.”

“I guess…it’s just a lot harder to adjust than I thought. I’m sorry if I’m just dumping this on you, though. I know that this hasn’t been easy for you either.”

It wasn’t easy when Abigail could barely sleep without getting horrific nightmares that he had stayed up most nights worrying about. It wasn’t easy when Pickles ended up getting horrific nightmares too when he came back home, and he had yet to tell her all that he dreamt about. Their future kids, grandkids even, and even the current neighborhood kids would ask for stories of their heroism. Do they even dare talk about the price that was paid for it?

It couldn’t even be said that they had overcome it. The nightmares were less frequent, yes, but they were there. All it took was one bad night to ruin a week or month even. The horrors of their past would most likely be there for the rest of their lives, looming over and ready to strike when things seemed to be better.

But they made it so far together too. What’s another mile anyway?

“It hasn’t been easy but we’re both getting there.” She paused her walking to look at him, “We made it so far together, after all. I don’t expect you to be okay the same way you don’t expect me to be okay either, right? I’m not gonna ask you to do anymore than you already are doing and what you’re doing is enough.”

“And if it’s not enough? God, what if I’m just fucking up right now? There’s no way I can just…I don’t even know what. It’s just terrifying to be falling down that dark path again.”

She watched as Éclair looked up to the leaves around them, eyes completely dilated to look at the world around her. A leaf would just brush past her, failed to be caught and it fell to the ground.

Of course the leaves would eventually be raked. Whatever wasn’t thrown out or burned would eventually become mulch for the soil. Would help provide for the soil when spring rolls around. Then everything will grow again. Everything will be okay.

“If we fall again, we start over and flourish.”

—

“What was your last memory with fall if you don’t mind my asking?” Abigail asked that evening. They sat in the living room couch, sharing a blanket as they watched Knives Out. It would quickly become a tradition for them to watch whatever fall-related movies there were just to get in the spirit.

He paused for a moment, before finally coming up with an answer, “I met you, didn’t I? We were at that fall event Cornickelson used to host. It was probably a few years before you became Dethklok’s music producer? But anyway, we were paired at the same table and I was probably awkward as fuck right then and there but you still wanted to talk to me. We went to the garden and we just ended up talking about everything. God, I felt like a teenager with their first crush when I was with you. I never got to say that your hair color reminded me of the leaves.”

[nikki-writes-stuff]

At the Edge of the Woods - Part Two

Summary: When you move into a cottage on the edge of the forest, you’re ready to start a new life in a new, quiet town. But when you attract the attention of Steve Rogers, a man who everyone in town seems to dislike and fear, your world is turned upside down after he decides that you belong to him.

Pairing: Werewolf/Alpha!Steve x Omega!Reader

Read part one here! 

A/N: IT’S FINALLY HERE! Thank you guys for being patient with me - this thing took FOREVER to write! But I hope you like how it turned out. Feedback is always appreciated! As a side note, I wrote this for one of my amazing Ko-Fi donors! So, if you would like to request a continuation of any of my current stories or a new story idea all together, please click here to donate! :) 

Warning: This fic contains kidnapping, non-con, dub-con, and A/B/O dynamics. Read at your own risk, and, as always, enjoy!

You woke up with the strange feeling that comes from knowing you slept in a strange place. The bed beneath you was softer and larger than your own, and the scent that had been plaguing you for days was thick on the sheets. You were laying with your head propped up against a firm pillow, and even though you didn’t know where you were, you couldn’t deny that you were comfortable and warm.

A yawn parted your lips, and you snuggled further against your pillow. However, your eyes shot open when it moved, and that’s when you realized that your pillow was, in fact, a person. With a gasp, you pulled away, ignoring the aches and pains littered throughout your body as you looked up to see who they were.

Steve Rogers was laying there beside you, naked beneath the sheets, and the events of the night before flooded through your mind. You’d slept while Steve carried you through the woods, only waking up hours later as he slid his cock inside of you once again. You’d been groggy, delirious, and the room you’d been in had been dark. But you’d still managed to cum twice as he took you, passing out afterwards into a dreamless, restful sleep for god-knows how long.

“Good morning,” Steve smiled now, having the audacity to look happy after everything he’d done to you. “I forgot how nice it is to sleep next to someone.”

A small noise of surprised escaped you as you hurried to stand up, feeling your cheeks grow hot when you realized just how incredibly naked you were.

“Where are we?” you demanded, and your captor arched an eyebrow.

“My cabin,” he replied. “I thought we were past this…” He trailed off, gesturing up and down towards you. “This hostility.”

“We,” you growled, “are not past anything. You raped me last night. Again, and again, and a-“

“Hey, now,” he interrupted, sitting up. “I did not rape you. In fact, I seem to recall you begging me not to stop at several points. All I did was happily acquiesce.”

You blinked away tears as you looked away, taking in the room around you instead. Rich, red-tinged wood made up the floors and walls, and the cabin was made up of hints of both modern and traditional influences. The floor plan was open, keeping everything in one large room except for the bathroom, which you suspected was behind the door tucked away in the corner between the living space and the bedroom.

“Please, if you’re thinking of running,” Steve continued, “don’t. We’re alone out here, with nobody for miles. And I hid the keys to my car, so don’t even think about trying to leave that way.”

Feeling your throat start to close up around unshed tears, you squeezed your legs together, wrinkling your nose up with disgust when you felt the stickiness of dried cum between your thighs. Without a word or a glance in his direction, you trudged into the bathroom, biting your lip to ignore the soreness radiating from between your legs.

“C’mon, baby, don’t-“

Steve’s voice was cut off when you closed the door behind you, and you felt a sob escape as you slid the lock into place before sitting down on the closed toilet lid. You leaned your elbows on your knees and covered your face, letting the tears wash over you as your mind spun with images from the night before.

Steve, shifting from a man to a wolf and then back to a man. His voice, calling you his ‘omega’, insisting that you were meant to be with him. His teeth, sinking into your-

You stood up once again with a gasp and leaned over the sink, pushing your hair out of the way so you could clearly see where he’d bitten you. Your eyes widened when you saw the bitemark resting proudly against the side of your neck; it wasn’t red or bloody, as you’d suspected it would be. No, instead, it had already healed into a silvery, shiny new scar, the perfect imprint of Steve’s teeth. Your stomach rolled at the sight, and you ran a curious finger over it. Something in your gut twitched at the sensation, and you dropped your hand as if it had been burned.

With a sigh, you squeezed your eyes shut and wiped away the tears still trickling down your cheeks; you could feel the rising tide of an anxiety attack coming on, and you did your best to push it away with deep breaths. One moment at a time, you told yourself. One moment at a time.

As soon as your eyes fell onto the large shower tucked into the corner, right across from a jacuzzi-style bathtub, you knew that the first thing you needed to do was take a bath. Mechanically, you figured out the settings of the modern shower and went searching for a towel and washcloth. You found a small stack of them under the sink and set them on the counter before testing the water.

As you stood under the spray, scrubbing every inch of skin that Steve had touched last night, you thought about your circumstances, pondering how you would fix all of this. The first thing you needed to do was escape the cabin and find your way into town; Sherriff Wilson would be able to help you. From there, you would figure it out as you went along.

For now, you knew that you didn’t have many options. You could try to make it on foot, but you were no match for Steve’s strength nor his speed, and in his wolf form, you were sure that he’d be able to quite literally sniff you out if you tried to get away. You could also try to find his keys, but it was a decent-sized cabin, and it would most likely set off your captor if you just started randomly searching for them.

You tucked that option into the back of your mind, though, because as you washed away the dirt and grime from yesterday, you knew what your best option was, and it turned your stomach to even think about it – play along. Gain his trust; convince him to take you into town; pull the aces out on him once you were out in public.

You spent a good hour in the shower, washing and scrubbing until your skin was tingly and raw. You didn’t even care that you now smelled like him; you didn’t stop until your fingers were wrinkled and the water had started to run cold. After stepping out, you dried off with the towel before realizing that you had no clothes to change into. With a sigh, you grabbed a fresh towel from under the sink and wrapped it around your body, feeling the cool air nip at your exposed legs.

Even after you’d finished, you stood in front of the door for several minutes, dreading what lay on its other side. By the time you’d gathered enough courage to walk out of the bathroom, the tips of your hair had already begun to dry, and your knees had started to tremor ever-so-slightly from standing there for so long.

With a deep breath, you finally unlocked the door and opened it, taking a moment to survey the space around you. Steve was nowhere to be seen, but a plate containing a sandwich and a few pickles was resting on the dining room table. A glass of ice water was sitting beside it, and your stomach gurgled in hunger.

You forced yourself to walk past the table, though, ignoring the food as you searched for any signs of your captor. Once you established that he wasn’t anywhere inside of the cabin, you walked up to one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows that were dotted around the building. You scanned the forest beyond the glass until you saw a familiar flash of blonde.

Straining your eyes, you pressed your hands to the glass and squinted until you finally saw Steve. Or, rather, the wolf that he sometimes turned into. He was sitting behind a cluster of bushes, but you’d recognize him anywhere.

You were surprised, however, when you saw movement directly beside him, and you gasped when you spotted a second wolf, this one with dark brown fur with splotches of black. It looked as if it were pacing in front of Steve, and every now and then you could see a bit of teeth as its lip curled up in a growl. Steve, though, remained sitting still in the same spot, not moving a muscle as he stood off against the other creature.

Suddenly, though, the other wolf froze in place, and your eyes widened when it turned towards you. Steve’s head turned, as well, and you stumbled backwards from the window, clutching your towel closer around your body. You felt as if you’d been caught doing something wrong as you walked back to the table, but you forced yourself to sit down and pick up the sandwich Steve had made for you.

After you were two bites in, you jumped when you heard the front door opening, and you looked up to see Steve sauntering in, completely naked, as you’d suspected he would be.

“Sorry about that,” he sighed, shaking his head and scratching at his beard. “I, uh… had to talk to an old friend.”

“Are they a, uh..” you gulped, clearing your throat. “A werewolf, too? Or just a regular wolf?”

He arched an eyebrow at you and scoffed.

“Why would I be talking with a regular wolf?” he deadpanned. “They’re animals, (Y/N).”

You rolled your eyes and threw up your hands before picking up your sandwich once again.

“Well, I don’t know how this works!” you huffed. “Forgive me if I don’t know everything about your kind right off the bat.”

Steve chuckled and shrugged, walking into the kitchen and starting to search through the cabinets.

“I know,” he conceded. “I know this is…strange for you. But don’t worry; I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

He pulled out a bag of potato chips and shut the cabinets behind him before taking a seat beside you, and you had to force your body not to instinctively lean away from him. You fought not to let your eyes wander, either, focusing straight ahead for fear of catching any glances of his naked form.

“Do you just…walk around naked like that all the time,” you grumbled. You caught him smirking out of the corner of your eye.

“Usually, yeah. Why? Does it bother you?”

“No,” you insisted, although your cheeks suddenly felt like they were on fire. “Just… Could you put on some clothes? Some sweatpants, some boxers – something?”

Steve laughed, and you jolted at the screech of his chair behind pushed back.

“If it’ll make you more comfortable, omega,” he laughed, and your eyes skimmed over his ass of their own accord as he walked away before focusing once more on the pickles you had yet to eat.

You pushed your plate away, suddenly not feeling very hungry.

When Steve finally did return, he was wearing a pair of red and black flannel pajama pants, and he was holding a white t-shirt in his hand.

“By the way,” he commented, “I thought you might like to wear something other than a towel, though I’m certainly not complaining about the view.”

He dropped the shirt into your lap before leaning over you to pick up your plate.

“Do you not like pickles?” he asked, and you grabbed onto the t-shirt, flinching at how close he was.

“I-I’m just not hungry,” you supplied, and with a shrug, he brough your plate into the kitchen, popping what was left on your plate into his mouth and crunching on them along the way.

“Well, help yourself to whatever you’d like, if you change your mind.”

You were taken aback by how normal he was acting, as if he kidnapped girls and brought them to his cabin all the time. The thought made your stomach sour, and you swallowed thickly.

“So… What happens now?” you asked warily, not even trying to hide your suspicion as you eyed him down. “What are you going to do with me?”

Steve turned from where he’d been washing your plate and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Do with you? What do you mean?”

“I mean… What’s your goal here?” you clarified. “You can’t keep me here forever; people will start to notice.”

“Well, I don’t plan to keep you here forever,” he countered. Once the plate was cleaned, he set it down on a drying rack and sat beside you once more.

“I just want you to stay here,” he continued, “until we get past this awkward phase. Once I know I can trust you, and once you know you can trust me, then you’re free to go. Not that I think you’ll want to leave at that point, but-“

“Wait, so… You really want to have a…a relationship with me?”

Steve smiled patiently and looked up at you through his lashes.

“Yes, baby,” he assured you. “That’s all I want. I’ve been wanting to settle down with a nice girl for a while, now. And the fact that you’re an omega…”

He trailed off, shaking his head, and you winced when you noticed the tiny, wistful smile on his face.

“…You really are crazy,” you murmured under your breath, but you squeezed your lips shut as you felt the temptation to scream at him rise up within you. You wanted to punch his stupid, smug face; you wanted to smash every window in his goddamn cabin and start running, not caring where you ended up just as long as it was far away from him.

Steve, though, didn’t look perturbed by your words nor the disgust clearly written across your face. He was still watching you with that soft affection glistening in his eyes.

“I know it’ll take some time,” he murmured. “I do. And I’m willing to wait.”

He stood up, then, and the movement startled you so much that you jumped. Suddenly, his smile fell, and you pressed your back against the chair as he leaned over you, so close you could smell the peppermint on his breath.

“But if you call me crazy again,” he whispered, “I’ll bend you over this table and teach you some fucking manners.”

You bit your lip as it threatened to start trembling, and your eyes filled with tears at the dark, dangerous tone his voice had suddenly taken on. When he raised his eyebrows expectantly, you hurriedly nodded, and only then did his lips turn upwards once more. You made no move as he leaned in to press a quick peck to your lips, nor did you so much as twitch a muscle when he straightened up and started to walk towards the living room.

“Good girl,” he praised. “Now c’mon; I think we should watch a movie or something.”

With that, Steve turned around and sauntered away, and even as your body shivered and shook from your fear, you knew better than to do anything but follow him.

_______

The majority of the day was spent on Steve’s couch, watching movies as he tried to make small talk with you. He’d tugged you down into the seat next to him after you’d slipped his t-shirt on,  and you noted how it fell down to about mid-thigh, just like a sundress would. Once you were seated, he kept an arm wrapped around you at all times, and you focused on the tv as he started a movie. As it turned out, he was a fan of older, classic films, and so you’d ended up watching Gone With the Wind.

“My mom always loved this one,” he’d confessed to you as the opening score played in the background. “We used to watch it together the day after Thanksgiving; the classic movie channel always played it that day for some reason.”

You’d made a non-comital, neutral noise to let him know you were listening, but you kept your eyes glued to the screen. It was bad enough that his scent was fogging your senses, what with him sitting so close to you; you didn’t want to have to look at him as well.

After a beat of silence, he shifted, somehow managing to pull you closer against him.

“So, uh… Are you and your folks close?” he suddenly asked. One of your eyebrows twitched up at the random question, but you otherwise kept your face and voice even and calm, despite what you were feeling under the surface.

“Not really.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.”

You shrugged, falling into silence once again until, just a few minutes later, Steve asked you another random question about yourself. After the third one, you realized that he was trying to get to know you, that he was treating this like some sort of first date. You swallowed and clenched your fists at the realization, but you were too afraid from his earlier threat to snap at him to shut up.

Instead, you contented yourself with giving him the vaguest possible answers to his questions, trying to keep your responses to one word if possible, no matter what he asked.

“Are you into any sports?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame; I was hoping to take you to a Mets game sometime. I grew up a huge baseball fan.”

After a few minutes, he would try again.

“So, I’m guessing you like to read? You had a lot of books back at your cottage.”

“Yes.”

“Nice. You got any favorites?”

“Yeah.”

“…Care to tell me about them?”

You’d shrugged at that, ignoring his follow up question as you watched Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler argue on screen.

The two of you carried on like that for a while; you managed to get to the intermission in the middle of the film before, with a sigh, Steve reached for the remote and paused the movie.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” he huffed.

“What?”

You blinked a few times, pretending for a moment to play dumb, but a sharp look from Steve made your face fall. Looking down at your lap, you tried to prepare yourself for whatever he was going to do next – maybe he was going to drag you back to the table and make good on his earlier warning.

Your body tensed up when you felt two impossibly strong hands grip your waist, but you didn’t fight him as he maneuvered you into his lap. Your eyes widened in surprise as he held you there, tracing circles against your hips with his thumbs as your legs straddled his.

“I’m gonna get to know you, hon,” he insisted. “You’re gonna be here for a long time; it’s got to happen eventually. Now, I’m trying to play nice; if I were you, I’d take advantage of that. Because eventually you’re going to piss me off if you keep this up, and you won’t like it when that happens.”

You gulped, looking into his eyes as he spoke, feeling trapped against him as he held you in place. He took a breath and stayed silent for a moment, your eyes locked as you considered one another. One of his hands left your waist, and you jumped when it pushed your hair back over your shoulder, exposing the scar he’d left on you last night. Your fingers twitched with the impulse to pull your hair back over it, but you didn’t dare move as his gaze fell upon it.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispered, and your eyes fluttered shut of their own accord when his fingertips traced the bitemark. His touch sent off a spark inside of you, sending shocks of pleasure through your core.

“Why…”

You paused, embarrassed by the question, and looked away, deciding it was best not to ask.

“No, go ahead,” the alpha insisted, pulling his hand away and letting it rest on your lower back. “Ask me anything.”

“…Why,” you finally spoke, “does it feel so…weird…when you touch my neck like that? I touched it earlier and it did the same thing; why?”

“’Cuz that’s your mating gland, ‘mega,” he explained. You were surprised that he wasn’t smug about it; if anything, he seemed genuinely pleased that you’d brought up the subject. “Every alpha and omega has one, and it’s naturally sensitive to the touch. Haven’t you noticed it before?”

You tried to think back on it, biting your lip as you concentrated. You hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary before. Sure, you’d always liked it when your past boyfriends kissed you on your neck, and you supposed it had always felt really good when they did, but it had never shown up on your radar the way Steve’s touch did.

“I… I don’t know,” you eventually said. “I guess it’s always been a little sensitive? But this is different.”

“Hm... Maybe it’s because I’m your alpha now,” he considered. “I’m new to all of this, too. Like I said last night, I’ve never met an omega before.”

“…My alpha?”

“Yeah.” Steve did look smug about that, and you all of a sudden wished you hadn’t said anything about it. “That mark shows every other alpha out there that you’re mine.”

Your stomach turned at that, and you tried to shove away your anxiety as it rose within you again.

“…When will it fade away?” you asked, but the alpha only laughed.

“Baby, it’s not going anywhere,” he chuckled. “A bond mark is permanent; you’ll be wearing that scar for the rest of your life.”

Fury rose up within you, so sudden and so vicious that, for a second, it made you feel light-headed. You blinked away tears as you considered his words. He had no reason to lie about it, and something in your gut told you it was the truth.

You would never be truly rid of him.

Steve immediately noticed the change in your mood, because his smile fell and, for a moment, guilt flashed over his features.

“Look, baby, I can tell you’re angry,” he tried to console you. “But please, just…don’t get too worked up over it. Here, you can bite my mating gland if it’ll make you feel better-“

“Get the fuck away from me,” you grit out from behind clenched teeth. “I want nothing to do with you-“

You tried to stand up, to push Steve away, but his arms were like iron chains. They tightened around you and pulled your body to his chest despite your best efforts. Within seconds, you found yourself turned around and forced against him, your back pressed against his front with your ass in his lap. You gasped when you felt his cock twitch against your back side, and you couldn’t stop a frustrated growl from escaping you as you found yourself trapped in that position.

“Calm. Down,” he grunted against your ear. “Remember what I said earlier? Just behave, or I’ll really give you something to be upset about.”

For a few more futile moments, you tried to push his arms away, but it was of no use. With a sob of defeat, you went limp, feeling a tear finally fall down your cheek for what felt like the hundredth time that day. And after that first tear, it was as if a flood broke loose. You couldn’t suppress the sobs anymore as they escaped your lips, and your shoulders shook as you wept.

Steve let out a sigh before his grip on you loosened – not enough for you to escape his grasp, but enough to make you feel slightly less like a caged animal.

“…I’m sorry, omega,” he whispered, and you felt him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Just… Let’s watch the last half of the movie and calm down. Ok? We don’t need to talk anymore; it’s obvious that’ll just upset you.”

Over the next few hours, true to his word, Steve stayed quiet, holding you in his arms as you first finished Gone With the Wind and then started Road to Rio. At some point, you felt your eyelids start to grow heavy, and you suddenly realized just how spent you were – from the crying, the night before, the stress of it all…

It was when you yawned for the second time that Steve looked down, a warm smile coming over his features as he watched the way you were leaning back against his chest, finally relaxing in his hold.

“You gettin’ sleepy?” he asked, and you tried to find the will to straighten up.

“I… No,” you shook your head, but you caught his disbelieving look out of the corner of your eye.

“C’mon, doll.”

You gasped when he suddenly shifted you in his arms before standing up, carrying you bridal-style into the bedroom.

“You’ve had a long day,” he remarked. “And it’s only just past 4. I think a nap would do you some good.”

You couldn’t deny that sleep did sound pretty amazing, but your heartbeat quickened as Steve’s bed came into view, still rumpled from the morning. As he laid you back, you tugged his shirt down and grew the covers up over yourself, praying that he wouldn’t get any ideas.

Once he saw what you were doing, the alpha rolled his eyes and started tucking the sheets around you.

“Don’t worry,” he assured you. “That can wait until later. For now, get some rest. I’m gonna go work out a little bit before starting on dinner. If you need anything, just let me know. Ok?”

Hesitantly, you nodded your head, watching him carefully as he smiled and stood over you. You squeezed your eyes shut as he leaned down to kiss your forehead, but true to his word, he left right after. You both knew what he’d meant when he said ‘that’ could wait, but you had no clue how much later it would be. Your body was still sore from how he’d used you last night, and your heart clenched at the thought of going through it again.

For now, though, your exhaustion was steadily demanding more and more of your attention. With one final yawn and the thought that you could worry about Steve after your nap, you turned onto your side and closed your eyes. Sleep came to you quickly, settling over you like an extra blanket as you breathed in your alpha’s scent from where it still lingered on his sheets.

_______

When you woke up, you only felt marginally rested. A small headache had formed in your skull as you slept, and you felt a somewhat restless inclination inside of you that you couldn’t explain. When you eventually sat up, though, the sun was already starting to dip beneath the horizon, and the clock on the wall told you that it was just a few minutes shy of turning 7. You groaned as you stretched, listening to the cracks in your joints as you raised your arms and rotated your wrists. There was a crick in your neck that ached any time you turned your head to the right, but try as you might, you couldn’t get it to pop.

Something close by smelled delicious, and you could hear Steve moving about in the kitchen. Your stomach growled, and even though part of you was tempted to stay in bed and ignore the man across the cabin, you knew you couldn’t stay there forever. And so, you lowered your feet to the floor and followed the sounds and smells until you saw Steve hovering over a steaming pot on the stove.

“Oh. You’re awake,” he observed, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Welcome back to the land of the living; you were out for a while.”

“Guess I was tired,” you muttered, voice hoarse and scratchy. You were still feeling a bit disoriented from waking up, and you knew your hair had to look like a mess as you sat down at the dining table.

“Guess so. Well,” the alpha continued, “I hope you like lo mein. I’m not the best cook in the world, but I thought I’d give this recipe a try.”

You nodded noncommittally and watched as Steve dished out two bowls of noodles before walking over towards you and taking the seat to your left. Once again, your stomach growled as the food was set before you, and you didn’t hesitate before digging in.

“…So?” he prompted, and you looked up to see an expectant look on his face. “Is it good? What’s the verdict?”

“It, um… It’s good,” you assured him, starting to twirl another bite onto your fork. “Really good.”

A proud smile came over his face, and you looked away as he started on his own serving. The food was good, damn him, but you were still feeling off. You were starting to feel hot, almost feverish, and a sweat had broken out over your brow. And the restlessness hadn’t faded, not by a long shot. If anything, it was getting worse; your body kept fidgeting as you ate, and you couldn’t help but twist your legs together, crossing them one moment only to uncross them the next. You were also acutely aware of the man sitting next to you, and you were starting to doubt that it was just because of your fear of him.

Your eyes, of their own accord, watched all of his movements attentively in your peripheral vision. And the delicious scent that you’d smelled earlier was only in part coming from dinner; you still hadn’t gotten used to the effect his musk had on you.

“You alright over there?” Steve asked, and you looked up to find him watching you with a confused look painted across his handsome features. “You look a little paler than usual.”

“I-I’m not… I’m not sure,” you murmured, setting down your fork with a heavy clang.

Frowning, Steve reached over and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.

“Shit, doll, you’re burning up,” he sighed.

You, however, were too focused on the feeling of his skin against yours. Earlier that day, when you’d been sitting in his lap, he’d felt so warm, but now his touch was like a soothing breeze against your heated flesh. Without realizing it, you began leaning into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as he leaned closer to you.

“I think I should take your temperature,” he mumbled, and he went to stand up.

Your hand shot out, though, and grabbed onto his wrist, and his head snapped back down to look at you.

“Don’t-“

But you didn’t know what you were even asking him not to do. You swallowed, your eyes trailing up and down his naked torso, and once again you squeezed your legs together. Suddenly, a wave of understanding crossed his features, and he slowly sank down onto one knee in front of you. His look of concern had been replaced with a sort of playful curiosity, and the remaining logic in your brain started sounding out warning bells.

“Oh, hon,” he chuckled. “Ok, I see what’s going on.”

“Wh-what is it?” you stammered. You felt tears start to prick at the back of your eyes, and you rapidly blinked them away. “I-I don’t know what’s happening to me-“

“Oh, baby, shh…”

You closed your eyes, ignoring the full-body shiver that coursed through you at the low timber his voice had suddenly taken on.

“It’s ok,” the alpha went on. “I think you’re just going into your first heat; that’s all.”

Your eyes popped open at that, and you shook your head.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. I can’t be-“

“Sometimes, omegas don’t start having heats until they find an alpha,” he was explaining, either unaware or indifferent to your shock. “Maybe that’s why it’s coming on so suddenly for you…”

“I’m not,” you suddenly shouted, “going into heat. That’s ridiculous-“

You moved to stand, but another wave of heat swept through you, and you wavered on your feet. In a flash, Steve drew himself to his full height and scooped you up into his arms, tutting under his breath.

“So stubborn…”

You couldn’t find the will to struggle against him as he carried you back towards the bedroom; instead, you marveled at how cool he felt. You let your flushed cheek rest against his chest, listening to his heartbeat even as you tried to think your way through the situation you’d found yourself in. But your brain was slowly starting to check out, succumbing to the relief you felt as Steve’s skin pressed against yours.

An embarrassing whine sounded from your parted lips as your alpha (your alpha?) laid you down on the bed again, taking a step back to look at you. You squirmed on the sheets as you felt more sweat start to drip down your face, pooling in the groove of your collarbone as you looked up at him pleadingly.

“Listen, ‘mega,” he began, “I’ve never dealt with something like this before, but I have a couple of ideas about how I can help you.”

You didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on your heaving chest as he said that, nor could you ignore the double meaning behind his so-called ‘ideas’.

“But you still seem to think that I’m the bad guy here,” he continued. “After all, I apparently raped you last night, didn’t I? At least, that’s what you said this morning.”

You whimpered again, looking away as images from the night before dashed through your head. However, now, as you looked back on them, you couldn’t feel any horror at the memory of what he’d done to you. No, the thoughts of him ravaging you, taking you, only fanned the flames that were licking at your body.

“Steve, please-“

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he chided. “You wanted me to leave you alone so bad earlier? Then fine; I can leave you alone.”

A wicked, smug smirk had settled over his features, and in that moment, both of you knew that you wouldn’t be the one to win. Steve finally had you right where he wanted you after less than a day of your captivity.

“Well,” he clapped his hands together, turning towards the door. “I think I’m going to go clean the kitchen a little bit. Maybe I’ll sleep on the couch tonight, just to give you some space to think things over."

With one last smirk sent in your direction, he turned and walked away, leaving you to your own devices. You let out a frustrated growl as you turned towards the ceiling. Your fists clenched as wave after wave of warmth washed over you, pooling between your legs until your cunt was practically throbbing.

In the end, you laid there until long after the sun had gone down, shivering as you tried to will your heat away. It would have been one thing if Steve had fucked you right then and there, taking advantage of your ailment and using it to his advantage. But this… This was so much worse. Because now, you found yourself wishing that he would do just that. You suddenly felt so empty, so terribly empty, and your feverish brain knew that he would be able to fill that void within you.

After what felt like an eternity, a thread of your pride snapped, making you grow even more desperate. Biting your lip and praying that Steve wouldn’t be able to hear you, you reached down and pulled his thin t-shirt up before slipping your hand between your legs. Your pussy was drenched, and you couldn’t help the small noise that escaped your throat as you slid two fingers inside of yourself.

You tossed your head back and writhed as you started thrusting them, not caring about the wet, sucking sounds your cunt was making. The flames within you settled down by a few degrees as you fucked yourself on your fingers, but as the minutes ticked on, you found that it wouldn’t be enough. You let out a frustrated growl as you clenched your teeth and ground the heel of your palm against your clit, but it was no use.

Helplessly, you let your hand fall back down to your side, accepting the bitter fact that you wouldn’t be ale to get rid of this heat by yourself. Which left you only one option.

Gulping, you sat up, turning towards the living room. There was a wall that served as a divider between the bedroom and the den, but you knew that Steve was laying on the sofa, probably listening to you struggle. But as another shiver crept down your spine, the last bit of your pride, your integrity, burned away.

The floor was chilly against your feet as you padded towards the alpha, but it wasn’t enough to cool you down, not by a long shot. When you turned the corner, Steve was already sitting up, waiting for you. He’d shed his sweatpants at some point during the night, and you came to a stop between his spread legs, feeling your mouth water at the sight of his already half-hard cock.

Without saying a word, you lifted the shirt off your body, and his eyes glinted in the dark as his gaze roved over your curves.

“So,” he grunted, his voice rough and gravelly, “is there something you want me to do for you?”

Biting your lip, you found that you couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, so instead you focused on his chest as you crawled into his lap. You straddled his thighs and pressed yourself against him, letting out a moan as you finally felt some relief. Your hips moved of their own accord, grinding downwards, dragging your wet, swollen pussy lips against the length of his cock.

“I… I need you,” you admitted in a whisper, and you yelped when one of his hands tangled in your hair and pulled your head to the side, exposing your bondmark.

“Oh, yeah?” the alpha mused, nuzzling the side of your neck. “What do you need me for, hm? What do you want your alpha to do?”

You gasped when his tongue darted out, tracing your mating gland and sending shocks of pleasure down to your core. He was fully hard now, and you went to hover your entrance over him; you were so close, so fucking close, but his hands suddenly closed around your hips and held you in place.

“No, doll,” he panted. “Tell me. What. You. Need.”

You hadn’t even realized you’d closed your eyes, but you opened them now to focus on his face as he considered you. The two of you were both breathing heavily, now, and there was a wildness creeping along the edge of his features; he looked like he had last night as he stood over your bed. God, had only 24 hours passed? You felt as if you’d been surviving this torture for an eternity, and you were already desperate to surrender.

“I… I need you to fuck me,” you whispered. “Please, Steve, please… I need it.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked upon hearing your words, and in the blink of an eye he was forcing your body downwards, impaling you on his thick cock. Your lips parted in a silent scream at the stretch, but you welcomed the pain as you pressed your heated skin to every inch of him that you could reach. You wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your forehead against his, babbling incoherently as he bottomed out inside of you.

“Yes, yes- Fuck, Steve, oh my God-“

Your words blurred together as you instinctively lifted your hips, rolling them downwards as you began to chase your pleasure. Every cell of your body was aching, begging, for more, and you didn’t waste time as you started riding him.

“That’s right, baby, bounce on my cock,” your alpha growled. His hands kneaded at your ass, helping you set a fast pace as you both gave in to your desires. “So fucking tight-“

Your senses were flooded with him, and it drowned out the heat, it drowned out the burning in your thighs and the bite of his nails digging into your skin. There was only Steve, only his body and yours, moving in tandem. The obscene sounds of skin sliding against wet skin filled the air, and neither of you did anything to try and quiet your moans.

You barely registered the world around you as it shifted, and suddenly you found yourself on your back with Steve laying over top of you, pounding into your pussy as he pulled you into a deep, sloppy kiss. Your tongues fought to gain control, and your teeth clanked together, but you still couldn’t help a high-pitched, helpless moan from spilling out of your lips. You put up no resistance, letting him use you like a ragdoll as he slammed his cock into you over and over again.

Really, all things considered, you were surprised that you lasted as long as you did. The knot inside of you tightened and tightened until, without warning, it burst, leaving you clinging to Steve as your cunt fluttered around him. But now, unlike your first time in the woods, he gave no sign of stopping.

“S-steve-“ you tried to say, but all words left your mind as his hand wrapped around your throat.

“You think it’s over just because you cum?” he panted, looking down at you as his lips pulled back to reveal a sinister grin. “Oh, no, omega. We’re done when I fucking say we are.”

You should have felt afraid. Or used. Or violated. But despite all of those truths, you found yourself nodding, letting the fight drain out of you as he continued to fuck you into oblivion. And when his smile fell into something more sincere, more meaningful, a treacherous part of you celebrated.

Your eyes never strayed from one another’s as he slowed his pace, snapping his hips slower but hitting a spot deep inside of you that made your toes curl. His hand left his neck and snaked between your bodies to play with your clit, and you let out a low, needy whine. Your desire was slowly returning to you, nearly as intense as it had been before, and that was when you realized your heat was far from being over.

“I’m getting close, sweetheart,” Steve grunted. “You want me to cum in this pussy? Want me to fill you up like a good little omega?”

“Yes, alpha…” The words left you of their own accord, but you couldn’t focus long enough to feel ashamed of them. “Yes, please, cum in me. Cum in me, Steve-“

It wasn’t long before you felt his hot cum paint your inner walls, and the combination of the look on his face and the sensation of his seed spilling inside of you sent you over the edge for a second time. Your body felt weightless and heavy all at the same time, and the pleasure coursing through your veins was white-hot in contrast to Steve’s cool skin.

As you both lay there, catching your breath, you closed your eyes and hoped that the restlessness inside of you would go away, that you would come to your senses and feel something other than the desire to be close to the man who’d claimed you as his. But when you finally looked up to see his now-familiar blue irises focused on you, you felt your pussy clench lazily around his softening cock, and you knew it was far from being done.

“How long-“

“About a week,” he interrupted. Slowly, he pulled out, and you whined at the loss. You couldn’t even manage to close your legs as he sat up, watching his cum leak out of you intently.

“It… It didn’t stop,” you whispered. “I still want… I still feel like…”

You couldn’t form the proper words to encompass what you were feeling, and a look of pity crossed over Steve’s features.

“Hey, it’s ok, doll,” he assured you, pushing an errant strand of hair out of your eyes. “It’s ok. I’ll get you through this, ok?”

He smiled, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. You bit your lip, staring up at the ceiling as he tilted his head downwards, trailing more kisses down the side of your neck, right over your scar. He continued further, his lips tracking down over your chest, to your sternum, then to your belly.

You propped yourself up on your elbows so you could watch him as he shifted backwards on the couch, spreading your legs and making himself comfortable between your legs.

“I’m your alpha, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your inner thigh. “I’m gonna take care of you – whether you like it or not.”

With that, he wasted no time in pressing his lips to your pussy, letting his tongue glide over your folds until it settled on your still-sensitive clit. A sharp, surprised moan escaped you as he started tracing soft, teasing kitten licks against it, and you let your head fall back as your legs spread wider to welcome his touch.

_________________

You lost track of the days after that. The flames within you only died down when Steve was touching you, kissing you, or fucking you. And after that first 24 hours, you turned your brain off and gave in to every single one of your body’s whims. You even asked Steve to share your showers with you on the odd occasion when you were able to pull yourself out of his bed. By the end of the second day, after you’d ridden him for the second time in as many hours, you wondered if he was still the one using you.

Between your fucking, when the two of you only had energy to lay together and catch your breath, he would talk, and you knew that, later on, you would hate how easily you opened up to him in those moments. You ended up telling him about your childhood, your family, the things about yourself that no one else knew. And, in return, Steve told you about himself, letting you get a glimpse of the humanity behind the monster who’d abducted you.

On the fifth day, around noon, you found yourself curled up against him with your head on his chest, very nearly purring with contentment as you basked in the afterglow of your latest round. His fingers were combing through your hair, scratching ever-so-lightly against your scalp, and you were on the verge of falling asleep when his voice rumbled against your ear.

“My parents would have liked you.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, craning your neck to glance up at him.

“Well that…came out of nowhere,” you observed, and he nodded, letting out a deep sigh.

“Yeah, I know… Sorry. I don’t know what got me thinking about them,” he trailed off, letting his eyes fall shut as he spoke. “But it’s true. They’d like you. I just…

“I wish they were still around.”

Maybe it was the hormones in your system, or maybe it was a strange form of Stockholm Syndrome, but for whatever reason, you suddenly sat up, cupping his cheek and turning his head towards you. It was only once he’d opened his eyes that you spoke.

“…Earl told me what happened to them,” you said carefully. “And knowing what I know now, I can tell you that it wasn’t your fault.”

Steve swallowed thickly, and his lips pursed together before he turned his head away.

“…You weren’t there,” he grunted. “You didn’t… You didn’t see what I did to them.”

You sighed, turning over onto your back and letting your eyes close.

“I don’t need to have seen it to know,” you insisted. “It’s obvious that you love them; do you think you would have killed them if you hadn’t have turned into a wolf that night?”

“No,” he was quick to reply. “No, I never wanted to hurt anybody-“

“Then it wasn’t your fault.” You turned your head and arched an eyebrow at him.

“You were scared,” you continued. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like, to become a wolf for the first time ever, without knowing what was happening to you. And since then, you’ve changed, right? You met up with the, uh… The Commandos?”

“The Howling Commandos,” Steve supplied, his voice soft as he watched you.

“Right, them,” you nodded. “You met up with them, and they helped you change. Listen, I know what happened to your parents and Peggy was…was awful, but all we can ever do when we make a mistake, no matter how big, is to change until we’re sure we won’t make the same mistake again. And you did. I mean, you literally had me pinned the last time I was face-to-face with you in your wolf form. But you didn’t…”

You were about to say, ‘but you didn’t hurt me,’ but the words died in your throat. Because, for the first time since your heat hit, you had a moment of perfect clarity, and you knew that Steve had, in fact, hurt you so much - you would never be the same again. Not after what he’d done to you.

But Steve didn’t notice the way you’d trailed off. When you focused on him again, there was so much affection glistening in his eyes that, for a moment, it took you completely off guard. You watched, stunned, as a tear trailed down his cheek, but instead of wiping it away, he pulled you to him and pressed his lips to yours in a deep, desperate kiss. All you could do was return it as he slowly crawled over you, settling down between your legs as his cock started to harden once again.

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathed, and your eyes widened at the admission.

Before you could do or say anything in response, though, he was thrusting inside of you once again, and the heat returned to you full force.

____________

When you woke up on the eighth morning, your throat was dry, your body was sore, but your skin was blissfully, blessedly, cold to the touch. Steve was sleeping beside of you, worn out from the day before, and you were careful to stand up slowly so as not to disturb him. Fearing that this was too good to be true, you walked into the bathroom and mechanically started the shower, shivering as you stared at your naked reflection.

Your lips were swollen from all the kissing you’d done, and bruises were littered all over your body. Your neck, your chest, your thighs… They were everywhere. But, still, the bondmark remained, silvery and smooth against your mating gland.

When you finally stepped into the shower, you made sure the water was as cold as possible; you didn’t think you’d ever want to feel warmth against your skin again. You scrubbed, taking the time to make sure every trace of Steve that could be washed away was, and when you stepped out of the shower, you felt your first genuine smile in what felt like forever spread across your face as the cold air nipped at your body.

From there, you dried off and padded into the bedroom again, surprised that Steve was still snoozing away; usually he woke up hours before you did. You were careful to keep quiet as you rooted through his dresser, pulling on a pair of his boxer shorts and another of his t-shirt before walking into the kitchen; you were starving.

Chewing on your lip, you started opening his cabinets, looking for a bowl that you could use for cereal. You searched for a few moments until you tried the cabinet above the stove, and even though there were no bowls within, the sight there that greeted you made you pause in shock.

Keys.

All of the air inside your lungs rushed out at the sight of them, and you shakily reached out, picking them up and squeezing them tight to keep them from jingling together. You brought your other hand up to your mouth, trying to muffle your shocked, heavy breathing as you peaked around the corner. He was still laying there, breathing steadily, and your gut turned as you glanced out the nearest window to the green Jeep sitting in the driveway.

It took you a split second to find the ability to move again, but once it came back to you, you moved as quickly as possible. You ran on your tip toes to the door, opening it as silently as possible before taking off towards the driveway. The gravel dug into your feet, and you were sure there would be cuts left on your soles later. But you barely registered the pain as you fumbled with the key fob to unlock the car.

Once inside the Jeep, your fingers trembled as you started the engine, and you all but slammed on the gas pedal once you put the vehicle in drive. You cursed as the tires turned the gravel beneath them, no doubt waking Steve from his slumber, but you didn’t dare look back before steering the car down the driveway.

Your heartbeat was thunderous in your ears, beating so hard and so fast that you could feel it in your toes. You turned left when you reached the nearest road, pushing the car past 60 miles an hour and watching the speedometer climb, first to 70, then to 80. Frantically, you scanned the treeline as you drove, trying to pick out any movement, paranoid at every turn that you could see a flash of blonde fur or white fangs.

Your mind still hadn’t caught up with what you’d done, but once you reached a long, straight stretch of road, you felt yourself start to shake with sobs. Tears were flowing freely down your cheeks, and you couldn’t shake the sense that this was just a dream, that soon you would wake up in Steve’s arms again, trapped both by him and your own body.

But that moment didn’t come. Despite your blind, panicked navigation, you started to spot signs alerting you that you were getting closer to town, and you sped on, running stop signs and ignoring red lights as you made your way to the police station.

It was early in the morning, not even 8 o’clock yet, when you found yourself running into the lobby of the sheriff’s station, startling the plump, middle aged receptionist as she took in your haggard appearance.

“Oh, my goodness, dear,” she exclaimed, pulling herself up to her feet. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

She rounded the desk and set her hands on your shoulders, and for a second, you wanted to draw yourself away from her. So soon, you’d grown unused to the sight and touch of other people. But as she looked up at you, worry settled over her features, you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning down and setting your head on her shoulder. You wrapped your arms around her as you wept, but as she hugged you back, you couldn’t help but hear Steve’s voice in your head, telling you he loved you.

______________

Sheriff Wilson shook his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he took in everything you’d told him. You hadn’t held back when he’d asked you what had happened, and now the two of you were sat in silence in his office. He’d given you a blanket after taking in the state of your undress, and now you were curled up on his small sofa with it wrapped around your shoulders.

“…Shit.”

You glanced up at the sound of his voice, watching as he stood up and began to pace in front of you.

“I mean… Shit,” he repeated. “I knew he was a little fucked up, but… Shit.”

“I know that it sounds crazy, Sheriff Wilson,” you said. “Believe me; I didn’t believe the werewolf thing when he first told me, either. But please, at least believe that he kidnapped me. I have the scars to prove-“

“I don’t doubt a single word you said,” he assured you. “And it’s Sam, (Y/N). You can call me Sam.”

You blinked in surprise; you hadn’t expected him to actually believe that Steve had turned into a werewolf. Even as you’d told him your tale, you’d known how crazy you sounded. But he didn’t even seem phased by it; he was, however, very clearly disturbed by everything else you’d told him.

“…Can I see it?” he suddenly asked, and your mouth went dry as he nodded towards your neck.

You slapped your hand over your bitemark and looked away, holding the blanket tighter against yourself.

“I…”

You hesitated, but after a few moments you conceded, letting your hand slowly come to rest in your lap after flicking your hair over your shoulder. He leaned over you for a moment, inspecting it with a critical eye before taking a step backwards.

“He really fuckin’ did it,” he mused, scratching his chin.

Both of you jumped when a knock came to his door, and he gestured for you to stay where you were as he answered it. You didn’t move as he poked his head out the door, and you heard his receptionist tell him something in a hushed voice.

“He’s here?” he asked, and your blood ran cold. “Yeah, send him in. We have a lot we need to discuss. And can you make sure we’re not disturbed?”

Your instincts were screaming at you, telling you that you needed to get out of there as quickly as possible, but Sam was blocking your path to the door.

“Sh-sheriff, I-“

You were cut off, though, by the sound of footsteps approaching the door, and when Sam opened the door fully, you saw Steve standing on its other side, dressed in jeans and a flannel and looking severely pissed off.

Sam went to say something to the man, but he brushed past him and started marching towards you.

“How could you just up and leave me like that?” he demanded, and you shrank back against the sofa as he advanced on you. He raised a hand as if to grab you, but then the sheriff was standing between you and the angry alpha, shoving him backwards.

“Hey, man, that’s enough,” he shouted, and you felt marginally relieved when Steve’s eyes left you in favor of glaring at Sam. He opened his mouth to put up an argument, but for some reason, he just let out a deep sigh before raking a hand through his hair.

“I told you,” he murmured, almost too low for you to hear, “that I had it under control-“

“You call this ‘under control’?” the officer shot back. “Having your omega show up here looking like she just lost a fight with a semi-truck, saying you kidnapped and raped her?”

“I did not-“ Steve shouted, but then he took a deep breath and started speaking again, clearly struggling to keep his voice even. “I did not rape her-“

“Well it sure as hell sounds like you did,” Sam insisted. “And the fact you ain’t even gonna try to argue that you didn’t kidnap her speaks volumes.”

For a second, the two of them just stood there, sizing one another up, and you were suddenly reminded of your first day in Steve’s cabin, when you saw the two wolves in the woods. Realization dawned on you, and you stood up and backed away, wanting to put as much distance as possible between you and them.

“Oh, my god,” you whispered. “You’re the other werewolf.”

Now, both of their eyes were on you, and you searched the sheriff’s face for any sign that you were wrong. You didn’t find one, though, and your heart sank so quickly that you felt light-headed.

Once more, the two men turned to one another, but you didn’t listen to what you were saying – you couldn’t. Your head was spinning, and your ears had started ringing so loudly that you covered them with your hands. It was of no use, though – the ringing grew until it was nearly deafening, and your knees wobbled with the strain of staying upright. You thought you heard your name being said by one of the two men, but you couldn’t even tell which one had spoken.

Soon, you felt yourself collapsing, and your teeth clattered together as you hit the concrete floor. The last thing you saw before passing out was a pair of boots rushing towards you, and you felt yourself being lifted into someone’s arms before the world faded to black completely.

_________

You woke up in your own bed. You immediately recognized the feeling, the smell of it, and it was so comforting that you nearly cried. For a moment, you prayed that it had all just been a nightmare, that you hadn’t even left your cottage and that everything was and had always been normal.

“Oh, thank God; you’re awake.”

But those hopes were dashed almost as soon as you’d thought of them.

Sunlight stung your eyes as you opened them, and when they were finally able to focus, you saw Steve hovering over you with a glass of water in his hand.

“S-ste-“

“Shhh, hon,” he cooed, sitting on the edge of the bed. He helped you sit up before pressing the glass into your palms, and you traced your fingertips through the slick condensation that had gathered over it. “Drink this; you’re dehydrated.”

You did as he asked, immediately feeling better as the water soothed your dry, scratchy throat. You downed the entire glass, and wordlessly, Steve got up and retrieved you another, which you also chugged until it was gone.

“…What time is it?” you asked.

“It’s 9 in the morning,” he told you, and you frowned in confusion.

“I… I feel like I’ve been asleep for longer than-“

“You’ve been asleep for more than a day,” he explained, and you gulped, nodding.

“Oh.”

The two of you were quiet for a few moments, and even as the events of the past week swirled together in your mind, you were too exhausted to feel anxious over them.

“… I get why you left,” he said, breaking the silence. “And I’m not mad. Not at you, at least. With myself, yeah. I… I put way too much on your shoulders, and we moved fast enough to scare anyone away.”

You nodded, fiddling with the empty glass.

“I’m not going to keep you at my cabin anymore,” he told you. “I can come visit you here; I think you’d be more comfortable with that. But I’m not going to leave you. And before you think about going to the sheriff about it, he said that he’s not going to involve himself in our affairs anymore. Not after I told him…”

He paused, looking at you almost…nervously.

“…What is it?” you asked.

Steve pressed his lips together before reaching out, taking one of your hands in his. You didn’t try to pull away – you knew there would be no point.

“Wolves, they can sense things,” he stated. “I can tell when the moon is about to be full, when the weather is gonna turn warmer or colder. I can tell…”

He trailed off, staring into your eyes for a long, heavy pause, and you suddenly knew, even before he said anything. Something in your gut, something prehistoric and instinctual, told you the second before he uttered the words.

“…I can tell when someone is pregnant.”

The glass fell into your lap, and your entire body went rigid. You wanted to dismiss him; you wanted to say that he was crazy, that you were crazy, that this whole situation was crazy. And maybe it was, but that wouldn’t change the facts.

You were pregnant.

A soft exhalation left your lips, followed by a soft, nearly silent chuckle. A humorless smile stretched across your lips, and you watched as Steve’s eyebrows furrowed together in concern as a full-bellied laugh shook your shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut and bowed your head, laughing until you were short of breath.

Because the realization that you’d been an omega this whole time? The bondmark over your mating gland? The week-long heat that had made you betray yourself for the primal, uncontrollable need your body had forced upon you? That was all a joke. It was nothing compared to this.

You were pregnant with Steve’s baby, and you knew, you knew, that you would never be free from him.

[seestorimperator]

Dethmas day 15

UGLY SWEATERS! Also it's Ceelie's birthday today, so it seemed only fitting to include her in today's entry!

.

"Is this even cashmere?" St. Cecilia was glaring down at her sweater as she spoke. It was green, a decent color for her, really, but it was strung with garland and ornaments and tiny twinkly lights. She wore a headband bearing a star. It was ridiculous. "Why am I wearing this? It's ugly."

Pickles rolled his eyes at her, though his smile was undeniable. "It's an ugly Christmas sweater, babe," he said, giving her that little grin he knew she could never resist. They'd been married and divorced and now they were dating again, but she could never resist that smile. "It's supposed to be ugly."

She looked nothing short of scandalized, asking, "Why would anyone willingly wear something ugly?"

That, he didn't know. His sweater was just as ugly as hers, done up in the same way. He shrugged. "It's fun," was all he could come up with. She didn't look convinced. He sighed, stepping closer to wind his arm around her waist. "You're still the prettiest girl in the place, if that makes you feel better."

Now her eyes were the ones rolling. "I know that," she said.

She was so cocky sometimes; It was hotter than it should have been. Pickles gave her ass a squeeze, and she gasped, swatting at him. Laughing, he said, "C'mon. Let's go find some mistletoe."

St. Cecilia turned farther into his arms, grabbing at the front of his ugly sweater and pulling him down to brush her lips against his, soft and gentle, teasing, and when she pulled back again, Pickles chased her mouth with his. Winding her arms around his shoulders, barely loud enough to be heard over the terrible Christmas music blasting in the next room, she said, "You don't need mistletoe to kiss me, love."

[pseudofaux]

even an injured hand grasps at grace

A lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng time ago I did a follower celebration with short fictions and promised a longer story to the winner. That (incredibly patient) winner was @fieryanmitsu, who asked for a story set after Mitsuhide’s Act II. Holidays, family stuff, a global pandemic, more family stuff, a crisis of creative drive, MORE holidays and MORE time later... Here, at last, it is. Anmitsu, thank you so much for participating in that follower celebration, for being so kind about the mortifying amount of time this has taken, and for being a fellow Cat Daddy fangirl. I am very, very grateful for your grace! M, 6000 words, SLBP Mitsuhide. CWs: obvious but unnamed depression, brief discussion of death by weapons. (But mostly it is happy-thinky-poetic wife worship and baby fever.)

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

He will never hold a sword again. The discovery that there is still any strength in the arm once so mighty, enough that he can use it to work: a cause for gratitude and relief. A gift. He can attend to the responsibilities of his new life. He has a new life. Master Tenkai knows better than most men what death looks like when it bears down in a flash of metal. Sword death is the smooth silver of steel, spear death is the sluggish brown of mud that will cradle a dying man, and death by bullet is the black of blood that comes out so thick it is purple before it is red. Weapon deaths are cold, as though to compensate for the heat of their forging. There is a depth of balance in this that he cannot yet name, a mystery of the heavens like the others he spends so much time thinking about and helping the mountain villagers understand.

This new life is mostly keeping up their modest home (half residence, half tiny temple), and sharing knowledge with the villagers and their children. Of course he still thinks of Sakamoto when he sees the children growing... but his entire life he has been too much in his own head, and since they came to the mountain he has gotten better at leaving memories alone. He does not forget, and he hopes this makes him a decent man. Like any decent monk, he allows the thoughts of Sakamoto their due, which is to rest and flow over him as water flows over every side of a fish. It is right that it surrounds him. He could not and cannot do anything for Sakamoto, or address the irreparable harm he caused. He can consider it, meditate on it, and live with what he has done. And he will. Because he can live.

Swordwork’s precision and steadiness are forever gone from him, he believes. But he still has his arm and still has his life, even after he made peace with losing much more before Hideyoshi’s sword came down. He can pet the cats that congregate around the little temple, and he can twirl bits of string and stalks of grass for them. He can still write, his characters more calligraphic than they were before. He has to work hard to make clear strokes when he teaches the village children, and he feels that is a just requirement. When the house needs repairs, he can make them, and he can draw air into his lungs and live with his failures and successes both, or at least live with his failures and the grace he has been given. He has the brush, and he has the strong walking stick that his wife has helped him cut to the right height. The staff is smooth in his hand after only a few months’ use, a little extra oil applied when they have it. He wonders if he is allowed this easy comfort, but will not allow a walking stick to be a thing that trips his thoughts. His watchword now is moderation, not abnegation. If a fallen tree limb comes to him he will be grateful, and if the wood breaks he will let it go. He is willing, now, to let so much go.

There is only one exception, and she sleeps easy these days, when the cold of night on the mountain curls them together as though they are rabbits in a burrow. They wake slowly to this dream life. The part of him that is a decent monk cannot help but wonder how different their lives might be if it had been this for them all along. He did not want to rule; he had only ever wanted to spare others the hardships of ruling, and allow all good people the comfort of safety, from most divine ruler to most helpless child. These thoughts are in his head. Here in their tiny room in the building that is their home and the village’s temple, she is in his arms. In his heart and his bones, he knows that fact is grander than any man’s attempt at divinity.

He never has to force smiles at the children who come to the temple to learn. They are rowdy, eager, and completely charming. He is comfortably grinning at a group of them when he catches sight of her at the bend in the path that leads to their home. She is smiling, too, and there are tall leafy greens sticking out of the pack behind her shoulders that remind him of the folded wings of a fine hawk, the kind favored by samurai and nature alike. What would they do, if not for her hawklike competence and gentle ferocity?

Likely starve, he tells himself, on both melancholy days and happy ones. It is only the truth. He has learned a few things, but cannot match her, and while he is always available to the villagers, he stays near the temple unless he is asked for in the town. She does their shopping, she is their face. No one of quality can resist being won over by the warmth of her smile.

The children are thrilled to see her, and it reminds him of a dream he has had several times now, something he has kept to himself because it is so precious and he still does not want to ask anything of her. He is not sure if the slips of dream come from the peace of their life or the torment they left behind them, whether the dream is reward or recompense. But the cheers of the children take hold of his heart and make a tapestry of the scraps of his happiest dreams, weaving them tightly with what he is truly seeing. His thoughts nearly take him to his knees-- or perhaps that is an insistent little person, tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

“Master Tenkai!” chirps the village child. “Hana is home, so it is time for our lesson!”

They teach the children together in the afternoon’s warm, clean light, and only send them home when it is time for her to prepare their evening meal and him to complete the evening sweeping of the temple floor. Later that night, she seems relaxed and sleepy next to him, full of food, full of love. She asks, “Do you remember when I asked you to bring me a stone, so I could make you pickles?”

That is a pleasant memory from their life before, a luminescent pearl floating through silt that suffocated so much happiness. But the memory itself is light. So his smile is easy and does not feel like punishment, and he nods and strokes the space between her shoulders.

“On this mountain I have all the stones I need,” she declares, pressing her cheek to his chest. The smoothness of her face is finer to him than any pearl, a marvel of sensation that settles him, instantly and completely. “And I will make you pickles every week, if you want them,” she adds.

Sometimes when she is exhausted she speaks in this silly way. His love for her makes him warm to his toes. Adorable, his wife is adorable. He will never again allow any other duty to shove her out of the place she deserves in the center of his heart.

“Only whenever you are inclined,” he says, drumming his fingertips to tickle her.

Her giggle is sleepy. “There’s not time to make them every day,” she quips, snuggling closer and sliding an ankle between his calves. He has only the one dream that is sweeter than his actual life, and he is keeping it close to his chest for now. But he will not keep anything closer to his chest than she is. They squeeze one another, and he expects they do not fully relax their arms until they fall asleep.

A winter has passed, and a spring. This is their first summer on the mountain, so they are learning the cycle of invigorating mornings, sweltering afternoons, and unpredictable nights. They have already learned from kind villagers how to best coax food from the pebbly soil of their garden, and their efforts in the summer are devoted to this every day until the air grows too hot and they retreat to the shade of the temple to fan themselves with their hands and drink water that (they hope) has managed to hold some of the chill of the night before.  

Every morning he braids her hair, and in these summer days a few strands always escape and stick to the back of her neck, temptations that coax him to bare her shoulders and murmur along the skin he worships. She often swats him away, because even after tending the garden there is plenty of work to do. But sometimes she does not swat him away at all, and some days she draws closer with a magnificent, confident need. He cannot determine if it is need for him or need to show him something, but each time, their bodies become hotter still, sweat running like streams and stinging their eyes even as it makes moving together easier.

There is a day at midsummer when they cannot help themselves, resting on the step to their home. They are covered from the relentless sun by the good new roof of the temple. He is vulnerable to melancholy in the heavy air that precedes a storm. She knows this. By the time the thunder and rain seem to be on every side of them, heaven’s own veil around the little holy place where they live, their hands are in each other’s hair, she is straddling him, and he is kissing her so deeply he can taste their midmorning snack. The last time she went to town she came back with karashi seeds, and their food this week has been bright in their mouths, cleansing and flavorful. He is hungry for it.

“Mitsuhide,” she pants quietly. The rain around them is so dense no one would hear her, but that name is never spoken above the softest whisper. Her other sounds are louder, even louder than the roar of the rain, and he loosens his hold on himself to match her. He groans as he tilts his hips up toward hers, everything that he is straining for her. They are so warm that even though the air is cooling around them, the rain may as well be steam. One of her hands slides from his hair to his neck and then down his chest, between their bodies, until she palms his insistence and he gasps for her until she squeezes. They moan together, unbearably hot in the sweet agony before they join.

“Now? Here?” he asks. They’re alone, but he craves her comfort as much as her indulgence. There is always a point where he stops asking, but before that he needs permission. She gives it in a nod and shuffles off his lap onto the floor, still stroking him through his clothing. Her clothes are already loose from their embrace, and she puts her other hand inside her collar and tugs down until she is cupping her breast. His blood in his ears is louder than rain or crashing waves or the war chorus of a hundred desperate men. He lunges at her, one hand in her hair and another at the back of her neck to soften her landing. When he is over her, he snarls at her temple before kissing the space with the beastliness that is revealed by these stormy days. It is a wet kiss, and because his tongue cannot taste enough of her he ends up licking from her cheek to her hairline. He savors her, salt and spice and earth and somehow his, as he pushes into her hand. She does not let go of him. He never wants to let go of her.

His hand slips from her neck into the heaven of her opened collar, and his thumb finds her nipple between her fingers. She lets go, gives herself to him, and he pants adoration into her ear as he rolls the peak, beautifully strong, until she moans. He knows this is right, that nothing else in the world is anything next to the truth of how right it feels to cage her in, make her tremble, and soothe her, serve her.

So he doesn’t hold back. He tells her she is the most wonderful, beautiful, desirable, beloved. His mind makes poetry for her and he licks the words onto skin he pinches delicately between his teeth. You are rainfall to a dying man, you are here, you feel better than breezes, you are mine. After all he has done, he remains a man, and a man is an animal, as any man who has gone to war can say with certainty.

The thin clothes he wears for gardening are sticking to his body, and he swears he can feel the drag of each thread against his skin as he moves with her, friction enough to spark a fire through their sweat. Her hand on him is maddening kindling.

“You are flames,” he declares as he ruts down into her hand. “You are burning me.” A man is an animal, a gasping creature not sophisticated enough to express all she makes him feel.

She slows her hand and hums, pleased by they way he gives himself over. That is the way they play. “It is too wet for flames,” she murmurs, as though she is consoling him instead of throwing tinder on the fire she has made. “Drown in me instead of burning, my love.”

The affection in her words soothes his amorous madness and spreads the familiar, comfortable warmth to all the tips of his body as the power shifts between them again. He loves her so much. Could any man convey so much feeling? To be an animal is not bad, but it is base, and she is made of heaven and still chooses to be with him. He smiles at her in wonder of all her beauty and bravery. He will focus on giving her anything that he can.

“Gladly,” he whispers, smiling wider. He takes her wrist and pulls her away from her work. When she complies and settles her hand against the floor by her head, he unties the rope of faded jute braids that hold her kosode closed at her hips. She is worthy of finery but dressed in these threadbare rags with him instead, and still her eyes say she has what she desires. As he drops the thick cord beside their bodies, he thinks he will try to find her a pretty bead, or even a nice smooth stone from the stream, something to adorn her middle and give her pleasure when she sees it. She gives him so much pleasure.

Their clothes as temple keepers are very humble, but they are much easier to remove than their daily wear of only a year ago. Sacrilegious but sincere, he mutters his gratitude at the simplicity of baring her body to his eyes. Her slopes are gorgeous, winding like the gentlest river against the air. She reminds him of a war map he saw years ago, illustrated with hills and pools so lovely he mourned as war was planned against the unarmed ground.

He shakes away that memory to construct another of the way she looks right now, sensual and receptive, womanly in the way she came to be when they started their lives here. Back in control of herself, of both of them, she parts her lips and breathes his new name. He undoes the scrap of old kimono that serves for his sash, and peels away his own sweaty robe. When he comes back down to her, she has freed her arms from her sleeves and their hands find each other, fingers dancing warm and worn as they wrap together.

Now it is still raining, but the roar of it has quieted to a loving hiss. The light is gray and blue, so she looks like nighttime. She pulls him to her with the power of dusk closing flowers, and their kiss is moon-soft, full of promise instead of frenzy. Her lip is a marvel between his and he loves pressing it with his own lips and teeth and sucking gently to make it swell. He wants to touch it with his thumb while he’s inside her and then kiss her again, maybe kiss her while he touches her with his thumb.

The chill at his back cannot last when there is so much heat between them, no matter what she says of drowning instead of burning. A man can drown in the bubbles of a hot spring as well as he can in winter’s water. He sucks in a breath and breathes it out into her mouth, and when she does the same with more force he shudders. His hands slide to her hips, where her curves fit into his palms as though he were a farmer and she were a ripe stalk of rice. She is at least as crucial and nourishing.

He is so hard he doesn’t need to take himself in hand. The head of his cock slides (with a sureness he would never claim aloud) between her folds, against the spot that makes her thighs flex. The movement is easy, a slip if not for his control. They are always so eager for one another.

“How?” he asks, and kisses the chin she is offering as her head is thrown back. “Here? This? Just outside the reach of the rain?” A demon is in him, to tease her like this, but the demon wants her pleasure as surely as he does because this is what she wants, for everything to be drawn out until their tension snaps. “Do you want the air on all your skin?” he continues. “I will give you anything. Just tell me.”

She hums the thoughtful sound that means she’s thought of some way to drive him insane. Thunder cracks with an ominous sharpness in the distance, and when she tilts her head and looks at him there is lightning and mischief in her eyes. He squeezes her but still she wriggles out from beneath him... and she goes to one of the beams that holds up the roof, safe from the rain thanks to the overhang. She moves her feet back and bends at her waist and he can do nothing but feel blessed and aroused, so aroused he is stupid. The warmth she put in him turns to tingles, like she has displaced the lightning from her gaze and made his skin the sky and his bones the bare, vulnerable earth. Within himself he feels a frighteningly intense buzzing.

“This first,” she declares. “Just watch for now, darling. Stay where you are.” Her thighs and calves are so defined from the ways she has to toil in this new life that he feels a shadow of guilt for enjoying the sight of her so much. It vanishes when he sees her fingertips between her legs, right at his eye level. She is pulling his mind apart, but her method for that is giving him this gift, and in this life he takes what he is given.

“Yes,” he rasps, and swallows before the dryness in his though makes him cough. “Yes, of course.”

The movement of her arm slides her loosened braid along a shoulder like a brushstroke. Her touches are sure-- she told him months ago that she learned to do this when he made her sleep alone for nights on end. He curses his foolishness even as he is grateful for it. She is always turning the most miserable ingredients into feasts, his wife.

Her sure fingers make circles and dip into her folds to smear her arousal. She likes it a little messy sometimes, another thing she has revealed in the safety of their seclusion. He loves what she loves, and he wants to put his mouth on her, put his cock in her, so badly that he fears his voice will scar his throat in a mad escape if he has to stay apart from her much longer. But he will die of idiocy alone if he interrupts. So he watches, the cool air of isolation doing nothing to keep his belly from tightening when she coos. Her hips begin to drop forward to meet her hand and he bites the flesh of his palm to stave off insanity as long as he may. She is a cat, he realizes, playing with all his many frayed ends. When she glances back, whatever she sees on his face-- he must be flushed, he feels terribly hot-- makes her laugh, dark and sweet. She keeps going and keeps her eyes on him. There is that gentle command so uniquely her in the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like he is blooming frantically, too fast, a blossom pummeled by rain and completely out of control... and she keeps looking, keeps smiling, draws the moment into moments until he thinks he might sob.

And then she curls her fingers against herself to beckon him and says “Come here.” The way her voice puts the words somewhere between request and demand is flattering, but he has no time to be flattered. Rain-cooled air yields against his arms and legs as he rushes to her. Immediately, he is there behind her legs, positioning himself, and the heat of her backside would burn him were he not already so ruined. Against her at last, he can appreciate the way the weak light on her sweat-slicked back is more beautiful than the finest inkwash, the ways she smells competent and domestic and alluring, like the precious sweet scent of soil that hides between mountain pebbles. She is all these things, and she is so calm as his mind whirls in its delirium of adoration and arousal.

He doesn’t mean to tremble, but his hold on himself has been too tight, and the spaces where his teeth dug into his hand throb. Like the mongrel pet to a noble lady, he has little other purpose but to love her. He sees that she can sense it. There is a grace to her certainty when he grits his teeth, even though she is wound so tightly that when the head of his cock finally presses inside her, he must push. Slick, soft, smooth, she feels, somehow, despite the pressure. As he pushes fully inside, their groans are wanton to the point of inhumanity, more like the sound of creatures in the night than of a man and his wife. His wife, his wife. He pulls back and groans again at the way her body fights to keep him. He swipes the braid off her back and kisses her shoulder, pushing back in slowly as her soft, strong body welcomes him.

“More,” she cries, her first sound of vulnerability, and he is eager to take care of her. He knows to move steady and powerfully but keep it slow at first. She comes better around him, but needs to be allowed to focus, so he is quiet as he focuses on her and the way the muscles of his back stretch and roll to please her. He is still a fit man, and he hopes his body thrills her as hers thrills him.

She makes a needy noise between her teeth and moves faster, shaking just a little. She hisses “keep going,” and of course he does. The tension he felt a moment ago is so unimportant now he is not sure if it was real. In the time when things shift between them he no longer needs permission, and he feels the magic calm settling over him-- it is his turn. All he needs to do is what she needs from him, it’s so simple. And he would do anything she asked, for the chance to be so near her when she finds bliss. It is already rising up his legs, like a snake squeezing and sliding, like ripples... and her sighs are like waves. Maybe she is too wet to be flames because she is water itself. The way into her is blissful enough, a slick heavy pressure around him where she is swollen from all their kisses and touching. The challenge of it makes him grin with a ferality he usually keeps well out of sight, and he presses on, pulls back, kisses her shoulder again and calls her his beloved. His voice doesn’t shake.

Hers does. “Again,” she pleads, grasping back for his hand. “I want it again.” She guides his fingers in circles until he knows where she is and what she needs, and then she lets him give it to her. Trust is such a sacred thing.

When he touches her she laughs, and he laughs too, and fucks her with a great deal of joy. They find their pattern: her hips push back to meet his thrusts, so when he presses in, deeply, they fit as cleanly as a carpenter’s masterwork. The storm has truly cooled the air but all it does is chill the fresh sweat on their skin as they move. It invigorates him, makes his spirit shout with a freedom he cannot contemplate at the time. His wife is using the beam that holds up their roof to push back against him, allowing the tender space between her breasts to be abraded by the wood. There is room for nothing but happiness here, nothing to do but honor her sacrifice and make her feel more pleasure.

“Yes,” she rewards him with her voice for a particular thrust, dragging out the sound at a pitch that registers inside him while he is inside her. So he moves himself even faster to try and repeat it, then relishes the sweetness of her soft whine. It makes him feel like he is surprising her with his love for once, instead of the constant way she graces him with her own.

He leans over her a little more. “I want nothing as much as I want your happiness,” he tells her, the croon of his voice broken by the intense way their bodies are connecting. Her hand comes back over his, keeping him in place. Magnificent. “Go on,” he tells her. “Again, love. Just like you want. Just like I want. Again.”

She shudders and stops moving her hips (she clings adorably to the support beam, her arm as tense as her hand on his). He keeps going, because he knows that is what she expects. At the end, what she needs is to be filled, to be given something to clench around, and he needs to be that for her. He is so driven, from inside and out, to fuck her, that he cannot do anything else until he feels it, not think or breathe, only move into her as though he can shove bliss into her body. So he tries, until he feels the shaking of her legs as perfection alights, and then he takes one great breath before it hits them both as she squeezes tighter still. They gasp together again as her clenching and soft sounds pull his warmth to fill her. Abundantly. Deeply. The air comes out of his lungs onto her shoulders, then touches his cheeks with the softness of a cloud.

She is breathing heavily, and slowly she puts her weight against the wood and becomes still. There’s a gentle press against his hand before she drops her arm. He’s tempted to catch it and kiss her knuckles, but he does not want to move from being curled around her back. He does move his hand away and puts the arm around her belly instead, holding her that much closer. She feels exactly as warm and soft as a cat who has fallen asleep in the sun.

There is a slick, sticky feeling all around his cock, but there’s nothing unpleasant about it-- something in him actually relishes it, loves the thought of mixing, loves the thought of there being too much, it makes him want to take her to the floor and have her again-- and she does not ask him to move, so he stays until he softens. “Darling,” he whispers then. “I’m going to get us a cloth.” He has desires, but he has mastered himself.

But she mumbles “No. Hold me.”

So when he pulls out as not to slip from her, he simply sits down and pulls her with him, right down into his messy lap. There’s not a breath between the time they land and her turning so she can snuggle his chest. He strokes her hair and kisses her cheeks and nose and tells her what a marvel she is. She is all pliant affection, touching his arms, kissing his jaw, raising a love welt on his shoulder... reaching to stroke him gently, experimentally, just like she did when they were on the steps.

He has mastered himself, but not as well or fully as she has.

He pulls over their clothes and lays her out on top of them on the temple floor so he can join their bodies yet again, unhurried. They have the time for slow lovemaking in this life, and the grace. Her knees frame him as he moves and he cannot help but kiss one and then the other, reveling in her laughter (when he tickles her ribs, she tightens deliciously around him) as much as in her love. They lay together for a long time after that, cool and lazy in the quiet. When the rain is replaced by the first note of tentative birdsong, they know they should move in case someone comes to the temple. Despite the afternoon, they are a cautious couple by nature.

He attempts to clean her with their clothes, and carries her to their room to rest more comfortably. Her hair clings to the idea of a braid, but much of it is loose and floats about his arms in the sodden air. There is a satisfied tilt to her mouth when he helps her sit, and as he moves behind her the last he sees of her face is her smile curving deeper. He settles his robe over her shoulders and combs his fingers through her hair to ward off tangles. When he is finished, he replaits her hair and kisses the ribbon, then her mouth. She shakes her head, hiding her mouth and making him chase it. His rewards are sleepy giggles, enchantingly low, every time he catches her.

Several kisses later, he redresses and leaves for the kitchen to make them a simple meal. He delights in feeding her by hand as soon as he returns, because their closeness makes him feel whole and doting on her feels right. They stay near as they bathe, and then they go back to bed. It is early, but they will need to start early tomorrow to make up for the time they spent not working this afternoon. They have earned their sleep. He wonders if he will have the dream again.

Tucked into their bedding, she is in his arms, not yet dreaming herself. “Darling,” he says quietly into her hair, and murmurs love until she turns to kiss him sweetly and tells him to go to sleep.

He does have the dream. It is the most wonderful dream yet.

“Chichi-ue!” The voice is high and happy. It is coming from behind him, so he must turn away from the sight of his wife with a baby at her breast. Before he can see the little one who called him-- called him chichi-ue, his child-- the dream shifts and his wife is with an older child, tasting broth and listening patiently as the child recites ingredients. Then his wife is with two children, each holding one of her hands as they turn on the bend of the path to their home, and the smallest lets go of her to run to him. Their faces are all obscured by a sudden cloud of mountain dandelion seeds borne on the wind... all he can see are healthy little legs and feet in clean sandals, slapping against the ground as fast as they possibly can. The movement becomes a child’s hand with a brush, marvelously steady and precise. The same hand around a cluster of flower stems. Scraped knees and palms and little puffs of breath between shrieks and giggles as tears are soothed away. Two voices laughing over the plunking sound of skipped river stones ending their flights, and he recognizes the stream where they stand. The face and voice of the herbalist in the village, kindly telling them to be patient and then whispering something they might try. Four simple bowls, mismatched but meant to be together, set around a table. He can see this scene over his own shoulder, hears those same two voices dutifully expressing gratitude for their meal. The sounds change as his dream gives him the voices at different pitches through time, thankful for their rice, fish, vegetables; the bowls stay on the table, the food in them changing in dizzying whirls of color until he wakes.

“Good morning,” says his wife, in the voice she can only use for the first words of the day. Quiet and deep as a hidden pool. “I love you.”

He reaches to stroke her cheek, and tells her about the dream at last. She tells him her dreams, too.

Exhausted but awake, awed and unsure, he holds his son for the first time in the crook of his better arm. All of him shakes, because he is weeping at the perfect newness of this child. The baby, so unhappy with the village woman who came to help with the birth, settles into his father like poetry, and closes sweet dark eyes, and yawns flawlessly. They way the baby’s tongue trembles reminds him of a stretching cat. Master Tenkai of the mountain cannot look away. There is so much to see, and there is something about gazing at this tiny face, shifting magically from pinched to peaceful, that shows him the virtue of disregarding time completely. He should know it for what it is: another effort by man to control what he cannot. Everything that marks time in a human way can be broken. The sun rises no matter what people do in the night.

One of the temple cats senses a fellow creature and leans up to sniff at the baby. The baby’s father is happy to share the sight. The cat noses at the baby’s plumpness and then slinks off, but Tenkai stays where he sits, holding his son beside the bedding where the baby’s mother is gazing at them both with a tired, happy expression on her beautiful face. Her hair has all come loose from its ribbon. The woman from the village said it was an easy birth, but it certainly took its time. At the end, they have their perfect son, and she is alright. Everything is alright. The greatest challenge facing them at the moment is that he will have to learn to braid one-handed. He chuckles to himself and the baby blinks, then settles.

He will never hold a sword again. Whatever time may be, it feels like he made his peace with a more important truth a very long time ago, perhaps in another life entirely, and had only to relearn it. To hold his woman, and child, and the other he believes will join then... that is more than enough for the warrior who was once Mitsuhide, who became Master Tenkai of the mountain. All else may come and go. He will treat everything with respect, and allow all that is temporary to leave his hand like water. His family, permanent and indescribably precious, is the only thing that he will never, ever give up.

[icefire149]

An Angel’s Vow

Chapter Five (Read on ao3 | Read from the beginning)

Once the kitchen was clean, Claire put her other duffle bag on the table. She unzipped it. “It’s not much, but it works.”

Cas took everything out of the bag and examined it carefully. The bag contained: a machete, some silver bullets but no gun, a pouch of silver coins, an iron crowbar, a lock pick set, a coin Claire thinks is iron, a couple bottles of holy water, some spray paint, a half empty container of salt, a box of penguin band-aids, cleaning alcohol, and an angel sword. Cas frowned. “This is abysmal.”

Defensive, Claire crossed her arms. “The sword is basically a hunting equivalent to a Swiss army knife.”

“I don’t understand what military grade Swiss cutlery has to do with anything, but I do know hunting. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Oh, so here we go! Hit me with the speech.”

Cas turned around bewildered. “What are you talking about? There’s no speech.”

“So you’re not gonna tell me that I’m being stupid and I should go live a normal life?”

“I’m not going to yell at you or tell you what to do.” Cas tried to keep his voice even. “Am I happy that you’re hunting? No. Am I frustrated that you’re hunting by yourself? Absolutely. But it’s your life and I promised to keep you safe.”

Claire rolled her eyes with her whole body. She went over to the refrigerator and snagged a juice box out. With a loud pop, she stabbed the straw in.

Sighing, Cas put his hands on the table. He looked over Claire’s hunting supplies again. “I don’t think you understand.” His voice came out much softer than before.

The juice box was half way to Claire’s mouth when she froze.

“I know you’re not going to stop now that your mind is set. I want to help you be a better hunter.”

“What?”

Cas looked over his shoulder, and studied Claire. Obviously, she was grown by human standards, but he could still clearly see the small child he devastated…..is continuing to jeopardize. His chest started feeling unnaturally tight. For a moment he thought that he could still see the baby from the shreds of Jimmy’s memory that remains with him. “I’m willing to share my knowledge of the supernatural with you. Afterwards if you’re still willing to be a hunter at least you’ll be better informed about what you’re signing up for.”

“Are you serious?” Claire tilted her head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “How are we supposed to hunt with the kid?”

“We’re not hunting. We’re studying.”

Claire’s whole body drooped. “Studying what? I can’t imagine where you have lore books stashed here. This house is pretty bare bones.”

“Lore books would be nice, but I have a library right up here.” He touched his temple with his index finger. “And besides we have a ton of ground to cover before thinking about hunts.”

“It’s not like I haven’t been on a couple hunts already.”

“Yeah, but do you have the exorcism chant memorized? Or recorded? Can you make hex bags? Draw various devil traps? Read any Latin or Enochian? Tracking spells? Draw angel banishing-”

“Okay!” Claire burst. She put the juice box down on the table. Her voice softened. “Okay, I get it.”

Cas nodded. “Would you be interested in learning any of that?”

“You’re seriously willing to teach me any of that?”

“Of course. I want you to be safe, and I want you to be happy.”

The next thing Cas knew, he was trapped in a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” Claire mumbled into his chest. She let go just as fast and sat in the chair she used earlier during lunch.

Cas pushed the juice box into her reach. She took it and started drinking. He smiled, feeling the tension loosen in his shoulders.

“So….” Claire spoke with the straw still in the corner of her mouth. “When does hunter school start, professor angel?”

“We could probably start tomorrow. Does that mean you’re planning on staying for a while?”

Sitting up straight, Claire’s expression morphed from jovial to serious. “Is that okay? Is it even safe with…”

They both glanced towards the living room for a moment. Cas crossed his arms. “Of course it’s okay. You’re free to come and go as much as you please.” He sighed, uncharacteristically running a hand through his hair. “But your second question...I honestly don’t know. And that frightens me.”

Cas pulled the chair closest to him and sat down. “You’re not safe if you leave now.” He gestured at her hunting supplies on the table. “I know Heaven is after Jack. I’ve been careful to keep us hidden, but it’s not without flaws. Jack’s birth should have attracted a ton of attention. I’m shocked we haven’t been discovered yet.”

“You’ve been doing good so far. Maybe they won’t find you,” Claire said, leaning her elbows on the table. She rested the side of her face in the palm of her hand.

“They will at some point….I just wish I knew what’s taking them so long. I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Is there any kind of warding we could put up? Spells?”

Cas smiled softly. “Angel warding would be useless in this situation. Yes, it would keep Heaven away from this house, but it would also keep me and Jack out.”

“So what have you done?”

“After Jack was born….the moment we could flee, I etched Enochian sigils into his ribs to hide him from every angel.” Cas subconsciously rubbed a hand over the tattoo on his side. “My body is hidden from angels in a similar way.”

Stunned, Claire stared at Cas in silent horror.

“Actually that reminds me-” Cas turned his whole body towards in Claire’s direction. “I wanted to give you those sigils as well for protection.”

Claire slowly leaned away in her chair. “Why….would I need protection from angels?”

Cas’ eyebrows furrowed. “There’s always a chance you might stumble into an angel related case, but most importantly you should be hidden from them in case anyone remembers your ties to me. You’re important.”

“Because I can function as your vessel?”

“That does put you in a lot of danger.”

Her whole body drooped as she sighed. “Great.”

“At this point I doubt that there are any angels that remember which bloodline begets my vessels, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. You’ll never notice it.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Cas got up and positioned himself to stand directly behind her. Claire closed her eyes. He placed his hands on the top of both of her shoulders for a few seconds, and then he went back to his chair.

Claire opened her eyes. “You didn’t do anything?”

“I did and it’s done.”

She burst out of her chair, running her hands down her arms and looking over her body. “Everything looks the same.”

Cas smiled fondly. “Your ribs. You won’t be able to see anything without an x-ray.”

Her eyes snapped back up at him, wide with curiosity. “That was so cool! I can’t feel a difference.” She sat back down again. “What does the warding look like?”

“Oh.” Cas sat up straighter and glanced around the room. “I can draw them out for you, but…” He frowned. “We’re going to need to buy some pens and paper.”

That pulled a laugh out of Claire. “Figures. We need to go school supply shopping.”

Confused, Cas turned his head to the side just a bit. Then it clicked. “Yeah. We’ll need to go supply shopping.”

“So the warding will be enough to keep us hidden while we’re shopping?”

Cas sat back in the chair. “Technically, yes. The reason why it isn’t perfect is how angels communicate.” He touched the side of his forehead for a moment. “Dean calls it Angel Radio. I can turn it off when I want to, but in general angels can contact and find each other through our minds.”

Claire stared at him for several silent moments while his words processed, and then the gears turned. She glanced towards the living room.

“I don’t know if he’s connected,” Cas said simply. “And I don’t want to reach out to him that way until he’s older….and understands.”

“Huh.” Crossing her arms, Claire turned back towards Cas. “He’s really got us in a pickle.”

The puzzled look on Cas’ face was evident, but he chose to nod instead. Claire cracked a smile. “Hopefully Heaven is too scared of the idea of Jack that they’ll keep their distance.”

“Hopefully.”

After a quiet pause. “Sooo...does this place have decent WiFi?”

“I believe so. Kelly was frequently on her laptop.”

“Excellent.” Claire’s smile widened. “You wanna watch a movie?”

Cas’ expression softened. “I’d like that greatly.”

“Be right back then,” Claire said hopping up and leaving the room. On her way through the house she glanced at Jack sound asleep in his play pen. He was on his back, and the foot of a stuffed lion toy was clenched in his tiny fist. Amused, Claire shook her head and continued upstairs to her other duffle bag.

It was only a minute or two later when she descended down the stairs with her laptop charger clunking into each step. “Is there anything in particular that-”

Her voice cut off seeing the pained look on Cas’ face. He was seated on the living room couch, but he looked miles away. “Cas?”

Startled, his whole body uncharacteristically flinched. His blue eyes looked dull and sad. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you coming.”

Claire slowly walked over to the couch and put the laptop down at the opposite end. “Are you okay? You look sick.” She kicked the charger cord to the side and sat down on the middle cushion.

“I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wanna try that again?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I told you in the past that angels can pick up on more than just verbal prayers. Longing. Strong feelings of intent. They’re like…..indirect prayers.”

“Yeah. So who’s praying? Dean?”

Cas sighed. “He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, but I can feel that he’s perturbed.”

“Well yeah.” Claire pulled her legs up, crossing them. She then turned her whole body in Cas’ direction. “Jody told me Sam is like ready to tie him down so he’ll stop clawing at the walls. He’s trying to find you.”

Mildly irritated, Cas shook his head. “He’s yet to actually pray to me so I can’t imagine he wants to speak to me that badly.”

“That’s fair. One point to Castiel.”

Cas raised an eyebrow at that.

“So why are we letting Dean sweat? What did he do?” Claire grinned. “Depending on what he did, I bet we can get Jody to boot his car.”

“I’m afraid to ask what that means, but I have no doubt that Dean would never speak to me again if we did such a thing to ‘his baby’.”

Claire shook her head. “Never mind that then.”

Cas took a deep breath. His gaze slid over to Jack’s sleeping form. “Dean and I didn’t part on good terms. I spent much of the past year tracking Jack’s mother. She wasn’t easy to find.” Cas’ head turned and he met Claire’s eye. He frowned. “And my original mission was to terminate the pregnancy.”

A sudden chill crept up Claire’s spine. “Oh.”

“Dean understood the complexities of my mission. I didn’t want to hurt Kelly, but….a child like Jack is…..he could cause a lot of harm.”

Arching her neck up, Claire tried to get a better glimpse of the baby. He seemed to be sleeping with his face squished into the playpen floor. “I get the idea,” she said quietly. “Archangel power. Prince of Darkness. But…” Claire pointed her thumb in Jack’s direction. “I don’t think he fits the bill.”

“When I did find Kelly,” Cas continued. “And I rescued her from Dagon, one of the Princes of Hell…..Jack called out to me. He showed me a peaceful world. A vision of the good he’ll be able to do.”

“And that’s why you’ve gone all dad mode.” Claire crossed her arms.

“He asked.”

“And Dean?”

“To hunt Dagon I had to trick Dean and steal a special gun he prized.”

Grimacing, Claire quipped, “I bet that went over well.”

“At the time him and Sam were pitching ideas of removing Jack’s grace.”

“What would that even do to him?”

“Make him human I suppose…”

“But you don’t know.”

“No. Not for certain. And Kelly wanted her son to be whole.”

Claire nodded in agreement. “She’s right. Jack should be allowed to be his entire self. No hiding. No changing or compromising for others.”

Cas smiled softly, and then it fell while he stared at his hands in his lap. “I suspect now that Dean is mostly upset about the disappearance act, but...I’ve been keeping the distance so I don’t have to lose everyone. My siblings already dislike both Winchesters.”

A small laugh escaped Claire. “Figures.”

“And….I do actually quite like this house. It’s peaceful here. Unlike their bunker...which is filled with rooms of unknown and dangerous items.”

A glint of excitement shone in Claire’s eyes. “Are you sure? Sounds like a fun place to explore and grow up in.”

Cas shook his head. “Jack deserves sunshine and windows...and a life unmarked by hunting…..well for as long as I can give him.”

Claire nodded, and they both sat there in silence with their thoughts for a while. Eventually, Claire’s eyes moved back to Cas and the sorrow exuding from him. “If Dean left the bunker to help you with Jack out here….would you want that?”

Cas was silent for a long time. Claire couldn’t make heads or tails of his expression. Eventually he spoke in a hushed whisper. “I miss him.”

“You should ask him instead of making his decisions for him.”

Cas’ eyes darted back to her for a moment. He stared, and then he pointed at the laptop. “So what kind of movie were you thinking?”