#cal earning a title he thought he’d never see

[daylighteclipsed]

The way Cal’s kyber crystal breaks in half and he takes the physical scraps of his former master’s broken lightsaber and his new master’s abandoned lightsaber — both of which are (spiritually and symbolically) connected to so much pain and horror that’s kept both him and Cere trapped in the past — to forge a brand new lightsaber that’s unlike any other, able to be wielded in halves or as one staff, and is all his own.

A scrapper using the skills he was forced to learn after his whole world was upended, taking this scrap, the broken pieces of his life in front of him, and creating something new and stronger. The past can’t be changed. And once something’s broken, it’s never going to be what it was before. But you can sit with the broken pieces, forever mourning what you’ll never have back. Or you can use those broken pieces to build something new.

Creation from destruction. The past meeting the present to forge the future. Hope bursting from the ashes of despair. Cal’s lightsaber is a literal flame burning away the ice this jedi temple has been suspended in since Order 66. You need that light to cut through the ice and leave. You need it to survive. You need it to move forward.

There’s also something about BD-1 being the only reason Cal doesn’t give up here. The only reason he chooses to try to forge a new blade even with a broken kyber crystal instead of succumbing to hypothermia. BD-1 is this light from the past. It’s given this knowledge, this spark of hope, this tiny flame, by Cordova and told to keep it alive. Keep this light burning after the jedi have fallen. Find someone to help you carry it forward. BD-1 is the flame that lights the torch — Cal. And it’s shown so beautifully in this scene.

[lovelivingmydreams]

A story by heroes and villains

Book 2: secrets revealed Janus Bullard: A call

Masterposts: Book 1: the way stories cross

Book2: Secrets revealed

A simple cal from a friend can gt you through the toughest of things sometimes.

“So. What do you think? Are we going to sit in silence the next forty minutes too or…?” Janus just curled in on themself tighter. They were at their first appointment with Doctor Remy Pikani. Who insisted Janus called him Remy. Not because he was one of those adults who thought they’d be more relatable that way. Doctor Pikani just found the title sounded dreadfully boring. Which was why Janus kept using it for now. “Ok. I’ve given you plenty time to be broody. But I was under the impression that you want to fix some things about your attitude and your life.” Janus huffed. “And you think you can fix me?” Doctor Pikani grinned. Taking Janus responding at all as progress. “First of all: You don’t need to be fixed. People never need fixing. Your attitude though, well you gotta admit there is room for improvement there.” Well at least one of them thought they weren’t broken beyond repair. “Okay. We clearly aren’t going to be talking about you today. Your parents mentioned a Virgil and his father, Logan?” the man said as he looked through his notes. Janus relaxed just a little. They supposed they could talk a little about them. But… What if Collector found out what he was doing right now and tried to find out what was said… They couldn’t tell this man too much. Nothing that could harm uncle Lo or Virgil. “What about them?” they said dismissively. Remy took him in for a minute, Janus just looked away, not wanting to give anything away. “Alright… Clearly you don’t trust me. You know that I made one of those fancy oaths to never reveal any information about you without your permission. Unless I have reasons to think you’re a danger to yourself or others. I could lose my job, forever, if that got discovered. So if you don’t trust me, trust that I like this cushy job and the things it affords me to buy. Like my fav Starbees order.” Pikani underlined the last statement with a long sip from his to go cup. Janus took Remy in, suddenly impressed. He might be better than they had given him credit for. Janus had given him pretty much nothing and he still figured how to get them to be more open to the idea of sharing. And maybe, maybe if the collector did ask, even if he was persuasive. Maybe Remy would hide the most important things. They were nowhere near ready to take that gamble. But they could talk a little about certain things. By the end of the session they’d laid out their life before high school in the broadest possible terms. Remy now knew how close they were to uncle Logan, that Virgil had been their friend for as long as they could remember, they knew that they’d been friends with Remus until he moved schools. But that was it. All of that Collector could learn from anyone really. And Remy could feel like they had made progress all he wanted. They had agreed to see a shrink, but they had not thought of all the risks that entailed. Still they couldn’t back out now. Their parents had made it clear that they had to make an effort to show that they were trying to change. And they were. They were done with making mistakes. They’d figure out a way to fix things. They needed to get better at controlling their powers so they wouldn’t accidently hurt others or make them do things they didn’t want to do, and they had to expose Collector for who he was asap. He was not a good person and he spent way too much time with Virgil. The fact that the artist Virgil admired was bad news, did not make what Janus did last year right though. Still they kind of wished they had succeeded, even if that had led to Virgil hating them forever. No… they had to trust that Virgil could take care of himself. Janus had to sneak out every night to meet Collector for training. To their regret they practiced their manipulation on their parents to make sure they’d believe them when they said they were going to bed. Once they realized they had done it before, they could do it quite easily on purpose actually. They were more concerned about trying to win an argument and doing it by accident. They supposed that it was a good thing that they joined the debate team this semester. That should give them practice in turning it off. They were starting to think that Collector was just pretending not to notice their little manipulations. Or maybe, their ‘Persuasion’ helped them fool him into believing they were following him blindly. Though they weren’t trying to use it for that. Which might be why it worked. When they actively tried to get him to tell them something, even just something small like “Why do you bother teaching me?” he noticed and could push against it. Collector never revealed what his gift was. Which was probably meant to make it harder for Janus to guard against it. His words kept chipping at their insecurities and last spring that would have worked. But they were different now. They had grown and they were ready to prove it. While they were trying to get their act together, the entire city was buzzing with the presence of a new hero. Their parents included. “This DreamPrince boy is going to go places. Maybe you should contact the GTH and propose a design for the fanwebsite?” Their mother suggested to their father over dinner after they watched the Prince’s first big interview together. “Hmm. Maybe I will. Who knows I might get to meet him in person. What do you think Janus? Want to meet a real life superhero with me?” Janus shrugged noncommittally. “Sure,” they muttered before finishing their meal and heading to their room. There was this thing in the pit of their stomach that grew white hot with anger at the mere mention of this guy, and they didn’t understand it. Had their old anger at Roman latched on to the next shining light it could spot? Regardless this guy had done nothing to earn their anger. He had seemed charming and confident but also modest and caring. None of which deserved a punch in his  face. They had to learn to control it. “You want anger management?” Remy surmised during their next session. It had been hard to describe what they wanted without getting into specifics. But they’d managed. “Yes,” Janus said decisively. “What makes you think you need it? From what I heard from your parents, and principal, you had no altercations that got violent…” Janus narrowed their eyes. Virgil had, of course, not told the teachers what he had done during their altercation. Even when he was mad with them he tried to protect them. They didn’t deserve it. “I hit my best friend in the stomach!” they hissed. “And just because I was kept from hitting anyone in the past… It’s like there are these embers in my stomach, and when something mildly upsetting happens they catch on fire and I lash out at anyone who’s nearby. And… You know what? It doesn’t matter why I want it. You are here to help me. This is what I need. So help me!” they demanded furiously. Remy leaned back. They hadn’t meant to go off like that, but maybe now he’d understand. “Okay… Yeah, you are right. If this is how you want to do this then we will…” he glanced at the clock. “That’s our time for today. See you again next week?” Remy wondered. “Yeah,” Janus sighed reluctantly. They weren’t eager to return, but they didn’t dare suggest quitting after only two sessions. They’d give it another try next week. Maybe now that Remy knew what they needed, the sessions would stop feeling like a waste of time and energy. They needed to make some progress. Right now they were terrified of even talking to Virgil. As long as they kept their distance Collector wouldn’t say anything to upset Virgil. Not to mention they were not sure if they could control their temper around him yet. But they did start talking to some people they’d been needlessly cruel to in the past. Rebuilding what they broke one apology at a time. They were building up to the bigger ones. Apologizing to Roman was still far ahead. After they’d really gotten a hold of their temper. One such apology was owed to their science partner of last year. “Hi Carlton,” they said softly. Despite their careful approach, their classmate jumped in fright. He took a defensive stance. Not in a fighting sense. He had his backpack clutched to his stomach, flinching away, making himself as small as possible. Janice swallowed away their frustration. This wasn’t the first apology to start out this way. After a few seconds Carlton relaxed his stance somewhat and looked them up and down. “… Hi?” he greeted hesitantly. “Listen… About how I acted last year. And, especially the year before… I was… I shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t do anything to deserve it and even if you had, I shouldn’t have. So. I’m sorry.” God it was so awkward every time. If Remy ever managed to make Janice feel like it was safe to open up, they’d tell him about this. To the doctors credit, he had suggested during their second session that starting small in getting better and making things right might be easier. And it was. It was still hard though. Carlton frowned as he studied them for a moment, first suspicious then thoughtful. “Did Virgil tell you to leave me be?” he asked. Janice shook their head. “I haven’t even talked to Virgil since they year started,” they admitted. “No…  I mean last year. Did he make you leave me alone?” Janice frowned. “No. We never really talked about you. I mean he didn’t like it when I was an ass to others in general. But he never gave anyone special mention… Why?” Carlton stared at them for another moment. “Well… Other than for like five minutes in that first class, you were pretty okay to me last year,” he pointed out. Janice shrugged. “Doesn’t excuse those five minutes or any of the times we talked before… If you can call it that. I have no explanation for Freshmen year, other than wrong place wrong time. For that class though… I was playing up the big bad bully angle to get Castile to switch seats. Figured everyone would be happy. He gets to play the hero, Virgil and I get to sit together, You get to sit next to your crush, but in hindsight-” “Wait! You thought… I was crushing on Roman?” Janice was beyond confused by that. “You were staring at him every chance you got,” they pointed out. Carlton blushed. “I… wasn’t staring at him,” he admitted. Janice let that sink in. If Carlton wasn’t staring at Roman then… “You have a crush on Virgil?” they realized, so shocked that it came out as a question “I sure hope so.” Janice nearly jumped when they heard Virgil’s voice come from behind them. In the next moment Virgil brushed past them and stood beside Carlton, draping an arm across his shoulders, making the later blush profusely. “We’re dating.” It was a statement. A challenge to say something bad about that fact. Janice was still processing. Virgil was dating a boy… But… “You… But… I thought you were with Stacey?” Had they broken up? Virgil was not fazed. “Where did you even hear that? I hung out with Stacey after school at the start of the year, yeah. We’re friends. After that, I went out with Anne, and Valery and Iris.” Janice’s head kept spinning as Virgil continued. “Didn’t work out beyond hanging out though. But me and Carlton are dating.” If Virgil went out with girls, had crushes on girls in the past and was dating a boy now… Then. “But… That means…” “I am bisexual Janus. Get over it,” Virgil huffed. Janice’s gaze drifted between the pair in front of him. Pieces slowly falling in place. “R Right… I’ll leave you be then.” They needed to get away. To process. It was their free hour so they went for a walk in the nearby forest again, ignoring the snapping branches above and around them, avoiding the clearing they’d made. One day they’d ask Collector how no one was talking about the damage they’d done. Today they had other things on their mind. All the hints Virgil dropped over the years flooded in at once and they couldn’t believe they’d been so blind. He wore the bi colors as his signature look! He’d commented on cute actors, he’d said he wouldn’t care about gender as long as the individual was cute. He had offered Janice his first kiss! Made it abundantly clear that he was comfortable with that! All of that was him testing the waters. Janice just had been so busy with their own secret that they did not pick up on it. Holy… V was bi. He had genuinely wanted Janice to kiss him back then. Probably not in a ‘I have a crush on you’ type of way. Virgil wouldn’t trick someone like that. But… When they got home that evening they were still processing the fact that Virgil had a boyfriend now. They were pulled out of their thoughts of might have beens when their phone rang. They didn’t recognize the number so they hung up. It called again. And again and so on the fourth time they picked up. “Janice speaking?” they asked distrustful. “Snakeface! Finally!” Snakeface…? “Remus?” they asked baffled. “The one and only! Scarecrow gave me your number. He said you two are going through a rough patch. Don’t tell me you two are getting a divorce!” It really was him. “Okay I’ll bite. What are you talking about?” They were curious to see how Remus’ mind was spinning this story. “Come on! You two were basically my playground parents… It was kinda nice to have you hover over me. I never thanked you two for that. Most kids thought I was too wild and weird.” Janice scoffed. “That’s part of your charm. It’s their loss,” they assured their friend. It was so good to hear him again. “But how did this happen? I haven’t heard from you since middle school!” they wondered. “Well my bro discovered I was buddies with you and Virgil back in the day and gave V my number, and now V gave me yours. Apparently my nicknames got confusing for my family. They thought I was talking about some of my creepy crawler friends and not actual humans,” Remus giggled. “Is that why we were never invited over?” Janice wondered. Another misunderstanding? “Um… Yeah… My bad?” Remus replied uncharacteristically awkwardly. “And the reason you never wanted to involve your brother was…?” Might as well get all the questions out of the way. “Well. You’ve met Romie. What do you think he would have done if he heard some bullies had it out for his brother?” They didn’t need to think twice. “He’d probably do something reckless and heroic.” “And gotten hurt or something. Also… Don’t be mad but I thought maybe if he got involved and you met him… You’d like him better.” Oh. “No chance. You were our friend. No one ever could’ve replaced you. I know Virgil felt awful for ages about being unable to protect you that day. Still does I think.” “Yeah. He hasn’t stopped apologizing since his first call,” Remus agreed. “Where did you go after they took you?” Janice wondered. “Oh, they got me in private tutoring. It was real fun. They give me time to go crazy when I need to in between the boring lessons. Only downside is that I don’t see Roman as often as I’d like. He visits all the time, but he has schoolwork and stuff to do as well. And I didn’t have you guys to annoy of course. But that’s enough about me! You spill!” So Janice told Remus that they had been kind of a jerk and that they were working on fixing things. The fact that Virgil had decided to throw them a boon by reconnecting them with Remus was a good sign. Remus cracked jokes and made innuendos. He found it hilarious that Virgil apparently had the ladies and lads lining up for him. When Janice mentioned Roman’s idea of coming out he cackled loudly. Though he did approve. They finished their conversation and agreed that Remus would call whenever possible and that Janus would either answer or call back when they had time. Unless Virgil told the collector for some reason, he didn’t need to know that Janice had a friend or hope of things going back to normal between Virgil and them. The less he knew the better. That evening Collector announced that it was time they prepared for Janice’s first heroic escapade. Which meant they’d need a codename and an outfit. They had one, actually. When they were in middle school they’d played heroes with Virgil and Remus and they all picked names. Remus was Duke. Virgil was Guardian and Janice was… “Serpentine,” they stated firmly. Collector nodded and took their face, angling it, studying it. “Making your flaws your strengths… Inspired. I can work with this,” he grinned before releasing his hold. The next day they were given their outfit. Apparently Collector had managed to get his hands on some GTH tech and fitted it for them. When they put it on their entire skin got covered in scales, their eyes were snakelike and yellow, the outfit itself was black with yellow scale patterns. A pair of yellow gloves and Yellow boots completed the look, along with a black cape. Their hair was black and straightened, pulled back in a ponytail. They looked cool, just not very heroic. They didn’t say anything about it though. Tried not to listen too closely as Collector told them their mission. Become popular, gain the new Prince’s trust and ‘most importantly’ get Virgil’s attention. Janus asked why Virgil had to see them in person. If they made the news wouldn’t that enough? Apparently not. Collector insisted they needed to impress Virgil, make sure that Serpentine was on his mind. There was a lot on Janus’ mind when they met up with Remy for their appointment. And it was a weird one. “How do you mean I don’t need help containing my temper?” Janus asked incredulously, very close to losing their handle on said temper. “Not in the way you think… I have the feeling that keeping things under lock and key, might be your problem and…” “How would you know that? We’ve talked for two hours! Not even that! And the one thing I ask you, you don’t want to even try!?” Janus exclaimed, barely keeping himself from setting of a blast in the room. Remy flinched back, but pushed onward. “See this, right here. This is actually good. Expressing your anger, letting it go, is much healthier than trying to lock it up. Take the pressure off so to speak.” Janus fell back into their seat and curled up once more. Not looking at doctor Pikani as he kept trying to explain why not teaching him how to keep his cool in stressful situations was a good idea. They didn’t even look at him when they left at the end of their hour. He’d said he’d help and now he was backing out. How were they expected to tell him anything? That Saturday, they were sent out for the first time. They did little things. There was a purse snatcher they managed to slam into a nearby set of bushes in someone’s front yard. Cushioning the impact and causing way less property damage than if they had slammed them into the nearby car as Collector suggested. Good quick thinking on their part if they said so themself. They returned the purse, tied up the purse snatcher to a nearby lamp post and ran off. Were there a lot of cameras? Yes. Did they care? Not really. Doing something right alone gave them quite the thrill. They didn’t encounter a lot of trouble after that. None that got Collector’s approval at least. They got a few toys out of drains and the like.  At some point they were directed to a different street and spotted Virgil walking with Carlton, they were holding hands and seemed to be having a good time. It was sort of cute. “Seems you have been replaced,” Collector’s voice whispered through his com. Janus wasn’t sure what that was supposed to be about. But he stealthily followed the two of them for a bit longer just out of curiosity. They liked seeing Virgil happy. Collector kept whispering in their ear about how Virgil had forgotten all about them and they might be too late even if they did become a hero. It was getting kind of annoying honestly. And just when they were about to snap at collector a nearby tire blew out, making the pair turn, Virgil instinctively pulling Carlton behind him, before moving on. That wasn’t good, they had to get away before they ruined Virgil’s date. “I’m done.” They said into their com once they felt they were far away enough. “Very well. I suppose you deserve a break. Good job  today.” And just like that they were left alone. They turned of their disguise and headed home. On their way there their phone rang. They took it out and checked the ID, expecting Remus’ name. It was not Remus. “Virgil?” They asked incredulously as they picked up. “Hi Jan…” Virgil sounded nervous, but not hostile or distrustful. A little on guard but in a familiar awkward way he had about him sometimes. Janus was scrambling for what to say. There were so many thinks they wanted to say. “I…” I’m happy to hear from you. I missed you. I am trying to make things right. “Hey. Thanks for… You didn’t have to give Remus my number. Hearing from him… It was great.” Those calls the past week were probably the only reason why they hadn’t blasted the Collector into a wall yet. “Well… You’ve missed him just as much as I did. And he missed you too I bet. And you’ve been trying. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Carlton told me you were apologizing to him last week.” Oh… Right. Usually they asked the people they apologized to not to make too big of a deal out of it. Two reasons. They wanted to apologize because it was right, not because it would get them back on Virgil or the teachers’ good side. And, again, the less collector knew, the better. But with Carlton they’d been interrupted before they could make the request. “Um… Yeah. You know. I was kind of a jerk for a while… And I don’t want to be,” They explained rather awkwardly, wishing for a change of subject. “I kissed him!” That sudden declaration caught Janus completely off guard. Virgil… Kissed… “What?” Sure they’d looked very cute and cozy. But they hadn’t expected things would go that well. “I kissed Carlton. The date went well, and the moment felt right… And I kissed him.” Virgil sounded giddy. And that made Janus happy. “Virgil that is amazing! How was it? Wait was that your first? Cause apparently you are in high demand,” they teased, getting Virgil to laugh. “Well yeah. But I’m not letting just anyone kiss me. You gotta earn that.” They laughed at Virgil’s carefree voice. They’d really needed this today. “Well I never thought I would beat you in that department that’s for sure. With the amount of crushes you had in middle school, I figured you’d go off and kiss a girl the second I turned my back.” They informed Virgil, curious if he’d catch up on the semi hidden confession. He did. “Wait… You don’t mean… Janus. Have you kissed someone? When?! Give me the details now!” he demanded. “It was nothing really. Just a summer fling. I was gonna tell you the second I got back. It really helped me put things in perspective but… Well. You know.” They’d already ruined things too much for a simple conversation to fix things. “Jan… I…” The guilt in Virgil’s voice was honestly comforting, as terrible as it may sound. But they wouldn’t let him feel that way. “No. Don’t apologize. I was not trying to guilt trip you. It was brought to my attention that I might’ve accidently been doing that.” There was more to it than that, but now was not the time. “Sorry for that by the way. There is a lot of things we need to talk about. But not yet. I… Can handle this. On the phone… But could we keep it between us? I don’t want the adults or Ca… Or Roman to pat me on the back for every good thing I do. Ok? I’m…” They couldn’t tell him everything. But they’d be as honest as they could. “I’m not ready to trust others. I barely trust my therapist…” God, they were rambling and oversharing. Well… Now Virgil knew they were trying to talk it out with someone. “Ok. Whatever you are comfortable with,” Virgil assured them. “And J?” “Yeah?” “I am proud of you.” Janus bit their lip. Hearing that from Virgil… It meant a lot. “And don’t worry. I didn’t fully trust mine right away either. It needs to click first. If you are really uncomfortable with them, then you just ask for another.” Janus let that sink in for a moment… Virgil… oh, wait… No that made sense. As long as they’d known him Virgil was very hard on himself and put a lot of pressure on his shoulders That was bound to boil over in some shape or form at some point. They were glad he was getting some help with that. And his suggestion seemed like a good idea. “I… Ok. I’ll think about it.” Maybe they’d give Pikani one more shot before asking their parents to move them to another therapist. “Thanks.” They were almost home now. “Listen. I gotta go. See you on Monday?” “Yeah?” Virgil wondered, kind of hopeful. Apparently he’d missed them too. “Yeah. And congrats. You and Carlton make for a nauseating couple,” they drawled teasingly. Virgil laughed. “Thanks. See ya J.” “Bye.” And so their first decent conversation with Virgil in months, ended on a good note. They couldn’t go back to normal yet. But for the first time this semester, they truly believed like it was a possibility for the future.

Hero au

@cirishere​ @hestianerd1​ @moonlightshow00​ @naturallyunstablegamer​ @alias290​ @meowthefluffy​ @frida0043​ @angelic-cali​ @selenechris​ @theblackveilinreverse​

[salamanderskin]

Cold Hands, Warm Tea (Caduceus)

Cr//iti/cal R/o/le fanfiction m/m Fjord is becoming aware that his feelings for Caduceus are beyond ‘platonic healer friend who mentors him in a new faith’. It’s harder to hide it when Caduceus is sick and miserable.  A fluffy getting-together sort of sickfic. This one got away from me into 4k of plotless snz and fever because I will go down with this fjucking ship.  Someone please give this a title. 

It’s still strange to have a home to call their own. Strange, but nice. Their own sitting room where they can drink as much as they want, as late as they want, without the intrusion of strangers. Caduceus’ cooking is better than their usual fare on the road. Fjord likes that he can take his boots off and armour off and feel as safe as he ever feels. 

It’s late. The fire is low, the lamps are lit and the remains of dinner on the dining room table have been pushed aside for a game of cards. The only real early bird of the group is Caduceus, who has long since turned in. Caleb is in his room with  a book, Jester is in her room with the Traveller. That leaves Beau, Yasha, Fjord and Nott around the table with some time on their hands, for once, and a lot of shit to talk.  This suits Fjord just fine. He needs a distraction from the changes in his life, something to occupy his thoughts from the Wildmother, and from Caduceus. When he’s giving as good as he gets with Beau, he’s less likely to ask a stupid, revealing question like, “Have you ever been in love? How did you know?” 

They glance up as one when they hear feet on the stairs- a distinctive tread that speaks of a heavy frame that moves lightly. Fjord knows it intimately and looks up with a smile as Beau calls “Caduceus, that you?” 

 “Yeah, it's me.” The firbolg’s voice is deeper than usual and soft. Fjord feels his heart warm at the sound of it. It is a voice that always brings kindness. 

It is unusual to see Caduceus wearing more than a light jacket over his silk shirt. Right now he is wearing a blanket from his room around his shoulders like a shawl, gathered in one fist around him although it’s barely cold in the house. His long hair is loose and mussed, making an untidy, rose-coloured halo. 

“I'm not disturbing anything, am I?” Caduceus asks, ever polite. 

“Not at all. What are you doing up?” Yasha inquires.

The firbolg sighs and sits down on the remaining empty chair. “I'm having a hard time sleeping. I think I might be getting sick.”

Before Fjord can query, the firbolg draws a deep, unsteady breath and gifts them with an expression that is uncharacteristically uncertain- brows lifted, lips parted and gaze hovering near the ceiling-  followed by a soft miserable,. “Uuh- ishhhoo!” of a sneeze. He directs it over his shoulder and returns his attention to them with a sheepish sniffle.

This earns a  “Whoah, alright, we believed you already,” from Beau and a “gesundheit” from Nott. 

Fjord rises and comes to look at him, arm on his shoulder. “What kind of sick, 'Duceus?”

“I don't know, it doesn't matter. I just thought some company would be better than lieing in bed awake.”

“Why don’t you ask Jester for some healing?”

Caduceus wrinkles his nose. “Oh, no need to interrupt her tonight. I’ll see if it develops into any-” His voice goes airy and a tone higher as he tries valiantly to finish his thought “into-anyth-ii-ng-ISSHoo! Heh, excuse me.” 

Fjord cringes and averts his eyes as Caduceus whisks out a bit of cloth and turns to wipe his nose with a sorry sounding sniffle. 

“You sound shitty.” Beau pats the firbolg firmly on the back- a little too firmly, since it makes Caduceus start and cough. This is high sympathy and affection coming from her, and they all know it.

It makes Caduceus smile at least. With his blanket shawl and his long limbs tucked into the slightly too-small chair, he looks worn and sleepy. Fjord watches him shiver, swallow, wince as though his throat is sore. Then Fjord feels like a creeper for watching so closely. It’s been getting increasingly hard not to stare at their companion, no matter what state he’s in. 

“This is medicinal.” Nott holds out her flask of liquor. “And it’ll knock you right out. Best thing if you can’t sleep.” 

 “No thanks.” Caduceus shakes his head, predictably. “Maybe just some water.”

That Fjord can do. He manages not to leap to fetch it, but he’s glad he’s the one who moves first because that means he’s the one who gets to brush his fingers against Caduceus’ as he passes the glass, he’s the one who gets “thanks, Fjord,” and a grateful smile directed his way.

What he’d like to do, when Caduceus sniffles again and rubs his eyes in sleepy discomfort, is to bring him to bed and lay with him until the shivers ease. To give him the same warmth Fjord had received from him when Uk’Otoa’s nightmares raged. Fjord hadn’t felt shy then, but he feels shy now. So instead opens another bottle of ale and deals the cards between himself, Nott and Beau while Yasha chats to Caduceus. Eventually Caduceus clears his throat. “Think I’m going to turn in now. Thanks for the company.”

“Sleep well,” Yasha says. 

Fjord ads, “Night, ‘Deuces. I, uh, hope you feel better.” 

“Hah. Me too."

………………….

Fjord pauses at the door of Caduceus' dwelling, straining his ears for sounds of movement. He doesn't want to wake his friend if Caduceus has managed to drift to sleep. 

Jester, in full cleric mode, has already come and gone this morning, having given Caduceus a healing spell, a potion and a plate of cookies which remain uneaten. Fjord recalls her face scrunched in a pout of disappointment that her spell didn't immediately return to their friend to fighting fitness .She reported that his fever is down from blazing to merely uncomfortable, leaving him drowsy and restless 

"And I was gonna sit with him and read, and sing to him and stuff, but I could tell he didn't actually want me too. He's just suuuper tired right now so if you go see him you gotta be quiet," she told Fjord, eyes serious. "He might like to see you though, you could talk about Wildmother stuff."

"I think I can manage that." Fjord agreed. "If he gets worse, I'll definitely let you know."

So here he is, feeling a little awkward hovering on the threshold of Caduceus' bedchamber.

Fjord has been spending a lot of time in the tower garden but has never had cause to step into the little wooden shelter Caduceus prefers to an actual bedroom in the house. He doesn't want to invade his friend's privacy, but is desperately curious nonetheless. He wants to know everything about Caduceus. 

He knocks very gently and waits for a response.

"Hey." A soft voice and the sound of a body rolling over. 

"Don't get up-" Fjord begins, but the door opens for him.

Caduceus Clay greets Fjord with a pleased smile that is at odds with the gaunt look of his face. Fjord's not sure how someone with fur can be pale, but Clay has managed it, with the exception of a flush of colour high on his cheekbones. His eyes are over-bright and his poor nose looks chapped and sore from rubbing. 

"Fjord!" Caduceus says fondly. "What can I do for you?"

That selfless, innocent question is so utterly Caduceus that Fjord is stopped in his tracks. It's a lucky thing because when Caduceus wavers, suddenly lightheaded, Fjord is right there to catch him with both arms and bring him in for a hug which is more about keeping him upright.

"Whoah!" Fjord stumbles and swears, straightening them both. "I got you"

The Firbolg takes his own weight back but doesn't disengage from the embrace. His head drops to Fjord's shoulder as he takes a deep breath. The warm huff of air makes Fjord shiver. 

"Oh- sorry- think I stood up too quickly." "Looks like it." Fjord agrees. "Fuck. Come on, sit down." 

The firbolg has only a low futon mattress on the wooden floor, as simple and spare as the rest of the room. The rest of the space is filled with the pots containing seedlings he had determined required a little extra nursing- a sentiment that today describes Caduceus himself. Fjord lowers them both onto it and turns to give his companion a closer look.

He pushes the firbolg's hair from his face and feels fever heat radiating through his fingers and where their bodies touch. Jester's right, he's not in any danger, but he looks miserable, an expression so unfamiliar on his good-natured face that all Fjord can do is hug him again. 

"Mm. S'nice." 

It's more than nice. Fjord closes his eyes, breathing in Caduceus' scent and savouring the moment. They rest in the embrace for a long minute until Caduceus sniffles softly and first and then more insistently.

"Uh oh.." he murmurs, pressing a hand under his muzzle.

"You okay?" Fjord queries.

"Yeah- just-" His expression goes vague and then crumples into a fit of sneezing.

"-ISSHoo-!! hhisSShww!- ISSHwww!" Soft and with hardly a breath between them. 

All Fjord can do is watch and feel the tug on his heartstrings as Caduceus sneezes and sneezes, shuddering hard as he smothers them into his elbow.

He surfaces, apparently finished, and manages to murmur a "ugh, scuse me-" before he is overtaken again. 

Eventually he is able to blow his nose and stop the fit, giving Fjord a sheepish look over the handkerchief followed by an exhausted groan.

"I'm so sorry. Looks like Jester's spell is -snf- wearing off."

"Bless you." Fjord sighs. "You sound rough."

"Yeah." Caduceus agrees softly. That's typical Caduceus, too, neither dissembling nor seeking sympathy, merely accepting the fact. 

"Can I do anything?" 

"Hmm, I don't know." He shakes his head. "I can't think." 

"What about some tea? You always drink tea." 

His ears perk up a little as he considers. "Yeah. Good idea. I- I might need you to heat the water. I don't have any spells in me at the moment."

Fjord agrees at once. He notices Caduceus' tea set and kettle on a little stand but without any means to set a fire underneath. Fjord doesn't have any warming spell himself so he takes the kettle down to the kitchen to heat it the old fashioned way.

When he returns he is surprised to find his friend wandering the garden. He has put on a knitted sweater but his hunched posture still speaks of chill.

"'Duceus?"

"Hey." And a smile.

"What are you doing up?"

The firbolg clearly needs a second to think, visibly reaching through the fog of fever. "Getting some herbs. For the tea." 

"Oh. Can't I do that for you?" 

Caduceus nods vaguely. "Got to get the right ones. For healing. I'll get them. I'll teach you for next time."

Something irrational in Fjord's chest says there won't be a next time, because I'm never gonna let you get sick again. He doesn't know how he'd manage that, of course, but the sentiment remains. That said, it might be good to learn some healing herbs. If nothing else it'll give him a reason to spend more time up here.

Caduceus turns away from his harvesting to sneeze weakly into his cupped palms. He finishes with a whole-body shudder that makes his teeth chatter with cold.

"You should be in bed." 

Thank the Wildmother, Caduceus doesn't argue the point but gathers the handful of leaves into his palm and looks towards his room. "Yes. Yeah. Sorry, I got- distracted- there." 

"It's okay. Come back inside and we'll make that tea." 

Fjord loops his arm around the firbolg's waist to lead him back. He feels Caduceus lean on him in a way that suggests dizziness or maybe just fatigue. He feels the heat bleeding through the layers of their clothes. If it's making Fjord uncomfortable from the contact then Caduceus himself must be miserable with it, even if he's currently in the shivering phase. 

Fjord adds the herbs to the teapot, while Caduceus seems very glad to settle on the bed once more. He collapses all the way down and curls in on himself as he shakes with chills. Even with his hands in his armpits and his legs tucked up like a child's, he can't seem to get warm. Fjord pulls the blankets around him and that helps a little, but he still lets out a soft whine as a wave of chills passes over him. 

It just about breaks Fjord's heart. He goes to sit on the bed as if drawn by a tether, his arms going to Caduceus' back and rubbing heat into him through the blankets. 

"Hey. Hey. It's okay. What do you need?"

"M'okay. M'just cold." 

"The tea's ready. Can you sit up and drink some?"

Caduceus Clay and his family make tea not exactly for a living, but as a byproduct of their profession and their faith. Under normal circumstances Fjord would never dare to make a cup for him, but these are far from normal circumstances. It's not that he thinks Clay would judge his tea-making, exactly, but he wants so badly for the firbolg to think well of him. 

It seems unlikely that Caduceus can taste anything at all right now. He sits with his back leaning against the wall and their thighs touching on the bed. He holds the cup under his nose and breathes the stream. His slender, slit nostrils flare slightly, like a cat's, snuffling more and more rapidly, until he has to pause between sips to scrub the heel of his hand underneath his muzzle. It doesn't seem to be helping much. 

"Can you h-hold this for me?" 

He thrusts the cup at Fjord with a waver in his voice that makes Fjord take it automatically. 

"Thadks-" it's an octave higher than Caduceus' usual bass, drawn tight by a flurry of panting breaths. "heh… ehh…. heh'ISSShooo!"

"Bless you!" 

Caduceus waves a hand vaguely, pressing the other up against his nostrils. "Scuse-" He manages. Oh, his eyes are watering. He looks desperate and sniffly and full of cold, and Fjord can't do very much about it but watch as his breath hitches- hitches- 

"Chiiishhhoo!" And again, eyes slamming shut as his body jackknifes forward. If he'd been holding the tea, it would have been everywhere, that's for sure.

"hah-CHIIShhoo!" 

He surfaces with a watery, apologetic sniffle and takes the teacup back. "Nggh. Thanks, Fjord." 

"Bless you." It seems inadequate for how tired Caduceus seems. 

"Thanks." He says again. He drains the rest of the tea before any other mishap can befall it, and slumps tiredly to one side. This leaves him with his head leaning heavy against Fjord's shoulder. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course it's okay." Fjord soothes. He can feel the fever heat from the firbolg's brow and the back of his neck as he shivers. It's not unpleasant, he just wishes he could will it away. What he can do is reach his hands around and smooth the back of his fingers against the firbolg's cheek. He hopes for it to be soothing but his friend jumps in his arms, pulling away with a soft whine. 

"Sorry! Sorry!" 

"Your hands are c-cold."

"They're really not." Fjord sighs. "Come on. Lie down again now." 

With a little hauling and shifting of blankets he is able to settle Caduceus back on the mattress. It's not that 'Duceus is resisting, he's just lax with fever, and seven feet of Firbolg is a lot to manhandle. It's worth the effort to see him sigh in relief, even if it is punctuated with sniffles as he rolls over to bury his face in the pillows. 

Fjord steps back for a moment and takes stock of his patient. Caduceus lies on his belly, smothered by blankets that are not too thick to hide the occasional shudder running through his form. All that beautiful hair is vibrantly, ridiculously pink against the white cotton, tangled from all the commotion. His ears peek out from the strands, low against his head in misery. 

Another set of sniffles from within the covers, then an uneasy "uh oh-"  heralding another sneeze. It doesn't come at once but teases, leaving Caduceus to scrub his face miserably into the pillow and make soft, frustrated sounds on each exhale until he finally works up to a cleansing, "HeYSSSShhuh!" that makes Fjord cringe for his poor throat. 

"Fuck…" Fjord sighs, and tries not to listen as the firbolg blows his nose. It's a sniffly, uncomfortable sounding affair. He tries not to think of Caduceus' physiology as animal, exactly, but his slit nostrils are somewhere between a cats' and a cows', and hardly seem designed to handle the congestion.

"Ugh, I'm sorry Fjord. I'm no good to anyone like this." 

That's the last straw for Fjord's beleaguered heart.

Before he knows what he is doing, he finds himself crawling the length of the mattress and gathering the firbolg into his arms. There is a rush of heat and sweat from the lifted blankets but it is more than worth it to get Caduceus' head cradled against his chest, the weight of his body draped slack across Fjord's legs and curling into the warmth of him with another shiver. 

It feels so Goddamn good that Fjord's chest gets tight. 

Caduceus has gone very still.  The shivers stop as their shared body heat blossoms under the blankets.

"This is… new" He says tentatively. 

"But good, right?" 

"Yeah. It's nice. It helps a lot, actually. I think I needed a hug." 

Of course he does. Caduceus has always been tactile, ever ready with a hug and a kind hand. He never pushes it on anyone else, meaning that Jester gets the bulk of his physical affection. He grew up a big family and then has been alone for a long, long time. No wonder he craves a little comfort when he's not feeling good. Fjord feels like an ass for not recognising it before. 

In a bid to make up for lost time, Fjord presses a kiss to the crown of his forehead. Caduceus shivers again, but perhaps not with cold.

Inevitably, Caduceus’ sickness intervenes again, lest they forget what had brought them together this way. 

"Uh, Fjord…" 

Fjord has seen this cycle enough times to correctly interpret that hazy, ticklish squint and groping hand. He passes a clean hankie just in time for Caduceus to tuck it over his muzzle and shiver a soft, miserable "hhisSShww!"

He can feel Caduceus shudder with it, feel how much it takes out of him in this fevered state. 

The firbolg recovers more slowly now and his eyes remain unfocused. Gods, his pupils are like coins. 

“I think my fever’s up again.” Caduceus adds helpfully.

Fjord snorts. He may not be a healer but the heat radiating from the firbolg's skin is like sitting beside a brazier.

"Shall I call Jester?" There must be more magic they can pour at this problem, surely?

"Needs to save her spells. In case something happens." Caduceus explains. "She's coming this evening."

"Okay." Fjord doesn't like that much but apparently there is nothing to be done. Caduceus is selfless but he isn't a martyr or a fool. If he says there's no quick cure, Fjord believes him. It just really fucking sucks. 

He wishes he had picked up some healing magic along the way, but that wasn't what his patron had in mind, so he does what he knows how to do. 

That involves a cold cloth for the firbolg's brow and another to wipe down his neck and chest. Plenty of water to drink and another cup of tea, cold this time. Ensuring Caduceus always has a handkerchief to hand and a fond blessing when he sneezes. 

Caduceus lies placidly through all of this, a ghost of a smile on his lips in spite of it all. How he remains so good-natured, Fjord will never know. 

Fjord considers leaving him to get some sleep, but when he makes the suggestion Caduceus manages a very good impression of a wounded puppy even as he says, "Oh. Sure." 

So they end up together in the bed again. 

Caduceus is far too warm to snuggle in, but he lies on the mattress with his head resting on Fjord's arm so that the half-orc can smooth his sweaty hair back from his neck. It's almost perfect. Almost wonderful. It's been a long time since Fjord has lain with anyone like this. He watches the Firbolgs eyes weigh shut with a deep tenderness he hardly knew he was capable of, and presses another kiss to that burning brow. 

"You comfy? As you can be?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I-" Caduceus raises his head, looking up at Fjord with big pupils, fever flushed cheeks and a peculiar determination. Looks like Caduceus is steeling himself for something. 

" 'm far too loopy to think now." The firbolg begins, placing each word as if he has to retrieve them individually from the fog of fever and they lay them out before him. "But this is really nice. We should do this again...so I can… enjoy it properly." 

A long speech from someone hazy and half-asleep. Fjord feels his lips tilt into a delighted, probably goofy, grin. He is very glad Caduceus can't see it from this position.

"Yeah. I'd like that too." 

No reply this time. Caduceus Clay is asleep and snoring softly on his chest, and Fjord couldn't be happier.

[gasp-iwrotesomething]

Sanctuary (SFW)

Summary: Caleb North is callous and reserved and irking to just about every person he meets--including MC. But as she begins to understand and explore Cal’s heart beyond the thin film he had set into place, MC starts to believe that surely there’s more to those stunning blue eyes than what’s on the surface. When MC becomes more than someone he’s in debt for, will Cal come to embrace her hospitality or will he deny himself sanctuary?

Word Count: 4,344

Genre: Fluff (SFW)

Warning(s): none, just straight detective Cal evaluating the feelings he’s conjured for MC

A/N: This is based on the song Sanctuary by Joji, I highly recommend listening to the song while you read this; it’s very beautiful!

Cal couldn’t sleep. 

Too many thoughts purled in his mind and staved the heaviness that was supposed to settle in his eyelids. Even when he attempts to close his eyes tight and focus on slipping off into his dreams, nothing happens except for more thoughts to herd together in his head. Groaning, Cal drags a hand down his face grudgingly. This didn’t happen very often for him; being restless because of emotions. Emotions. There was a lot the bittersweet gunslinger was known for and displaying--hell, even struggling with--emotion isn’t one such example. He wasn’t sure where the ache in his heart stemmed from--maybe faulty wiring? A fluke in his cardiovascular system? Chemical imbalance in his head? Whatever the reason, Cal didn’t like it. He recognized the sense of longing parading in his heart, jerking his heartstrings like a pampered child throwing a tantrum. The feeling caused a frown to flip Cal’s expression inside out. He hated that feeling. It made him vulnerable--unlocked the heart he had bolted and chained and boarded shut hundreds of times over. Why now, out of the 27 years he’s been alive and kicking, did his own heart and emotions betray him like this? Then, like an epiphany transmitted from an ethereal being overseeing his moping, a mental painting of MC winks in his thoughts and Cal scoffs reflexively, skeptical. There was no way that MC--a tiny inept girl who acted like she had already had her mid-life crisis seven times over and worked in a bike rental shop alongside her mom--was the cause of his emotional contusion.

Not only did the idea seem unruly and misplaced, Cal disliked it because, deep down, he knew that there was some waft of truth to it. She’s not that bad of a person for someone who works at a small bike shop... The trick shooter almost groans again but he stifles the noise, remembering that Avi was fast asleep just a few feet away from him. He rolls onto his side instead. But somewhere along the journey of executing his plan something falls through; a minuscule detail that nettled him more. The memory of MC curled up in bed beside him explodes into his mind, alongside the glitter bomb of emotion that sparkled and danced and spun in spirals within his rib cage. Frustration follows and Cal’s nostrils flare, crystalline eyes rolling. Why can’t she just be another civilian that Cal meets, forgets, and never sees again? A whole galaxy of regret and longing and some other irately balmy emotion unravel inside of him. Cal grasps a pillow and crushes it against his face and groans, the noise long-winded and muffled as it tickles his face. MC shouldn’t be allowed to have this all encompassing effect on him--both legally and morally. Lock her up for finessing her dainty little way into the brash and emotionless Caleb North’s heart--don’t forget to throw away the key for good measure. 

Go ahead and bark after dark

But even through his fit of annoyance and denial, the one thing Cal couldn’t deny was the distance the two of them had breached--pared. The bland, snapping turtle of a woman had gained her character arch in Cal’s eyes. Now she was more than just the naive and narrow-minded girl Cal had to repay--now she was MC and nothing less than that. It was hard to place a title upon her head beyond anything other than her name; like she’d grown into the name ‘MC’ and earned her dish of respect. Cal thought so at least. Over time, her actions and dialogue told the gunslinger that she had more depth and required more than just a once-over to understand thoroughly--she wasn’t an easy puzzle to decipher. Maybe that’s what appealed to him most--the idea of being totally cognizant of her as an entire person and not just a voice that twittered this and that. Of deciphering something complex but so easy to dissect; swift access beamed into his hands. Cal’s eyes trace the pattern of the ceiling ahead as his thoughts follow a curved and callous rail, all dedicated to the feeling Cal kept aloof in his jumping heart. What was this emotion--this sun that shone in his chest? What did it mean? Why do I kind of, sort of, possibly not mind it?

Fallen star, I’m your one call away

Despite the wisps of confusion wound around his subconscious, Cal knew that it eluded to something bordering fondness--affection. The word sounds like a roll of barbed wire spiking his thoughts and he resists the urge to smack himself upside the head. Damn it all, why did she have to make it so much harder for him? Can’t she just bask on the throne of the person Cal disliked most and keep the crown structurally sound on her head? Again, the convulsing tangle of emotion sprawling throughout his body wrestles the irked retort down, defeating it unconditionally. He didn’t know a thing about requiting feelings and he definitely didn’t know a thing about harboring strong feelings for anyone outside the same six people--er, five if you discount Ripley as an animal--he’s known for years. 

Cal only allowed himself to become attached to people who he could count on and trust--people who had his best interests at heart. Meeting a new person, much less dating, was too big of a step for the gunslinger to judge. Too much of a risk to take. He’d rather leave the whims up to whoever spectated his life and let them call the shots on his destiny. Of course thinking this revives his knowledge of the prophecy and the staccato of his heart trudges, suddenly faced with something almost as staggering as MC. But not exactly. Nothing could match MC’s oddities. How was he going to tell her about what he learned? About what fate had whispered in his ear, alluding that he was destined to die? That Avi was to replace him?

MC wouldn’t be game for that--who would be? Like a fallen star, MC is all his mind comes to center around, orbiting tireless circles around her. Somehow, in a cheesy, lovey-dovey sort of sense, she made the dazzling superficial lights of Vegas seem like they’re not shining as bright as they could be. Like MC was naturally able to emit something that could outshine the nacreous luminescence even without the use of actual light. Yuck, that was grossly romantic thing to think, Caleb. Though he cringes, his heart nods against his rib cage. And then too late does Cal realize that his face is freckled with the color of embarrassment--sheepishness. God, I hate that I just admitted that to myself. Didn’t I swear I’d never become a cheap hopeless romantic? But this didn’t feel like romance--it felt natural. Something too instinctive and pure to be labeled as ‘romance’ or even the more costly term: ‘love’. MC was a good person to know and a fun person to playfully debate with; someone who could turn even the most shallow subjects into an ocean of chortle-worthy discussion. She deserved more than she had and if Cal could, he’d give her what she wanted--all she had to do was give him a call and he would be there. Whenever and for whatever.

Motel halls, neon walls When night falls, I am your escape

Cal sighs. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to analyze the gallery of warmth strewed in his chest. But--as misfitting as it sounds when describing Cal North--he found himself wanting to explore the profundity of what he felt for MC. The more he knew about himself, the better after all. Like a reel of film shuddering to life in a cinema, memories of all that’s happened since he met MC flicker and coalesce grainy in his mind. There was the encounter in the store with the glue, then the coincident meeting to buy the medical textbook. After that, MC had saved him and in doing so had uncoiled a road of ruched destiny between the two of them. If she hadn’t risked herself to save Cal that day, would they even still know each other the way they did today? Cal doesn’t linger on the question, already knowing that the answer wasn’t tuned to the rhapsody of his emotions. 

But what was the war in his heart became the enlightenment of his mind, casting in potential realities that made the ceiling’s textures swirl before his very eyes. Swimming in denied fates, Cal clutches the pillow he had just used to smother his grumbles and groans close to his chest. In that moment of thoughtlessness--or rather of moving out of reflex and not out of sole subconscious will, Cal experiences a scintilla of desire for something he didn’t immediately recognize--something that seemed close but so far form achievable. Like a pleasant fever dream reminisced in the heart of euneirophrenia. He found that the desire was wanting to hold MC the way he held the pillow; close and intimate, warm and comforting. His face burns again but he so does his heart, flustering as hot as a glowing coal in a furnace. But again, like a hero from some bootleg comic books, the sense of their connection being too organic to be love swoops in and saves Cal from dying form sheer embarrassment. Apparently even Cal North didn’t know what resides inside of Cal North’s heart. 

The irony is more jeering than uplifting to the baffled gunslinger. It was easy to pretend to be suave but to naturally act cool and collected? Cal wasn’t the top of the field when it comes to that sort of spiel. But as if a nighttime pleasure he could rely on, MC’s presence in his mind sweeps aside the bitterness fogging his conscience. Like an escape of sorts, used to skirt around the hardships of being in love. Being in love? I’m not in love with MC--It’s not the way I am! Cal almost shouts the unsaid thought out loud just to wipe away all of the confusion and fuzziness clogging his chest. “I’m not in love.” Cal reiterates quietly. Maybe voicing the misgivings of how he felt would make the godly being overlooking him commiserate and wave its wand to make the sappy feelings maturing in him eviscerate. Maybe him rationalizing the way he felt made him a coward. Maybe Cal was in over his head and this was all just a conclusion he jumped to--and if that was the case, he might have beaten the world record for farthest jump. Having a heart capable of emotion is hard. Can’t I just be an insentient gunslinger who stars in a circus and doesn’t indulge in the world of romance?

When you lay alone, I ache Something I wanted to feel

But Cal was dodging the truth. He would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t like the way she made him feel; the constant ray of heat that melted the ice encapsulating his heart. The only other person ever capable of that was Avi--and he was his kid, for god’s sake! And now with the way Cal wanted MC here with him, when had anyone else been able to have that effect on him? His history of partners wasn’t exactly the flashiest or the longest but he hadn’t felt an ache like this one. Like when he was on the rooftop with MC and he stopped her from jumping--the pang had been evident there too. Why? At the time they had only known each other for under a week and Cal felt like he was letting a precious artifact slip from his grasp. Almost as if her importance was too dire to him to risk it. Cal whirls around to face the fireplace and watch the glowing flames thrash against ruddy brick. How many more questions are you going to ask, Caleb? What are you taking this to be--some sort of funky game show about your love life struggles? A self-funded therapy session? It all flabbergasted him--why was he still investigating when he was supposed to be going to sleep?

Somewhere in between evaluating the choices he had made in thinking about MC and wondering why in the world he felt the way he did, Cal tiptoed off into a surprisingly peaceful slumber. Almost immediately, a dream formulates and engulfs him--foggy and thick like mist floating through the air. The first thing he’s greeted with is a familiar room that had a mellow blue palette of colors--bicycle tires line the walls of all sizes, family photos cling to the desk sequestered in the corner... Wait. With a jagged start, Cal recognizes the setting he was thrusted into. This is MC’s room! Moonlight flowed in through the window, casting the shadowed room into a silverish blue hue. 

If you’ve been waitin’ for fallin’ in love,

On the bed, shrouded in the glow of the night sky, is MC. Her posture is relaxed, careless, and for some reason Cal’s pulse skyrockets. What is wrong with me? This feeling...

Babe, you don’t have to wait on me

Cal felt disdain at the implications it gave--the faint stench of love. Of something romantic, something he didn’t want to ever feel. Enthralled in his rancor, he doesn’t notice that he’d been speaking the entire time, saying something that felt teasing as it left his mouth. He felt detached from himself as he moved to sit beside MC, casting her a side glance without will. It was as if he was possessed by something else--unable to move but able to freely think and perceive the situation. In response, MC’s eyebrow hikes and her lips lopside; gently sloped. Again, that hauntingly pleasant ache rips through his chest--salt in a scratched open wound from years ago.

Cause I’ve been waitin’ for Heaven above,

Her lips moved and a sentence stemmed from her tongue, but it all slips from his mind. All that was certain to Cal was the continuous thump of his heart rattling his rib cage.

But an angel ain’t what I need

Nothing seemed surreal--everything felt fluid, easily coordinated to flow as easily as a trickling stream. Cal found himself holding on to everything she did, everything she said--despite the fact that he understood none of it. Suddenly he was bewitched with her and everything she was. A symbol of restored security.

Not anyone, you’re the one

Cal’s turn to contribute to their boneless conversation comes and he watches the way her features dip with contempt--the way they coalesce into something fond but certain. He found himself noticing more about her than he had first realized. Times when her smirtle dropped off were substituted by the scintilla of softness wading through her brown eyes, noticeable only when Cal wasn’t focused on what to say next. On autopilot, controlled by something unseen tugging him along on strings, Cal could marvel each expression she allowed to show. Each one was almost as breathtaking as the last with the specific emotion it was based on bringing it to life. He found himself wanting to bury himself into her very essence, wanting to meld with her like she was pool of everything he wanted--a pool of endless comfort, secluded from the world in her bedroom. A safe place. A sanctuary.

More than fun, you’re the sanctuary

Weirdly enough, Cal got the strangest itch that she felt similar--not exactly the same, but alike enough to be considered mutual. A common feeling shared but not prescribed the same title.

'Cause what you want is what I want Sincerity

And for a while, their mindless repartee continues on with empty words and fortuitously pretty expressions. Cal had never been one to daydream much--there was more important things to do than wish the world turned the other way--but it was hard not to fantasize about what could be. About what would it feel like to release the warmth bouncing in her chest--unleash the feelings he so desperately wanted to be fictitious. What would MC do? Would she sink his serendipitous boat or row it with him? How would a world like that look like? Just like this one, with pointless bickering 24/7, or something completely different? Caught in a web of effervescence, Cal didn’t notice that the steady heat cradling his hand was MC’s. An anchor that grabbed him from his active imagination, Cal notes the gentleness of her skin and the way she gripped his fingers carefully--like they’d fall off if she let go. And to be honest, Cal thought they might too with how he couldn’t will them to move even the slightest inch. 

Souls that dream alone lie awake,

He hadn’t felt this at ease for a while--not since he had met MC, that was for sure. There were moments of rarity where he could escape all of the hardships of demon hunting and being a parent; moments where the world fell away and a bubble hid them away. Like a disguise in plain sight, it seemed any peace was turned to ash too soon--grains falling from grip. Cal knew this was a moment of that--a ripe example of being content with solitude together. His eyes memorize the gentle angles and sharp swoops characterizing MC’s face. Who knew Caleb North could find someone that soothing to latch onto?

They chatted and bickered and then chatted again, their faces obtuse with sly and challenging smirks. Even though he felt his mouth move and he understood that there were comprehensible words strung out, Cal’s head couldn’t perceive the meaning of it all; like a memory to foggy to make out, or a dream so pleasant that seconds after awaking, it’s lost on you. A weird sort of tension befell their repartee and an even weirder string of anticipation and need foam his thoughts. Like a psychic link between them, Cal could sense that the same thing was actively happening to MC as well. Suddenly, without seemingly any provoking required, Cal wanted to kiss her. He wanted it to happen so badly that it seemed like his heart would crash out of his chest and hop around the room. 

I’ll give you something so real

MC’s eyes were intense as they bore into him, searching, seeking for something Cal didn’t understand. The tension between them is hot enough to burn, thick as sunny humidity and as tempting as the aroma of sweet cooking. Like a flower introduced to spring, the tension grows and thrives, winding vines of temptation around them. Without thinking, Cal leans into her personal space, blue eyes roving her face for signs of approval; permission. Fully expecting her to pull away, Cal is astonished as she mirrors his movements until their breaths mingled together. His heart might as well have ascended to overdrive as his thoughts melted into puddles of goo. There was a pause of recollection--consideration of what was about to be done--before the wall between was downed.

If you’ve been waitin’ for fallin’ love

Cal swayed towards her and their lips connected.

Babe, you don’t have to wait on me

The clock on the wall seems to silence and the seconds cease ticking by--almost like time was freezing to keep them swathed in this moment. She felt like velvet caressing his mouth--just the way he had imagined she would. As if choreographed, their tongues dance together in perfect harmony, their lips embracing over and over again.

‘Cause I’ve been waiting for Heaven above,

Cal perceived her taste as something sweet--a pinch of sugar sinking into his taste buds, something he’d never be able to get enough of.

But an angel ain’t what I need

Her teeth gently scrape his bottom lip and he’s caught in the moment, basking in the rejoice he felt here in her arms, kissing her passionately. She began to drown his senses and soon Cal started to wish things he’d never admit aloud.

Pull me oh-so-close,

He wished this kiss would never end--that he could live off her breath, off her lips, off of her kiss hugging his mouth for the rest of his days.

Cause you never know

He wished he could dwell in the sanctuary her proximity granted him and that she’d always give him permission to. 

Just how long our lives could be

Their kiss remains platonic and affectionate, not a boundary crossed and not a checkpoint untouched. He pulls her closer, reigning in her warmth, just as all of it is sucked away and he’s left blinking sleepily at a distant crackling flame. It takes a moment for Cal to realize why MC wasn’t with him, enthralled in their own little world of kisses. It was a dream. 

The disappointment is debilitating as Cal sits up, frowning to the point of almost pouting. Why couldn’t it have been real? He wanted it to be real. To be wrapped up in the vivacity of MC unrestrained--unguarded. Cal’s head swims with the tangible memory of MC’s mouth on his, exploring him intimately. It had felt so real and so right--like an event meant to happen in the forgoing future. He goes florid as a ripple of heat sounds within his body, loud in the way it made his heart squeal. There was no way, no way that was true; Cal refused to believe it. Was the future paved the way he wanted? That he’d live through the harsh destiny of the prophecy and come to grapple the idea of telling MC how he felt? Thinking this brings the prophecy back the to the forefront of his mind and it ricochets off all of the pleasant thoughts Cal had conjured. What was he supposed to do about that? He had already thought of a solution but it was insanely risky and if they had failed... well, there would be no more Caleb North beyond written on a granite headstone in some graveyard. He swats away the thought almost as fast as he thinks it, frowning to himself. That kind of thinking was going to jinx him in the end; he had to stay strong for the people around him. For Avi, for the troupe, for Ripley... For MC... What if he never got to say what he wanted to?

What if the emotion pulsing in his chest, sheltered by a bone enclosure, never saw the light of day? What if he let MC go without even trying to tell her the storm raging on in him? Cal shoulders the staggering idea aside and sighs, running a hand down his face. Maybe MC would be his cause of death; that’d be something he’d oddly be able to stomach. I’ll just write a note--in case this plan falls through. So she knows what was happening between us is real. Cal swings his legs off of his bed and stands, stretching drowsily. Maybe writing this was going to be the death of him too--except it’d be gruesomely embarrassing and would make him cringe even in the afterlife. Maybe I say too many ‘maybe’s to be surprised when they don’t happen. Cal quickly retrieves a scrap of paper and a pen and returns to his bed. Though the inflation of inspiration he had caught had been enough to motivate him, now it was nothing more than a shriveled echo in his head. Now he was faced with the doubt and uncertainty of writing the actual note.

If you’ve been waitin’ for fallin’ in love,

Cal uncapped the pen and stuck the end of it between between his teeth. What could he write? There was so much that he wanted to say--an avalanche of unsaid desires and feelings sprawling throughout his mind--and yet he didn’t know what to say. Do I go the poetic route and write some sort of evasive and cheesy poem? Do I be straight to the point and write what I want from her? Do I pull it off as a goof and just slide in my feelings? Cal ponders approach after approach, individually weighing the pro’s and con’s of each. Almost all of them seemed too dumb to even fathom except for one. I’ll just be blunt. Nothing’s more powerful than the truth, right? Cal swallows. Execution was solved and now came the hardest part: what words would he scribble onto this note? It was small so nothing like a novel in length. A sentence or two sounded the most reasonable and--even though he doesn’t have a plan set into place--Cal presses the tip of the pen against the paper, mulling over what he should write. Desires of all sorts stream through his head and Cal writes the first that shuttles to the front of his mind. 

I want to kiss you.

Babe, you don’t have to wait on me

Blushing, Cal moves to scribble the phrase out and toss it aside; start anew. But he hesitates. It was blunt and didn’t betray the emotions his heart sang for MC so what was the harm in leaving it be? He visualizes a scale in his head and weighs the pro’s and con’s yet again, finding staggering disparity in weight between the two of them in the favor of the pro’s. It’s what I want and besides, it was innocuous. Acquaintances kiss when they want to all the time, right?

‘Cause I’ve been waitin’ for Heaven above,

The sharpshooter struggles to rationalize his feelings for the fifth time that night and just proceeds to give up, folding the note in half before tucking it inside the envelope. Whatever happened happened and if his true feelings are unveiled, then so be it. But oddly enough, he finds solace in the idea of watching her reaction--seeing what emotions she let show. Beyond the stereotypical surprise, of course. Maybe that’d help him understand the depth of her feelings and, coincidentally, his own too.

Maybe he’d find sanctuary right where he was in life--right where he wanted it.

But an angel ain’t what I need

As begrudgingly as Cal confesses, his opinion of romance changed:

Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

~FIN~

[clumsyclifford]

i’ll be your eyes (you be my face)

‘cause darling i get scared for you, and i’m not busy anyway.

It’s unspoken, but Luke is pretty sure they’re trading off on who gets to have a breakdown every week. (Or, Luke and Ashton help each other. Heal each other. Same thing.)

TWs: depression, suicide ideation, general angst. you guys asked for it. title from the song anyway by noah kahan.

read it on ao3 here

~

It’s unspoken, but Luke is pretty sure they’re trading off on who gets to have a breakdown every week.

Last week it had been Ashton, and Luke thinks he did a decent job talking him down from it. He has some practice. Ashton’s always been — well, they’ve all been fragile, from the very start, but Ashton has always been the most obvious about it. Michael lashes out. Calum pulls himself inward. Luke keeps it quiet. But Ashton bleeds. Ashton leaves himself open and vulnerable, cries tear stains into the carpets and tour bus floors and hotel pillows. This is just the way things are. Ashton bleeds. He’s the only one who does.

This week, though, it’s Luke. Luke knows that because it’s a terrible day, and they’re sitting at dinner and Luke is staring at his plate, and Ashton’s just cracked a joke about something, and now Luke’s heart — his chest — everything’s wrong, and he wants to cry where he didn’t just a moment ago. He’s not hungry. Has he ever been hungry? 

“Luke,” Ashton repeats, but Luke buries his face in his hands instead, elbows digging into the table. This is how it is. They do this over and over. It’s his turn to fucking lose it, isn’t it? He’s earned the right. “Luke. Are you — what can I do?”

Luke shakes his head. “Not hungry,” he says, and then without ceremony pushes his seat back and retreats to his room, shutting the door behind him.

He feels desperate and stretched thin and achy, feels like he’s been in panic mode for weeks and it’s starting to wear him out. Ashton let him move in to help, but Luke hasn’t really gotten better, has he? Still the same piece of shit he was before, rock-bottom with a pickaxe. He flops face-first into his pillow and hugs it tight. Maybe he’ll be able to hold his breath longer this time than the last. Maybe he’ll be able to hold his breath until he passes out. Maybe — 

“Can I come in?”

Luke grunts, which means yes, in Luke-and-Ashton-living-together-speak. The door creaks.

“Can I sit?”

Another grunt. Luke hasn’t taken his face out of his pillow. He’s just beginning to feel lightheaded from it. Maybe this is the time it kills him.

It’s not what he wants, though. It’s not. Sometimes Luke thinks he’s just faking it until he makes it — over and over, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. One day it will be true again. A hand settles delicately over the dip of his spine.

“Pick your head up, Luke.”

Luke doesn’t. His heart is beating faster now; he still hasn’t caught his breath, and now his chest is starting to squeeze, and maybe this really will be it.

“Luke. Stop it.” The hand moves to his shoulder, grips him tightly, forces Luke to turn onto his side, and Luke glares as he exhales.

“We said no more of that shit,” Ashton tells him. “Come on. Tell me what’s going on.”

“You already know what’s going on,” Luke mutters. “My brain is fucked up. That’s what.”

“How do you feel?” Ashton presses. “Did something happen that made you react like this?”

Of course nothing happened. That’s a stupid question. Ashton should know better. “Oh,” Luke says, “you mean other than the fact that there’s something wrong with my fucking brain? No, nothing.”

Ashton doesn’t say, there’s something wrong with mine, too. He doesn’t say, that’s why I’m here. Or even that’s why you’re here. He doesn’t remind Luke that the whole reason they moved in together was to help each other out. That wouldn’t really be true anyway, even though Ashton likes to say it is; the truth is that Luke is imposing on Ashton, and if Ashton weren’t so fucking lonely and broken, if Ashton weren’t just as bad as Luke if not worse, then he’d have never let Luke in. Because Luke is fucked up. There’s no doubt about it. And now Ashton is signed up to deal with it.

“Are you mad at me?” Ashton asks him. Luke stares.

“Of course I’m not fucking mad at you,” he says.

“Then stop taking it out on me,” Ashton says. “Talk to me. Tell me how you’re feeling. We can get through this, you know. We have, and we’ll keep doing it. I know you can. Do you trust me?”

And Luke wants to tell him of course I trust you but that’s not the point, say trusting you isn’t going to fix me, say it’s not about trust. But Ashton’s expression is open, earnest, so deadly sincere. 

“I trust you,” Luke says, like he’s said a hundred times before. “I feel like shit. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “But it’s okay. I know you don’t mean it.” Luke wonders if Ashton really believes that, or if he’s just saying it. And if he means it, what would it take to convince him that Luke hates him? Maybe Ashton trusts Luke too much. Maybe he should say something about that, do something about it.

He remembers a soothing hand to Ashton’s face, a gentle kiss to his forehead while he’d cried about missing his siblings, stroking his hair until he’d fallen limp in Luke’s arms, mumbled words like it’s going to be okay and you’ll see them soon and I’m here, I’ve got you. 

It’s symbiotic in a dangerous way, this precipice they’re balancing on. Just two batteries killing themselves to charge each other. But as long as they stay in this bubble, alone together, they’re effectively immortal. Like Prometheus, cursed to heal every morning only to be torn apart again every night. And around and around they go.

~

By all rights, it’s a good day. A fun day, actually. Luke teaches Ashton to play “She’s Kinda Hot,” and then Ashton goes and does the shopping and Luke cleans the kitchen before he comes back, because he’s just that nice. Ashton makes dinner. They eat. It’s fine. It’s good.

Ashton goes to bed earlier than Luke, always. He’s got a better grasp on what he needs to feel better. Physical health is the first step towards mental health. Ashton has it down to a science, literally, almost. He tries to push Luke, but Luke’s got far too many thoughts to shut up before one in the morning at the earliest, so he’s still awake at midnight after Ashton’s supposedly gone to bed.

He’s still up when he hears footsteps, and that means Ashton’s awake, possibly getting water or something. It’s not a concern. It shouldn’t be.

Then, “Yeah. I miss you, too.” And Luke feels a secondhand pang of hurt, this melancholy that surrounds Ashton whenever anyone mentions his family. It’s a sensitive topic for him more than most; to go from practically raising your siblings to never seeing them must feel like losing a limb, not that Luke would know. He stalls, listening for the sound of Ashton crying or even choking up. He knows his cues. “No, we’re fine,” Ashton carries on, the sound growing distant as Ashton moves further towards the kitchen. “It’s just weird, you know?”

Luke creeps towards his door, listening. “Mike, don’t,” Ashton finally says; Luke does a double-take. Michael? Clifford? Their bandmate and best friend? Okay. That makes sense. It can make sense. If Ashton’s going to be on the phone with anyone at midnight, anyway, it’ll be Michael. “Seriously, it’s so far away.” Pause. “Obviously I — Michael, it’s not worth it. You should spend time with your family. Plus you’d be leaving Cal all by himself and you know he doesn’t do well.” He laughs. “Look, I should sleep. Talk to you later, okay? No, we’ll talk about it later. Okay. Yeah, yeah. Love you. Bye.”

Luke counts under his breath. When he reaches ten he pushes the door open and slowly pads into the kitchen, where Ashton is nowhere to be found.

“Ash?”

“Yeah,” comes Ashton’s voice. Luke comes around the island, and Ashton has his back pressed against it, feet propped up and digging into the bottom drawer across from him. His elbows are resting on his knees, head hung low, fingers tightly woven into his hair. The picture of distress, of silent suffering.

“All right?” Luke asks, even though he’s obviously not. Then, in the interest of transparency, he adds, “I heard you talking to Mikey.”

“He wants to come visit,” Ashton says quietly.

“That sounds nice.”

“I know. It does. I want him to."

"But?"

Ashton blows out a puff of air, like he's smoking but without the cigarette. "I don’t know. I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“I don’t think he’ll care,” Luke says candidly. “He’s seen us both at our worst.”

“I know,” Ashton says despairingly. He’s still talking into his thighs, and hasn’t looked up to see Luke. “It’s just, I don’t know. I’ll be apathetic. I’ll be an asshole, and I’m trying so hard not to be. I don’t want him to think I don’t still like him. Just because I don’t know how to, like, work properly.”

“Ash, Mike’s known us for, like. Six years? Give or take?”

“And I love him, and I don’t want to be like this,” Ashton says frustratedly. “I hate — I don’t want to see anyone. Don’t you feel like this? Ever? That if you have to talk to another person you’ll just —” He tugs at his own hair. “It’s not fair to him. I told him not to come.”

Luke gets it, but he’s surprised to hear it from Ashton. Sometimes it feels like the fame is a forced half of Luke’s social life, contractually obliged to talk to everyone all the time about everything, and in response he has to shut himself away whenever he can or else he’ll commit murder. But Ashton’s friendly, personable; Ashton seems to enjoy creating conversation out of thin air.

“It’s just Michael,” Luke says gently. “He’s been like that more times than any of us can count. Hell, he probably invented the feeling. It doesn’t matter if you want time to yourself when he’s here. It’ll be nice to have him anyway.”

“I miss him,” Ashton says, and picks his head up to look at Luke. “Isn’t that fucked up, that I miss him? I miss Calum. I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“I know that. I know. I feel like I'm missing something and I don’t know what it is.”

“It’s not fucked up to miss your best friends,” Luke says. “And it’s also not fucked up not to.”

“We spend every fucking second together and it drives me crazy,” Ashton says weakly, “and then we’re separated and I miss everyone so much it hurts. Luke, if you hadn’t moved in I think I would have, like. I don’t know.” 

Luke knows, but neither of them are going to say it.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you, not the other way around.”

Ashton shuts his eyes and holds out an arm, which is an invitation, and Luke accepts, sitting down next to Ashton and leaning heavily against his side. Ashton drops his hand to Luke’s shoulder and his fingers brush up against Luke’s bicep, curling under the sleeve of his t-shirt, stalling there.

“Every second you’re not here, I miss you,” Ashton murmurs. Their heads are tipped together; Ashton’s staring straight ahead, and Luke’s looking sort of sideways at the fraying threads at the hem of Ashton’s t-shirt. “Maybe that’s crazy.”

“It’s not crazy,” Luke says quickly. He exhales. “I’m not, like...going anywhere, you know? I need you too.”

“Not as much as I need you,” Ashton says. He’s just like this sometimes. Blunt to a degree that makes you wonder if he’s being genuine. But Ashton’s always genuine. There’s not a truly dishonest bone in his body. 

Luke doesn’t answer that. There’s no way to know whether or not it’s true.

“Wanna sleep with me tonight?” he asks. 

Ashton nods. “I love you, you know?” he says, and Luke does know, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it.

“I love you too.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same,” Ashton says, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“Of course it’s the same,” Luke argues. “How can it not be the same? What, you think I wouldn’t drown without you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“Not now,” Ashton says, sighing. “It’s — sorry. I know I brought it up but not tonight, Luke. I’m tired.”

Luke rests a hand on Ashton’s knee and rubs circles against the fabric of his joggers. “Okay. That’s okay. Bedtime, then?”

“Think so,” Ashton mumbles.

They stand, brush themselves off, return to Luke’s room with arms loosely linked. Ashton crawls under the covers and Luke is close behind. This is a practiced enough routine that Luke knows his choreography. He drapes his arm over Ashton’s waist and the other under his head, and Ashton sinks back into Luke’s chest until it’s hard to tell if they’re still autonomous individuals or just one big super-person. One mega band member full of sadness and pain and despair and a lot of broken music. Minor key people.

“I swear we don’t have to talk about it,” Luke whispers, “but I love you, too. However you meant it, that’s how I mean it.”

“You can’t say that if you don’t know,” Ashton whispers back.

“Well, I love you,” Luke responds. “Full stop, no qualifiers. Even if you didn’t love me I still would.”

Ashton sighs. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“Sure, or whenever. Or never, if that’s what you want. I’m just telling you.” He flattens his palm against Ashton’s heart. Ashton covers it with his own hand.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Luke falls asleep to Ashton's steady breathing, and he thinks, terrifyingly, that he could get used to this.

[outofmylimitcal]

Easier - CTH

a/n: j like the title insinuates its based off their new song easier

synopsis: basically a toxic as fuCK relationship

word count: 1296

warnings: swearinG

♢♢♢♢♢♢♢

You and Cal’s relationship had been rocky to say the least. Fueled with jealousy, secrets, and fighting, the only thing that stayed consistent between the two of you was the mind-blowing makeup sex you had when all was said and forgiven. Him and the boys had just gotten back from tour, yet you hadn’t seen each other yet in the week he’d been home, much to his dismay, and your busy schedule at work. Ashton had decided to throw a party as a welcome back, and Cal had really hoped you’d be there, you told him you’d try to make it if work allowed it but weren’t making any promises. This led to a fight between you and Calum about how you never make time for him, further charged by the fact that you only went out to see him on tour twice in the six months they were gone.

Things with Calum weren’t always bad, the first year of your relationship had been the most fun you had in years, and you loved that you found someone who was basically you in a guy. But then you fell into a routine and the same things that worked because you were so similar, your stubbornness, your jealousy, and your commitment to work began to be the root of your problems. Both of you being so head strong led to neither of you wanting to be wrong in situations and hating to compromise on things you wanted to stand your ground on. Which is why now as you walked into Ashton’s house you were unsure of where your relationship was gonna go, the party was in full swing by the time you had showed up, you were two hours late. Weaving through the dancing people in the living room, and waving hi to the few people you knew, you found yourself in the kitchen pouring a shot and downing it, before making yourself a mixed drink. You knew you’d be able to find Cal, the guys and their girlfriends in the back since they loved to retreat there as the party progressed. But you weren’t sure if you were ready to face them yet.

The guys loved you, and so did their girlfriends, becoming a tight-knit group and many of your fondest memories stemmed from nights out with them, but that didn’t stop them from seeing how toxic your relationship with Cal had become. They knew that Calum would never change who he was, and neither would you, and it’s not like you wanted Calum to change but with the way things were going now all it was going to lead to is even more pain.

“You think she’s gonna show?” Ashton questioned Calum across the patio, Calum was already on his third beer, and did shots earlier before anyone showed up.

“Honestly, I don’t know, and at this point I don’t care. She can do whatever she wants, she’s already showed where her priorities are.” Calum replied taking a swig from his beer and looking up at the night sky. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take playing second fiddle to your job, he loved that you were so passionate about it, just like he was with the band, but every free time you had you never prioritized him like he did with you, and seeing his band mates with their girlfriends always out on tour was hard. But neither one of you really appreciated change so you were stuck in this cycle, even if you both have thought about breaking up, you both also felt like you needed the other to breath.

Walking through the doors to the back, you crossed the patio, to be greeted by a course of hellos and waves from the boys and their girls, yet the only person you cared about was taking another swig from his beer and avoiding eye contact with you. Moving to sit next to him, you mumbled a quick hello and took a sip from your cup, looking sideways at him. He shifted so that he could fully take you in. He couldn’t lie, you looked beautiful, but you always did. And sometimes he thought he loved you so much that he could practically hate you. “Let me guess, work?”

“Yeah, I had some things to finish for a deadline later this week.” You replied, earning a scoff from him, bringing his drink up again.

“I figured, it’s always some shit with work.” He mumbled, jumping into a conversation with Michael about going for a hike this weekend. Taken aback by his coldness, and ability to both insult you and then switch so comfortable into another conversation, you felt the anger slowly build in your stomach..

“Do we really gotta do this now? Right here with all your friends around.” You said, slightly raising your voice, and finishing the rest of your drink. You sensed the change in the atmosphere as several of your friends glanced your way, not wanting to pry, but also seeing the sudden change in both of your demeanors.

“Yeah, we’re gonna fucking do this right here.”

“C’mon Cal, lets discuss this in the morning, we can work it out when you’re sober.” You leaned back in your chair. You watched as Calum’s jaw tensed, and he turned to you narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, how do you know how much I’ve drank if you just got here? How do you know anything? You’re never. Here. Y/N.”

“I’m sorry I have a job. I’m sorry I can’t be at your every beck and call.” You replied leaning forward, resting your elbows on your knees. You looked around the group, earning a few sympathetic glances from Crystal and Sierra. “You know what? I’m just gonna head out. Call me when you figure your shit out. Bye guys, thanks for inviting me Ash.”

With that you picked up your stuff and began to walk toward the door leading to the house.

“Wow real fucking mature Y/N. Always running away when shit gets tough.” Calum called after you, forcing you to spin on your heels.

“What the fuck do you want from me Calum? Would it be easier for you if a stayed? Or if I go?” You said staring pointedly at the man who was now standing in the circle his friends had created on the back porch. “I’m not gonna change who I am, nor do I expect you to.”

“Who the fuck said anything about changing, I just want you to make more of an effort to spend time with me! You saw me on tour twice and haven’t even dropped by to say hello in the week that I’ve been home. I’m supposed to be your boyfriend for god’s sake.”

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you, but I’m trying my fucking best.”

“No, you’re not, Y/N. You find every excuse to not spend time with me and I’m fucking over it.” The rest of the group tried to keep to themselves, and delve back into their own conversations, but you and Calum having a fight in front of them was like a slow-motion car accident, terrible but you can’t bring yourself away from looking.

“Once again, I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Call me when you’re sober.” You calmly shuddered out, letting your shoulders drop from them tension released. Turning back around to head out, you started to take a step.

“Just know if you walk through that door, we’re over. For good.” The tension came back and hit you like a ton of bricks. Not bothering to look back, you kept your eyes trained forward as you stepped up the ledge and back into the house. Guess we were only built to fall.

♢♢♢♢♢♢♢

read part 2 here!

[shannaraisles]

“Your smile is beyond gorgeous… please, keep doing it.” or "Shut up and kiss me already." for whichever OC + LI you want!

My choice ... well, they kind of chose for me. Here’s a wee snippet of Rumor x Callum Hawke. And thank you for the prompt!

“Your smile, my lady, is beyond gorgeous ... please, keep doing it.”

The line was so awful, and delivered with such commitment, Rumor felt herself snort into her glass. Dragged to a fancy soiree at the request of his mother, who felt it was time he started making himself available to be married to a nice rich girl with good teeth, Callum Hawke was doing his damnedest to put them all off him while at the same time saying nothing that Leandra would disapprove of if it got back to her. It was resulting in some truly terrible compliments, delivered from behind the worst attempt at a charming smile Kirkwall had ever seen. No wonder most of these ladies were politely excusing themselves.

Why was she here? Well, she’d had business. Yes, that was the excuse she was going to stick to. It had nothing to do with Callum being here, on display for the rich and hungry. Nothing at all. After all, he was sleeping with Isabela. And so was she. Just not ... together. She bit down on her own lip, the sharp pain just shy of breaking the skin, more than enough to jerk her out of the downward spiral into feeling sorry for herself. She watched from the corner of her eye as yet another noble girl awkwardly excused herself from Callum’s gleefully earnest attentions, catching a glimpse of his self-satisfied smile.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” she asked, her own smile turning just a little wicked as he choked on his wine, spluttering in an attempt not to spit the mouthful down his pretty tunic.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, grabbing a cloth from a passing servant to dab at the spill on his chest.

“Watching you offer yourself to Kirkwall, safe in the knowledge none of them want to risk marrying you,” she informed him with an impish cast to her smile. “I may have had business with the host, too.”

“And Lord Delauncet is happy to let you wander through his party?”

Callum finally looked at her properly, and Rumor felt the barest flutter at the look on his face. In order to blend into a gathering of nobles, she’d had to pretty up a little. Isabela had thoroughly enjoyed painting her eyes with kohl to make the startling blue really pop, her lips with a red so rich it was almost blood dark. Leda had volunteered an hour of her time to loop the upper part of Rumor’s hair into a braided crown, leaving the rest to fall free. And, of all people, Varric had held her hand while she selected a dress. It was almost as though everyone knew the real reason she wanted to be here. But the reaction was definitely worth it. She’d never seen anyone’s jaw drop quite like that before.

His eyes started to drift downward before he caught himself, always a gentleman, but the blush that seemed to rise beneath the scruff on his cheeks was proof positive that he had definitely caught more than a glimpse of the neckline that made her look surprisingly well-endowed. He cleared his throat, glancing away, and fidgeted with the hem of his tunic.

“So ... nice party, hmm?”

Rumor laughed, shaking her head at his awkwardness. “Not a patch on the shindigs they throw in Lowtown,” she told him, glad to see him relax with a far more natural grin.

“We could always skip this one and start something in The Hanged Man,” Callum suggested, gently nudging her elbow with his forearm.

“Eager to escape your duty to be adorable for the noble masses, aren’t you?” she countered, sipping her wine to hide the satisfaction in her smile at his reluctance to be here.

He sighed. “I do not want to marry a noble woman, I want to ...” He trailed off, his blue-eyed gaze flickering toward her briefly. “It keeps Mother happy. She knows I don’t want to be a part of her noble life, but ...”

“She wants you to be acclaimed and praised for the man you are,” Rumor told him quietly. Oddly - or perhaps not - she was in complete agreement with Leandra on that point. “She’s proud of you.”

“She wants grandchildren,” Callum said bluntly, rolling his eyes as, across the room, he spotted his mother encouraging yet another flapping ninny to come and speak to him. “I feel like a stallion being sent out to stud.”

Rumor felt herself chuckle lightly, but the smile faded from her face quicker than she wanted. This was a different world to the circles he usually walked in, but he fitted here just as well as he fitted in her world. Better, perhaps - a nobleman should be handsome and strong, gentle and kind. These people looked down on him for being just a mercenary for hire, but his looks alone would earn him plenty of willing bedfellows. The sting of jealousy rose as she remembered Isabela’s gleeful teasing about Callum’s expertise in bed, and a rebellious spark flared.

“Could always give the nobles some gossip that’ll make her happy,” she offered, setting her glass down on the nearest flat surface. Her hand caught his, bare skin to bare skin something of a shock to her system as she stepped backward, out onto the open balcony that overlooked the city.

“How is this going to become gossip?” Callum laughed as he followed her, the warm weight of his hand settling with startling security about her own. “We’re on a balcony.”

“Aye, and everyone here thinks I’m some mysterious noble heiress with pots of money and a title to die for,” she pointed out, raising her brow. “Feel me up a bit where they can see us, and everyone’ll be congratulating her on your skills as noble bait in no time.”

He gaped at her, his eyes drawn downward once more to where midnight velvet cupped soft peaks he had been trying very hard not to think about for more than three years now. He swallowed, forcing his gaze to hers once more.

“You ... that could be a little awkward,” he attempted to say, raising a hand to rub his fingers through his hair. “Mother does know who you are, you’ve met. I mean, not when you’re ...” He gestured to her noble get-up. “... like this, but she does know that you’re not a noble. And there’s Isabela to consider; she made a very firm threat against my testicles should I do anything to mess with you -”

“Cal.”

He stuttered into silence at the firm intonation of his name. Not even his name, but a nickname no one but she used for him. Rumor raised her brow, feeling a warm glow in her chest at the knowledge that Isabela hadn’t told him not to approach her, just not to mess with her. Wise woman, for all her inability to keep her hands off even when she knew someone else was interested.

She stepped close to him, dancing her fingertips teasingly over the cling of his stained tunic. “Shut up and kiss me already, would you?”

His mouth worked silently for a long moment, remembrances of Isabela’s threat, Varric’s warning, his own unwillingness to let himself hope for anything more than this woman’s friendship, all battering through his mind. But here she was, looking utterly edible in noble finery that showed off all the hints her usual attire only suggested at, asking him to - no, telling him to kiss her. And while his mind was prevaricating, his body had other ideas.

Large hands more used to holding a sword slid over her sides, tentative only because he’d seen what she did to people who touched without permission. But he did have permission, even if it was only to save him the embarrassment of being noble bait and give his mother something to preen about with her noble friends. His eyes flickered from Rumor’s astonishingly blue eyes to the rich dark red of her lips, smiling in invitation ... and his mind abruptly lost the battle. 

He pulled her close to his chest, head dipping to capture her lips with his own, stealing her breath to savor the taste of the deadly little woman in his arms as she gasped for him. There was no hesitation in that kiss, no sense of testing the waters. He had longed for this kiss for entirely too long, and if this was going to be his only opportunity, then he was going to make certain it was one to remember. Strong arms wrapped about her waist as her fingers crept up to tease over his beard, into his hair, the gripping tug of her touch spurring him on to let his hands wander just a little from their place at her hips, seeking the smooth dip of her spine to stroke fingertips over the first swell of her backside as the other hand rose to gently tilt her neck, lips demanding more than a simple kiss.

All thought of the nobles, of his mother, of Isabela, of jealousy ... it was all swept clean from Rumor’s mind. All she could think of, all she could focus on, was the man in her arms, doing his damnedest to pick her apart with just a kiss. Was it all just for show? Was this passion in him a pretense to send those gossips running to please his mother with their feigned excitement and eager bitterness? But those fears were a world away behind the rising tide of her own long-suppressed desire, blanketed in the warmth that she refused to give a name to. She wanted ... and it felt as though he did, too, pressing her back against a cold stone column to ravish her mouth as she nipped at his lips, tugging on the sandy hair she had imagined doing just this to for far too long.

A harsh laugh from the room beyond broke their clinch, both of them lurching away to share ragged breaths in the shadows of the balcony. They had been seen. But that had been the point, hadn’t it? So why were they still wrapped around each other, nose to nose, desire soft and hungry in the eyes that locked in the darkness? Callum leaned down to her again ... and Rumor abruptly remembered why she couldn’t let this go any further. 

“No,” she denied, shaking her head as she pressed against his chest, slipping from his arms. “They’ve got their gossip. Time for me to go.”

“But -”

His protest died on his lips as she slipped away, back into the house, through the crowd, leaving him on the balcony with confusion in his head, an ache in his heart, and an indecent bulge in his pants he was going to have to stay out here for a while to let subside. That ... wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to stay, to let herself feel what he knew she was feeling now he’d tasted it on her lips. She wasn’t supposed to run away from him, not again. Not this time.

He straightened his shoulders, glancing down from the balcony to the city beyond, a city that had given him nothing but what he had fought for with his own hands. Well, this was a fight he was prepared to win, even if it meant getting slapped a few times by the stubbornest woman he’d ever known. Then he remembered who was waiting for him tonight. Isabela.

“Shit.”

Well, that got away from me, somewhat! Fun, though.

[Romantic/Fluff Starters]

[itsworn]

Hemi-Powered 1941 Willys Coupe Is Survivor of Gasser Wars

Survivor.

That word gets used, and misused, a lot in the car hobby. It seems just about any hulk that hasn’t completely returned to its elemental state gets called a survivor. To our way of thinking, though, this ’41 Willys has earned the title.

For one thing, you’re looking at all original sheetmetal. Even the tilt hood is made from the car’s factory front-end parts. There’s no fiberglass here. Some rust repair, sure, covered by fresh primer carefully blended with the 1950s-era red racing paint. The nice-looking trim? Original. Just needed some polish.

What makes the Willys’ condition even more remarkable is the fact that it was drag raced and sold off—not once, but twice—before sympathetic hands sought to preserve it.

After being in Randy Gribble’s hands for nearly 30 years, this veteran of the Midwest gasser wars has found a new home with Gil Muro and his cohorts at the Hot Rod Ranch. “Where I’m from, it’s hard to get California coolness,” says Randy, who’s based in South Dakota. “We don’t have a lot of drag racing out here. We build jalopies for dirt track racing. I’m having more fun knowing Gil is doing something with it.”

  The car’s guardian angel was Randy Gribble, who owns Lake City Rod & Custom in Watertown, South Dakota. He remembers the day, back in 1990, when he and a friend were driving home from a drag race in Omaha. He was leafing through the local Deals on Wheels ad paper while his buddy drove.

That’s where he saw an ad for a Willys. “I had Willys fever,” he says, ticking off several of the diminutive hot rods he’s owned over the years, many of which he had to sell to fund the purchase of land for his shop.

“I made my friend pull off the interstate and find a phone booth. It was a Sunday afternoon. I called this place in Greeley, Colorado, a car lot there, and left a message. On Monday they called back, and I made a deal over the phone.”

A couple weeks later the car showed up at Randy’s place. “My first thoughts were, had I seen the car in person I might have passed on it,” he admits. “But I didn’t have a lot of money. I still don’t. Some things never change. And I wanted one really bad.”

What’s known about the Willys’ racing history starts in the Denver area in the 1950s. Back then it was powered by a Pontiac engine, and after he bought the car Gil turned up an old photo of the Willys with just the Pontiac logos on the doors. Dave Mader and Jerry Morris added their names, and another Pontiac mill, when they raced it in the Kansas area in 1959-1964.

  The Willys “didn’t look as good as its picture,” Randy says. “The grille was busted out in the center. It had old painted silver wheels on back when the picture showed chrome wheels. The frame was chopped up and rusty, and someone had put an aluminum floor in with sheetmetal screws. But it was an all-steel Willys coupe, and I was in love.”

Randy had opened his business 10 years before and was going full-steam on customer projects. That meant relegating the Willys to after-hours status, worked on “a little at a time each winter.” Being in the business, and a collection of parts from his own race car projects, provided opportunities to add choice parts to the car.

The Willys wears 1950s-vintage red paint over what looks like factory white, but there are worn-through areas and places, like this, where all the paint is just gone. Look close at the door and you can see an eighth inch or more of what initially looked like filler under the paint. Closer examination revealed it to be lead.

The Willys’ chassis was so beat up that he “started over” using the frame from “another car I pulled out of the weeds,” a ’41 sedan that would also donate its steering column and dashboard. He and his son burned up two battery-powered screwdrivers getting all the sheetmetal screws out of the floor. Randy had a ’57 392 Hemi, left over from a blown-alcohol nostalgia dragster he sold, that he thought “would be perfect in the Willys.” He found a Don Long chromoly straight axle at a swap meet in Phoenix. “It came off an old gasser that they were mistakenly turning into a street rod,” he says, laughing. “It had Willys spindles and everything, and the perches were perfect for Willys springs.”

It would be years, though, before Randy learned about any of the car’s history. That journey began with a chance encounter, much like spotting the car’s ad in the first place.

“I wish those windows could talk,” Randy says of this odd wear pattern in the paint. His best guess: While the Willys was in storage, a dangling chain, maybe in the garage rafters, would blow around in the wind and hit the car as it was swinging.

“You Got My Old Car”

“I was on my way to the L.A. Roadsters show and was invited to Mike DeVriendt’s open house,” he remembers. “He used to have the So-Cal Speed Shop in Colorado, and that’s the area where this car came from. I was talking to Mike about buying the Willys through the ad, and we realized he sold that car to me. This was 20, 25 years later.”

Mike told Randy he had purchased the Willys from a salvage yard south of Wichita. That piece of the puzzle led Randy to contact his friend, Don Baxter, who ran Baxter Ford Parts in Lawrence, Kansas, to see if he knew anything about the car. Don recalled seeing a Willys with Indian-head emblems on the doors, and remembered a Pontiac engine with a chain-driven blower under the hood. That detail stood out, as “it was the first one with chain drive that he ever saw,” says Randy.

Also lettered on the car were two names, which Randy and a friend punched into an internet search engine four or five years ago. They found a number, dialed it, “and there’s Dave Mader on the phone,” Randy recalls. “I told him what I had, and he said, ‘You got my old car. Me and the sheriff will come get it. That car was stolen.’”

The engine in the Willys is a ’57 392 Hemi that Randy had as a spare for a blown alcohol nostalgia dragster. In the 0.030-over block are flattop forged Ansen blower pistons, Manley rods, and an Engle L153 roller cam. The headers are from Hedman; Gil “cleaned them up and put a good coat of VHT on them.”

It took a second for Randy to realize Mader was joking. Sort of.

Dave Mader and Jerry Morris were friends who bought the Willys in the late 1950s from an ad in a magazine. A drag race car from the Denver area, it had been powered by a Pontiac engine, which explained the logos on the doors. When Mader and Morris bought the car the Poncho mill was toast, so they put another Pontiac in the car, topped by the chain-driven supercharger Don Baxter remembered. They raced it from 1959 to 1964, when Mader was sent to Vietnam. He left the Willys in the care of his partner, but when he came back from the service he learned that Morris had taken the car to a junkyard. “It sounded like Morris was in bad health,” Randy says, “but he still had the original title to the car.”

Randy asked Mader if he had any photos from their racing days. “We could hardly afford gas for the car,” Mader told him. “We didn’t have a camera.”

Gil had the vintage Mickey Thompson valve covers from “another Hemi project,” under which are triple-nickel 354 heads that were ported by Lockerman Porting Service. The heads are from “Mark Williams’ last front-engine dragster,” Randy says. “It was a normally aspirated, nitro-injected, A/Fuel car back in the day.”

(We would love to hear from any Deluxe readers who may have seen the car race or have photos of it, from the Mader/Morris years or even before, when it was in Denver. It should be easy to spot in your scrapbook. How many Willys decorated with Indian heads can there be?)

Mader asked him if it still had its Pontiac engine and Olds rearend. “No,” Randy told him, “no motor. Just the Pontiac emblem on the doors, and a Tri-Five rearend to roll it around.” Randy said Mader “wasn’t all that happy” to learn Randy put a Hemi in the car. “He wanted a Pontiac back in it,” Randy says, admitting, “I should have done a Pontiac motor. And if Gil and I didn’t have all this Hemi stuff, that’s what he’d be doing now.”

Gil provided the parts for the Hemi’s induction system: Twin 750-cfm Holleys feeding a 6-71 supercharger on a Cragar blower intake. He’s still tinkering with the motor, so we weren’t able to hear it fire. Among the mods already planned are different pulleys “to overdrive it to get more power.”

Lightening the Load

That would be Gil Muro, who with his brothers and other family members operates Hot Rod Ranch in the central California town of Lompoc.

Randy knew Gil from the March Meet. “I used to race there when the Goodguys were doing it. Gil bought a few parts from me at the swap meet.” Over the years, the two stayed in touch, so Gil had Randy’s number handy when he saw on Instagram that the Willys was for sale.

“I put so many projects ahead of this thing, just worked on it when I had the time, when I felt like it,” Randy says. “Pretty soon, it had been 28 years. I’m 64 years old, and I’m thinking about lightening the load a bit. That’s one reason why I got rid of it.”

Randy fashioned the tilt front end when he realized “I had to have it flip to work on the motor. I couldn’t work on it if just the hood opened.” But he wanted to retain all the factory front-end parts rather than graft on a fiberglass nose. So he bolted the stock hood and fenders together and fabricated the aluminum brackets that join the front end to the frame. The frame, by the way, looks just as pretty under the car as it does here. Gil smoothed and painted the whole thing.

Plus, he explained, he had taken the car to the point where it was ready for bodywork. “I’m not a body man,” he admits. “I would have had to hire that done.” He also faced a decision about the paint. He had a lot of lengthy discussions with a friend, Craig “Spud” Godfrey, about whether to preserve the historic paint or re-paint the car. “Spud would have been the one to repaint it if I decided to go that way,” Randy says. In the end, he felt the body should stay in its as-raced condition. “But there’s so much bad there to be fixed, it would take someone like Gil to save the old paint.”

Gil immediately recognized the car’s potential. “It’s really rare to find a ’41 Willys that’s all steel and even has the original trim.” Like Randy, he wants to get the car running while keeping it as original as possible. “Really what we’re doing is helping Randy finish his dream.”

Randy found the Willys’ front suspension at a swap meet: a spindle-to-spindle setup using a Don Long chromoly straight axle. When Randy got the car it had “an original Willys axle in it that had a little drop to it,” he says, “but this axle has the gasser history that I wanted.” He re-arched the front springs to give the nose a little altitude (and attitude).

Wilwood front disc brakes are among the car’s few contemporary components (along with a fuel cell in the trunk), all there for safety, says Gil. “Old Airheart brakes would be cool, but I wanted some real stopping power considering how fast this thing will be.”

Randy removed the Tri-Five Chevy rearend that was under the Willys when he bought it and replaced it with this ’57 Pontiac rearend, filled with 4.88 gears, a spool, and 35-spline Old Henry’s axles.

When he took out the Chevy rearend, Randy found ladder-bar brackets and fabricated these “based on the look I wanted and where I thought they should come out. I studied a few old HOT ROD magazines and saw what they were doing.” The bars are made from 1 1/4-inch DOM with quarter-inch-wall tube. “I did step up to regular Art Morrison ladder bar ends, good solid rod ends,” Randy said.

The original floor had been cut out and replaced with a floor that was attached with sheetmetal screws. Plus, “the whole A-pillar structure was in pretty poor shape,” Randy recalls. “I had to put a lot of substructure back in there.” To offset that weight, he made new floor pans from 12-gauge aluminum, supported by “two c-channel frames, one inside the other. It should be pretty strong.”

More of Randy’s fabrication work: The steering column came from the donor sedan that provided the Willys’ frame, but he fashioned the pedal assembly to look like vintage Ansen parts. “The pads are real Ansen, but I made the pedals.” The bracket that supports the pedals ties into the column “where the Willys’ shifter post used to be for the three-on-the-tree shifter.”

They look like old racing buckets because they’re supposed to, but the seats are actually aftermarket high-back buckets Randy found at a swap meet. “I tried to make them look old-timey by cutting the headrests off.” Between the seats is a B&M Series 60 shifter controlling the car’s clutch Turbo 400.

A big Sun tach and Stewart-Warner gauges monitor the goings-on, but Randy also left room for this ’41 Willys dashboard, another transplant from the sedan parts car. “It’s an original dashboard, just not original to this car,” he explains. “My friend Spud detailed it for me.”

The fat 12-16 M&H Racemasters are reproductions, but inside them are gennie 16×11 Halibrand mags. The front rolling stock is all repro: Halibrand kidney-bean lookalikes from Summit Racing Equipment mounting 5.00-15 BFG Silvertowns from Coker.

Paragon Plastics cut the Plexiglas side and rear windows for Gil.

Randy radiused the wheelwells; Gil patched the rust around the lower edges, then sprayed the work with primer. One reason the original trim stayed in such good shape is because Randy took it off and stored it for the nearly 30 years he owned the car.

It’s still a work in progress, but probably by the time you read this the Willys will be back on the street— and maybe even the dragstrip. As the process nears completion, Gil wanted to acknowledge the people who helped him. “I want to thank my entire family, especially my wife Charryse and my kids, Bella and Cruz, for all their support. I’d also like to thank all the guys who helped on the car: Russell Smith, Jesse Alarcon, Dave Andrews, Chris Barker, Steve Gaboury, Harold Davis, and Dusty Albrecht.”

The post Hemi-Powered 1941 Willys Coupe Is Survivor of Gasser Wars appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[cal-evans]

Nature Event

Scene: Filmed scene involving nataure

Partners: Jeff Sterling & Calvin Evans

Notes: Jeff and Cal explore edging in the lake 

Cal paddled the kayak as hard as he could. Jeff was a lot stronger than he was, but they still seemed evenly matched even if he was getting a little tired. He looked over his shoulder and Jeff and grinned. "This is great! There's no one on this side of the lake. Like we're alone in nature."

Jeff was having fun with Cal and it was nice to finally have some time alone with him as they were out in a kayak. Smiling to him, he nodded and even leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "it is, its nice to have you all to myself and be alone too." Setting his paddle down, Jeff scooted up a bit and wrapped his arms around Cal's waist. "Lets jump in..."

Cal opened his eyes wide. "Here?" He laughed but slowly set down his own paddle. "Okay!" He pulled his t-shirt over his head, getting a fresh scent of the sunblock that he'd covered himself with.

Jeff nodded, pulling his shirt off as well, setting his phone in the seat. With a wink, he stood and jumped in. Surfacing, Jeff chuckled and splashed at Cal. "Come on baby, daddy wants to swim with you and make you be a good boy in the water."

Cal hesitated a moment too long wavering between jumping in and not and suddenly fell right in the water with a giant splash. He surfaced spluttering. When he saw Jeff he grinned. "Hi Daddy! I jumped."

Jeff chuckled, pulling him close and kissing him softly. "Hi princess." He knew they had to do a scene but out here, they wouldn't be able to film it all that well. So for now, it was nice just being in the water with him. "You know, we should get to shallow water so we can do our scene for presentations, princess."

Cal tread water as he was kissed by Jeff. He wasn't very fond of filming something, but it would be points to get them toward the time when they could claim. And besides, it was very romantic out here by themselves. "Okay!"

Jeff swam over to the kayak and grabbed on it. "Go grab the other side and we'll swim it into the shore." Holding on, Jeff swam with him to the shore and put the kayak on shore. Once they were there, he pulled Cal in close. "Set up my phone for me, princess." Wanting to get his thoughts together for the scene

Cal followed directions and they were soon on the shore. He nodded, giving Jeff a kiss before getting the phone from the kayak and creating a little stand for it with rocks on the small beach they'd landed at. He looked and deemed it successful and then waded out in the water to Jeff.

Jeff smiled to him. They were only up to their knees in it. "Strip and kneel for me. We'll go over your safeword and limits. Once on your knees I want you to recite them for me." Waiting there and watching, Jeff looked to the phone and was glad to see it got a good view of them in it.

Cal knelt down and looked up at Jeff. "My safeword is platypus. My limits are pain and humiliation and sex with people other than my Sir." He smiled up at Jeff.

Cal quickly stripped and set his clothes on the kayak to dry. He knelt down and looked up at Jeff. "My safeword is platypus. My limits are pain and humiliation and sex with people other than my Sir." He smiled up at Jeff.

Jeff nodded to him as he did as he was told. "Good boy." Now they were going to do some things that would push the boy. Kneeling down, Jeff grabbed the boy's cock and started to stroke him. "I'm going to play with you, bringing you close then stopping, until you beg for me. Do you understand?"

Cal nodded. They'd never done anything like that before. Jeff's stroke was light and made his small cock start to fill, getting hard in the cool water. "Y.. yes Sir."

Jeff "Good boy." Jeff told him, still stroking and watching the boy's reaction as he did. When he saw a face he knew well, he stopped. "How are you feeling, boy?" he asked. His hand was still on Cal's cock.

Cal felt that oh so familiar feeling building low in his stomach, muscles tightening and balls pulling up tight, but then it stopped. Jeff's hand stilled and his abdomen clenched and jumped. "J...Jeff..." He whimpered in a high pitched keen.

Jeff 's brow raised. "What did you call me?" Knowing as they were in a scene that was something that Cal wasn't allowed to do. He would make it up to him later though.

Cal stuttered out an apology. "Sorry Sir... Sir." Without his conscious mind even thinking about it his body jerked forward seeking out friction again.

Jeff sighed some. "For that slip up, you will be receiving a punishment after we're done." Seeing him jerk some, Jeff tightened his grip. "Now I ask again, how are you feeling?"

Cal couldn't believe that he'd forgotten to use Jeff's title. It was so unlike him. He nodded quickly, knowing that a punishment was expected. "Feeling... feeling like I want more. Can I have more Sir?"

Jeff nodded to him. He figured that would be the case. "I know you can ask and beg better then that for more. Try again, boy. Sir wants to hear you beg like the good boy you are."

Cal whimpered. "Please Sir. Feels good. Please help me feel good. Pl... please." His eyes begged along with his words.

Jeff started to move his hand once more. This went on for a bit, getting him going and stopping again. Each time he stopped he'd have Cal explain and beg for more. After 5 minutes of this went on, his hand came fully from the boy's cock. Jeff sat back, rubbing himself. "How are you now, boy?"

Cal was nearly a sobbing mess by this point. He'd never experienced this and didn't know how to react. If he didn't have his role as a submissive to fall back on; if he couldn't give over control he would surely go crazy from the over stimulation. "N... n.. need. Sir please. He reached out and rested his forehead on Jeff's chest breathing heavily as his cock jumped and twitched.

Jeff ran his hand down the boy's back. He moved his hand back down and stroked him with the lake water like he had been doing. He brought him close again, then leaned in. "Come for me, boy. Come for your sir." he ordered of him.

Cal thinks he could have come with the order alone. He'd do anything his Sir told him. With Jeff stroking him at the same time though he certainly had no choice. He shook and moaned as he came.

Jeff , having the boy cum for him, smiled to him. "Good boy." He stroked him until he was done. Most wouldn't know but Jeff knew this was hard for Cal. Once he was sure, he was done, Jeff released his cock. "Now is time for your punishment, ass up. You will be getting two spanks for forgetting my title."

Cal took a while to finish and for his breath came back to normal. He looked up when Jeff spoke and nodded. He'd earned his punishment and wouldn't fight it, though he was a bit frightened. He had to put his hands down on the silty bottom of the lake so that he could push his own bottom up for his Sir. "I'm sorry for forgetting your title Sir. I won't do it again." Two spanks weren't too bad. It was worse that he'd let Jeff down.

Jeff "I know you won't." With that, he gave him two spanks. "Good boy taking your punishment, now kneel for me once more." He wanted to give him aftercare but knew he needed to shut the camera off first. Once Cal was kneeling, Jeff walked over and shut it off. Quickly, he returned to his love. Using the lake water, he cleaned him up and put his swim shorts back on him. Jeff cuddled the boy close in his arms.

Cal approached most scenes with a bit of trepidation, but Jeff always took such good care of him. As he was cuddled close. "I love you Sir. Didn't take care of you. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

Jeff nodded to him, holding him close. "Dont' worry about me, I'll be okay. Come on my love." Jeff scooping him up and holding him close as he carried him to his tent.

[itsworn]

1932 Ford pickup is all hot rod

Bauder’s Hauler

A 1932 Ford Pickup for a Hot Rod Pioneer

There are those who have blazed the trail, carving a niche for themselves in automotive history, whose aura transcends the use of a complete first and last name so that by uttering just a last name is more than sufficient for everyone to understand who everyone is talking about.

Though most of the following names could certainly fall into that category, see if you can pick out the common thread in this list of hot rodding luminaries: Boyd Coddington, Don Thelen, Pete Chapouris, Chuck Lombardo, Vern Luce, Jerry Moreland, Steve Davis, Barry Lobeck, Gary Meadors, Steve Coonan, Alex Xydias, Lil’ John Buttera, Thom Taylor, and Bruce Meyer.

Can’t put your finger on it? How about Bob Bauder? Don’t know the name? Well don’t feel bad—Bob is the most famous guy you probably haven’t heard of. But all those other folks certainly know his name, and many of them would not have ever known about each other if it wasn’t for Bauder. And if you do happen to know Bauder’s name, it’s a safe bet it’s for maybe one car he owned or maybe two, but Bob’s legacy goes far deeper than that.

Born in New Castle, Pennsylvania, in 1944 (the same town California Street Rods’ Chuck Lombardo was from), Bob decided he’d drive his ’55 Chevy to the West Coast after graduating high school in 1962 and live the hot rod lifestyle. Now this is the ’62 version of hot rodding, which centered on drag racing, and building cars at home without a local shop or parts catalog to help. He ran his car out of gas in the middle of California and, at different times, lived in both his car and inside the gas station where he worked, but still being able to find the money to race a ’63 Corvette he’d built for himself.

Pedal to the metal kind of driving is probably the first thing people who know Bob would have to say about him. He’s also never had an interest in being famous or trading his soul to be perceived as something he isn’t, he’s just wanted to build hot rods and, more often than not, go really fast in them!

In the late ’60s there were a core of folks working on hot rods, but there were no real aftermarket businesses catering to them, and certainly no place where you could order up a chassis and have some car built for you. Bauder had moved to Orange County in Southern California by the early ’70s, and hanging out at Don Thelen’s Buffalo Motor Cars, one of the most respected shops around. It’s where he met Pete Chapouris, who had recently opened Pete & Jakes—one of the first aftermarket hot rod shops that specialized in making chassis and suspension parts for the home builder.

It’s also about the time he’d met Vern Luce—a candy manufacturer who was looking for someone to build him a nice car. Bob ended up introducing Vern to one of his other friends, who was a machinist working at Disneyland: Boyd Coddington. In the ’70s Bauder had told Boyd he needed to quit his job at Disneyland and open a hot rod shop full time (much to the chagrin of Boyd’s wife, Diane), as Coddington had already built a couple of finely-crafted cars for himself.

Boyd took on the job of building a red three-window ’33 Ford in his backyard for Luce that would not only go on to win the Al Slonaker Award at the 1981 Grand National Roadster Show (the show’s highest honor next to its AMBR award), but the smoothed-out design and use of one-off aluminum suspension and engine pieces (milled by Lil’ John Buttera), the monochromatic paint, a then-unheard-of three-piece hood, and no hinges, door handles, or windshield frame, would set the high standard mark for the street rod world for the next 30 years.

Boyd had been told if Vern’s car had been a roadster, it would have won the AMBR award so, in less than a year, Boyd and his talented crew built a red ’33 roadster for Jamie Musselman. The roadster did win the AMBR award in 1982, and those two cars subsequently put Boyd, and his Lil’ John Buttera-carved aluminum suspension parts and wheels, on the proverbial hot rodding map.

In 1981 Bauder had left the growing OC for the quiet hill country of Crestline, located in the mountains in nearby San Bernardino and, by the mid ’80s he was driving around in his Regency Red blown and chopped ’32 Ford sedan (no doubt scaring anyone would take a ride with him). In the hot rodding world there was also a push to build fat-fendered hot rods. Coincidentally, in 1985, Bauder partnered with Tom Vogele, a Boyd employee (and years before he’d become the editor of Street Rodder magazine), and began a build on Jerry Moreland’s ’40 Ford sedan that would eventually earn the World’s Fastest Street Rod title.

Built in just six months in Vogele’s home garage, the lacquer black beast looked as nice as any hot rod out there but, with a 466 Yenko aluminum block V-8 topped with a 8:71 Littlefield blower poking out of the hood producing 840-horsepower at 6,500 rpm, the all-steel car could run the quarter-mile in 9.10 seconds and 148 mph (remember: this is 1986).

By the late ’80s Chapouris had sold Pete & Jakes, left his position at SEMA, and decided to move “up the mountain” and just around the corner from Bauder’s place. In 1990 the two would form Syntassian, which Pete joked  meant “synergy” in Greek, and start building cars as well as a pair of highly-customized Harley motorcycles for one of Pete’s customers: ZZ Top guitarist Billy Gibbons. The pair of eggplant purple HogZZillas were stylized in same theme as Billy’s CadZZilla Cadillac (built at Boyds), and the bikes were completed in just 30 days, start to finish.

Also in the early ’80s Bauder owned a chopped Merc and, like most of what Bob owned, it was for sale. Jim DeFrank had a friend, Bruce Meyer, that was looking for just such a car, so he set the two up. Meyer ended up buying the Merc and, soon after, bought a ’32 roadster from Bob that Bauder had bought from Steve Coonan who, in turn, had bought from Ohio’s Barry Lobeck.

Meyer had already started collecting and restoring vintage race cars, and he told Bob he was looking for the famous drag and lakes coupe owned by the Pierson Brothers. Bauder located the car and Meyer was able to purchase it but, being a vintage (and abused) race car, it was more work than Bob wanted to do, so Bauder told Meyer he should have his buddy Chapouris do the restoration. Chapouris not only restored the racer (which was first shown at the Pebble Beach Concourse in 1991), but also four other famous hot rods for Meyer, including the Doane Spencer roadster and the SO-CAL Speed Shop belly tank.

It was Meyer’s habit of finding the original owners of these historic cars to participate and be a part of the restorations, and Meyer was able to bring the belly tank’s first owner, Alex Xydias, up the mountain to meet Pete. Soon Chapouris was getting enough work that he wanted to get back into the hot rod business big time and expand to a new shop, so he opened PC3g (the Pete Chapouris III Group) in Pomona which, in a few years, was rebranded as SO-CAL Speed Shop with a new partnership with Xydias. Chapouris has said that Bauder was “instrumental” in helping him achieve the heights to which he would rise.

Though Chapouris would move off the mountain in the late ’90s, Bauder stayed put and spent his time restoring nearly 40 cross-ram and Hemi Dodge race cars and factory lightweights, as well as three rare Thunderbolts.

In the early 2000s Bauder again worked with Bruce Meyer, this time on the restoration of the Doyle Gammell coupe (which Meyer still owns), and Bob also spent time building a Viper-powered ’48 Chrysler Town and Country woodie for Goodguys’ Gary Meadors. Originally the convertible was going to be painted a maroon but, after Meadors saw a few test panels Bauder had provided, thought the color just lay there, so he changed the color to forest green.

Through the decades Bauder has had a love for ’32 Fords, and not just roadsters. He’s owned panel deliveries as well as pickup trucks, each of them making a mark when they’d debuted. But recently Bob got the idea he’d like to build another 1832 Ford pickup, so he started looking for the parts he didn’t already have.

The foundation to the new project started with an Al Simon frame, to which Bob added his own four-bar front suspension and monoleaf spring along with a triangulated rear setup for the 8-inch (3.23:1) rearend, which features Currie axles and Romic coilover shocks.

The 8-inch rear brake drums were retained; though the front utilizes ’41 Lincoln brakes outfitted with Buick drums. Steering is accomplished with a tried and true cross-steer Vega box, though the column is from a ’55 Corvette.  The gas tank came out of a 1932 passenger car, and the pickup rolls on Wheel Smith 15 x 6 and eight wires wrapped in BFGoodrich rubber.

The engine, a ’67 Chevy 327, is not particularly flashy, but gets the job done. Jim Rameriz out of Crestline did the motor build for Bob, and it’s backed to a TH350 trans. A single AFB four-barrel feeds the V-8, which is topped by a pair of seven-fin chrome Corvette valve covers. Other goodies include a 140-amp alternator, and chrome ram horn exhaust manifolds that run out to a muffler system put together at Scotty’s Mufflers in San Bernardino.

The condition of the truck cab, which was found in Wisconsin, Bob describes as “a true barn find.” He was able to rustle up a set of 25-louver hood sides (20 is what they came with), and tracked down a gentleman who scratch built a pair of rear fenders (stock ones are very rare) that were so nice they bolted right onto the bed without any modifications. Bob also outfitted the base to the cab’s bench seat with the truck’s A/C unit, with vents running off the side and front of the base, and the Alpine stereo unit got mounted in the base as well.

After he got the metal pieces together, Bob gave all of it to Dakota Wentz of Star Kustom Shop in Riverside along with the codes for a one-off maroon PPG paint color. Dakota reskinned a portion of the driver’s door, removed some of the rivets in the bed, sprayed the cab, repro bed, and wire wheels, and then changed over to gloss black for the fenders and some accents on the tailgate. Brad King from Hesperia soon followed with a red pinstripe down the body reveals as well as extra graphics on the ’30s-era Potter Mfg. trunk in the truck’s bed (that holds Bob’s tool box and cleaning paraphernalia). Whatever chrome there was on the car was dipped in the tanks at M&B Polishing in San Bernardino, California.

An Auburn dash and engine-turned gauge panel found its way into the truck, with five Stewart Warner gauges telling Bob what’s going on with the vehicle’s electronics (Bauder wired the truck himself). A Sandoz-Vuille mirror-mounted clock (a Ford accessory in the ’30s) is fixed off the header, and the ’58 Corvette steering wheel carries over the hot rod theme of the truck. Just in front of the seat is a tall, floor-mounted Gennie shifter topped with a Akron marble shifter ball.

Luis Valenzuela from Valenzuela Auto Upholstery in Victorville is responsible for laying out the Mercedes carpet as well stitching up the maroon leather for the bench seat and headliner (the interior side of the steel doors are painted the same as the truck’s exterior).

From start to finish it only took Bob and friends 10 months to build the truck—another in a long line of hot rods that were built by one of the guys who was there at the very start of the street rodding hobby.

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