#i cannot scream or vibrate in my seat or bounce around or emote or pause 2 ramble abt smth cool for 15 min straight

[sapsolais]

i hate the movie theater bc i can't be autistic in there

[jojo-reader-hell]

Bucci Gang x Reader: Adheridos Separados

A story about coming home from a foreign country. Focuses on Hispanic!Reader because I need representation. So if you’re not Hispanic congrats, you are now.

You’re filthy.

You smell like a mixture of crotch, urine, and death breath. Didn’t even brush your teeth the morning you left Helsinki nor did you bother at the various terminals you visited.Just jumped out of bed and took off, didn’t even change out of your pajamas.

Hair in knots, beat up leather jacket around your shoulders, you sneak glances here and there as the plane descends. Thank God, she gave you enough money for two tickets, so you were able to avoid tormenting an unfortunate seatmate for five and a half hours. Instead by your side sat your black guitar case, the sole piece of luggage you carried with you wherever you went.

Please… Fucking shit… Please let them be there…

Thank God Finland was only one hour ahead. At first you were worried you wouldn’t make it in time, they didn’t linger during lunch. Not when there were other things to take care of, if the boys got into a fight they left early, or if one of them got a wild hair and decided to eat somewhere else, Libeccio might very well be empty by the time you found a taxi and this makes you sweat even more.

Hurry the fuck up!!

Your boot makes a pattering sound as you bounce your leg in anticipation. You keep muttering under your breath for the pendejo flying the plane to hurry his lazy ass up, hand wrapped around the handle of your guitar case as though you’re going to swing it out at the first person who tries to line up before you in the skinny aisle of the plane. Around you, the world moves on. Some people speak in Finnish, occasionally there’s the obnoxious American tourist gushing and you understand simple words like “ocean” and the ever annoying “oh my gawwwwwwwd”, even some Italians are on this flight, complaining about the lows of negative seven Celsius and how they’re looking forward to the warmth back home.

“Apurate cabron!” you nearly scream it out but it catches hoarsely in your throat.

No one seems to notice your distress. It’s probably for the best. You don’t want to talk to anyone else right now. You’re itching to go, bouncing in your seat when the wheels touch down and barely hearing the roar of the brakes through the pounding of your heart in your ears. You stand even before the seat belt lights turn off, conventional airline etiquette can suck your clit if any of these fuckers think for a minute you’re going to wait for them to get off first.

Rude as ever, you push your way to the front, earning a lot of complaints from the passengers but silencing them with a red hot glance of murder when you bullied your way to the front of the plane.

You don’t even bother to take in the sight of the white walls of Napoli Airport like the tourists do. You book it out of the gate, guitar case swinging haphazardly as you break into a sprint out of the terminal. This time, you didn’t bother to waste another minute with a letter. If you had, they’d be waiting for you with a car, and this would have taken seconds to quell the heartache you felt in your chest.

But to hell with wasting time that could get you home quicker. You didn’t even wait for the snow to melt in the country you were staying in. As soon as she gave you the money to leave you left, not even pausing once to say goodbye to the two old women that had shown you what was in your heart.

Scanning the front of the airport for a familiar yellow color, you manage finally to flag someone down. Quickly you enter, slamming the door once you’re seated next to your guitar case. You don’t let the man get a word in edgewise. Waving a stack of bills in the driver’s face, you tell in lispy Italian where you need to go, not caring that his smile is really a cruel mockery and turning it into a frown when you open your mouth again.

“Did you hear a word I said? Hurry up and drive me there! I know my Italian is not so very bad. ¡Ya me tienes harto! ¡Vete a la chingada!”

The effect is instantaneous. Both languages are not so different that the Italians cannot understand what you’re saying. Often you talk a lot of shit in your native language, earning mean looks from the person that hears it, and the driver swears at you before peeling out of the front of Napoli Airport. There’s something in your eyes that makes him afraid to do more than call you a dirty whore, he didn’t even kick you out when you started back at him in Castiliano. The both of you argue the whole way, bitching at one another until you throw the stack of bills on his lap before you exit, leaving your new best friend with a nice piece of advice:

“¡Tómate tu dinero y mételo en el culo!” you scream.

“Vai a cagare brutta stronza!”

You laugh. You start fucking howling when you slam the door of the taxi, leaning on your guitar as he peels off. Of course the entire street is staring, but you could really give a fuck less.

God dammit… You’re HOME!

“Bahahahaahahaha! D-did you see that?” you’re too choked up, shaking even as it appears you’re talking to thin air. “He… he called me a bitch! HAHAHAHAHA!”

A throaty metallic laugh sounds off next to you, a rather tall figure in black puts a hand up to the only part of her face that’s not covered by her helmet. A filthy word in Spanish blinks across her helmet, and you laugh harder, clutching your stomach and not even bothering with the looks or the mutterings of what a freak you are. You must look like some smelly nut job, but you could care less.

“Come on,” you tell your Stand, gesturing with the guitar case towards the restaurant. “Let’s go!”

The Brainwasher’s coo sounds almost like a chirp. She follows eagerly behind you as you walk the few blocks towards the restaurant. Stubborn asshole didn’t even drop you at the front like they usually did, probably shouldn’t have said you fucked his mother, but whatever. It wasn’t like you were ever going to need to take a taxi again in your life anyways. Finally you look up at the streets you couldn’t stop seeing in your dreams. Everything is clean, just how you left it before the beginning of autumn. Everything stays, but there are some subtle differences in how you perceive the facades, the green awnings and black telephone wires with birds, the red brick buildings and the smell of freshly cooked Napoli fare. It hits you how hungry you were, not just for a meal, but for the comfort you had here in this town.

They have to be here, you think to yourself as you slow your pace and your racing heart, I made it just in time… They probably just sat down to eat and I’m going to walk in on them drinking, probably starting on torte alle frogole or perhaps I’ll catch them in the middle of a bite of veal… And when I get my kisses, they’re going to taste so sweet no matter what they’ve been eating…

Your Stand chirrups in delight, the word “Papi” blinking across her helmet in pink along with a series of hearts all in the different colors of the rainbow. You smile at The Brainwasher, and she gives you a toothy grin in return as the both of you take your time to savor the streets of Naples. You want to take it in slowly, it’s been too long already… But on the opposite side of the coin you feel as though you’re merely trying to hold back the full body vibrating you feel at the prospect of seeing the loves of your life for the first time in what feels like forever.

Strange, you think as you enter the restaurant and see the host’s eyes light up, It never used to feel like I was away very long before. It felt like I’d never left, and I’d actually start feeling an anxiety… now… I feel like I’ve been away too long…

“Singorina Esposito!”

You laugh.

“I told you to call me by my first name.” you grin. “Please, is he… are they all…?”

The words can’t come to you, but he knows what you want and wordlessly ushers you through the tables to the back.

“Of course Singorina Espo- I… apologies! Yes, they’re all here today!”

The fake name you’ve been given never ceases to amuse you. With a bit of morbid curiosity, you’ve come to find the identity one of your boyfriends has given you in order for you to stay long periods of time actually is a throw away name for Italian orphans. But it’s more amusing than insulting, because it can also be a cute way of calling someone “husband” in your native language, and you waste no time informing your boyfriend.

“What? You miss me that much you want to marry me?” you’d asked coyly, laughing at his red face. “Uh? Am I your husband, and you’re the wife? Pining for me every time I have to leave for work? Then come here and give your esposo a kiss~.”

“SHOW HIM SOME RESPECT!”

You stop short of the archway and peer into the reserved area. There’s tea all over the table, the remains of a shattered cup staining the floors with dark liquid and you catch a whiff of Darjeeling. One boyfriend screams at the others, a stranger next to him with gold hair as both have their backs to you. Your breath catches in your throat… There’s an air of uncertainty. You want to call out to them, to say something, but all the things you intended to say to them clog in your vocal cords and you can’t even gurgle out one word in Italian.

The Brainwasher flickers to life next to you.

“Ya llegué.” She whispers softly.

Time stops. Six pairs of eyes fall on you, one unfamiliar, the other five with some sort of confusion. You see the emotions mix, tumble over one another, until warm recognition makes you smile in delight.

“H-…”

A scream, a yelp of your name is all you hear as you’re suddenly pinned to the floor by an overly exuberant mass of orange, leather and messy black hair. The case in your hand is pulled out of your grasp last minute by The Brainwasher, and she has only moments to react before you are completely taken over by bodies.

“MIA RAGAZZA!”

All of them are screaming your name, kisses are planted on every bit of exposed skin. Someone bites your earlobe and you exclaim out in pain, the one who tackled you takes advantage of this and you taste the sweetness of his tongue against yours, hearing him moaning loudly into the kiss. Your tangles are yanked back and you’re separated from your attacker, mouth taken up into another kiss that tastes of strawberries and cream while your lips are smeared with purple lipstick.

“Where the fuck were you all this time?!” screams the one that bit you.

“You didn’t even call or write!” whines the tackler.

Another body just as ripe as yours heaves you all up off the floor.

“Yuck! You stink!” he cries, and you feel tears dribble onto your face as he clutches you tightly to his smelly chest. “You’re so gross… You… You…!”

This whole time you haven’t made a sound. You’re far too caught up in the lips and the tongues that pull you in several directions at a time to notice that you’ve drawn the attention of everyone in the entire restaurant. You don’t even care that The Brainwasher has disappeared and dropped your case to the floor, not when your heart is bursting and you’re being showered in all the love you’ve craved over the last few months. What a difference it made, now that your eyes were wide open and you could see clearly without the other emotions bogging you down.

Remember what I told you. Hold them close. Be thankful for the freedom they’ve given you…

You look up when you hear your name murmured.

There he is… He’s still as handsome as ever. Looking you over with those ocean eyes as his face contorts like he’s going to cry at any moment. The others let you out of their grasp reluctantly, you still feel fingers on your back as you step closer, but you don’t have to move any further.

Olive toned hands take your face up, your skin is covered in lipstick and tears and snot bubbles and you still smell like a toilet but he doesn’t care a whit. He merely swipes a thumb across your cheek, his eyes squinting into a smile, lower lip quivering as though he’s afraid to kiss you.

“I’m home.” You tell him simply. Like you went to the grocery store for some milk.

He says nothing. Takes you up in his grasp and kisses you like his life depends on it, the clean taste of his mouth against yours as you wrap your arms around his neck. As Bruno Buccellati kisses you fervently, you feel the bodies of your other lovers engulf you. Leone Abbacchio’s large hands caress your waist, Narancia Ghirga pulls on the hem of your pants, Pannacotta Fugo and Guido Mista can’t help but take each arm and pepper kisses on every inch they can get a hold of. You’re ensconced in this feeling. Well loved. Steaming hot and relieved from the cold of loneliness you’d been feeling the entire winter.

As you’re being showered in affection, you don’t notice the last pair of eyes viewing this display with a strange, mounting envy. You don’t notice him cock his head as the boys kiss and complement you. Wanting to know who this stranger is, and why it seems that the gangsters before him are so desperate to shower you with affection.

Much to his displeasure, he wants to know why he suddenly wants to take the time to greet you with a kiss as well, to see you squirm and giggle and moan beneath his touch…

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Without Question (12)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: the...walking dead? Like in a good way.

Warnings: …yes Steve!

Word Count: I wasn’t kidding when I said I want to live in a quiet town with my one cat and one dog and oh so fucking hopefully my lover. Lover! Wherefore art thou, lover? What seas must I cross to have ye look for stars in mine eyes and rest thy head in bosom? Huh, Lover?

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The peace that comes with the silence of the compound is not as comfortable as the residence had measured it would be in the past. The battles have been won. The deeds have been done. The ones who are lost have been mourned and the ones who have survived have walked past their guilt. The ones who keep the threads together now sit under the trees in the garden, looking into nothing, waiting for news- any news- that might stir them in some way that makes them figure out for themselves whether they're alive. But none comes in through the gate whatsoever.

Yet Natasha sits in the garden, her hands mingling with each other because they're not sure what else to do for now. She considers it a true miracle to have survived this much inactivity, still feeling herself jolt up in the seating under the tree when she sees Loki walk into the garden towards her.

"Any updates?" No one does it better than the Balck Widow bringing her composure to a still when required. Even Loki admires this of the redhead. You don't find such humans. You don't find such creatures anywhere for that matter who can replicate a perfectly functioning life form even when they’re broken to smithereens inside. Loki’s knows it all too well.

"I contacted Rocket and Danvers. The entire species has been annihilated throughout space. No sign of survivors. Even if there are," he mentions matter-of-factly, permitting himself to sit at a decent distance beside her, "they won't be enough to go about destroying planets."

She breathes. Her hands have paused the torture on each other, the fingers nearly running red from all the unwanted pressing and rubbing onto each other. Loki notices it too. Not that she’s trying to hide it.

“How is he?”

Natasha blinks, looking at the horizon- or maybe even further than that.

“He thinks it’s his fault,” she nearly croaks, “again. He thinks he could have stopped it. Even though he knows she would have still found a way. The fact that she turned to dust makes it worse.”

“And she did not want to lose any more of the love,” he mumbled in deep thought, making Natasha turn towards him.

He read her mind, she remembers the God’s ability before passing a soft smile. Loki sighs and looks out at the compound. The sunny weather with clearest of skies is bringing in birds on their road to migration, travelling by in perfect sync in the sky. The breeze carries with it the fresh and sweet scent of spring.

“I’m guessing he is keeping his promise?”

Natasha silently chuckles, the back of her index finger wiping something off the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she nods, turning to Loki with a tender smirk on her lips, “yes, he is.”

Both of them sit there for some more time, enjoying the silent yet fulfilling company, watching nature heal itself like it always does, while wondering what the future holds for them now.

.

The last bit of loose soil is patted by gloved hands into place. Untamed drops of sweat drip over the very ground, mixing in with the dirt before the hands break contact with the freshly prepared field, standing up to finally take a breather after a long day’s work.

The sun reflects sharply over Steve’s face as he watches the cherry blossom tree stand in its full glory right where it was always supposed to be. The breeze is already playmates with it in their playground, making it swing and dance under the bright yet soothing sun.

She’s beautiful. Steve chuckles to himself, if only so faintly in comparison.

“It’s stunning, I must say.”

Steve turns to find Loki standing a few feet away from him, admiring the little cherry blossoms tree, giving him a nod. “It is,” he acknowledges.

“How are you doing, Captain?”

Right to the concern. I like him. Steve gives a faint smile, removing his gloves, throwing them into the toolbox before keeping his hands on his hips. “I’m fine, Loki. What’re you doing here?”

Loki shrugs. “Just making sure you’re not wallowing in survivor’s guilt.”

Even though he is sharp and straight to the point- which pricks, really- Steve can’t help but find a shade of honest concern in his eyes. “As I said, I’m fine,” his words are nearly a whisper as he bends to gather the tools in the box, “and I’m sorry.”

Loki’s brows crinkle. “For what?”

Steve stands back up with the toolbox in his hand. “Sorry, there was no one when you were suffering through survivor’s guilt.”

The breeze passes between them, running an invisible hand through their hair, caressing their unspoken wounds and winding around their allyship, doing all that deemed it not necessary now to be spoken in words.

Steve walks back towards the house and a bark makes Loki turn to look in the direction of the forest. Stacie comes running through the wild field towards the God, barking her happy bark before coming to a halt at the tree, sniffing it to her heart’s content. He can hear a low whimper from her throat when she smells something familiar off the tree. Her paw scratches the trunk a little, her head snuggling with it for a few moments before coming to stand by Loki and sniff him.

“You miss her too,” he states, down on one knee to pet her, an involuntary smile finding its way on his lips. “I think she left you in charge of that one. Make sure he’s okay.”

Stacie huffs and wags her tail, happy to receive a scratch behind the ear when suddenly both she and Loki pause where they stand before standing in high alert.

Steve comes out with Stacie’s bowl and two beers, pausing at the porch on seeing both Loki and Stacie in defensive stances.

“What is it?” the Captain is curious now. 

Loki is still looking at the forest while Stacie has started to growl. All he does is raise his hand for Steve to stop. “Stay here,” Loki declares before vanishing into a light of gold and green.

Steve, reasonably, is left shocked and confused, walking to Stacie’s side, who is growing agitated, jumping and barking at something in the direction of the forest that he cannot see.

“What is it, Stace?” he asks softly, not peeling his eyes from the trees in front of him till a brilliant streak of gold and green out of space has Loki standing in front of him with another figure supported by his left arm.

A gasp escapes Steve when he recognises the long dark hair and metal that bounces the light off its surface, finding it hard to believe what his eyes are seeing.

 “Bucky!”

.

At first, it is a microscopic sensation which slowly turns into a coherent vibration. It is not comfortable until it is an unnecessary shiver running up and down your skin, forcing you to go into the fetal position. Still, the cold does not stop bothering you, gnawing at your skin, your flesh, every corner of your insides, even your heart.

Heart.

But it was not supposed to be cold in the void.

The shiver forces you to draw your limbs closer and makes you feel this unspoken rage at not being able to feel any heat.

Why?

Y/N.

I’m dead. I’m not supposed to feel cold.

Y/N?

Sleep. I am supposed to sleep now.

Y/N! Wake up!

No, let me sleep for a w-

“Y/N!”

A scream escapes your lungs at the jerk as your eyes jerk wide open at the sun way too bright for the shocked pupils before being blocked by a familiar face.

“Loki?”

You look at the God in question. Is he dead too?

“Yes,” he answers with a careful nod. “Can you get up?”

“Why?” As soon as the question escapes you, you know it does not make sense except for the fact that maybe your body just doesn’t want to. “Wait. Where are w-”

You stop yourself short when you notice the forest clearing- looking somewhat brighter and less murder-y under the spring sun.

“You’re home.”

Home.

But I was supposed to be…

“Oh no!” The sudden panic confuses Loki. “No no no! I am supposed to be dead!”

Loki tilts his head at you.

“I’m supposed to be dead! She promised she’ll bring Bucky back! Bucky’s the one who’s supposed to be alive.”

And suddenly it all makes sense. Love- makes us do the most outlandish things.

“I think we should go home,” he mentions gently, grabbing your full attention before inhaling a lungful and unclasping his cape, “and not to mention you are stark naked right in the middle of the forest, darling.”

You look down at your figure that is letting the sunlight dance all over it before feeling the heat rush to your cheeks as Loki covers you up.

“Oh.”

.

Natasha, Clint and Sam are already here as soon as Loki informs them of the news- never telling Steve they were already on their way to see how he was doing- not believing their eyes when they see Bucky sitting on your porch, taking in the sun and sounds like a newborn man. The hows and whats are set back for future interrogation, for right now, tight hugs and misty eyes take the room. 

The smile on Steve’s face is incurable. How many people can say their best friend gets to live even after death. Twice! What more could he want?

His heart knows.

So does some mysterious force in the universe, testing his emotions, when another streak of gold and green rips the space apart by the cherry blossom to give place to Loki and you resting all your weight on the former, wrapped in green.

Everything stops.

Every sound is on mute, every change is on pause, every inch of his skin that the breeze touches is numb. Nothing is sensed in the way of him taking you in. The y/h/c hair strands float in the breeze while your eyes glimmer in the direct light, looking at Steve. Only Steve. The hitch in your breath gives him hope that you are real when he starts to walk towards you. The movement of your feet towards him raises it even more. The lone tear escaping your eye sets the truth in stone, forcing him to take two long steps to cover the distance and have you in his arms. “Y/N,” he nearly sobs your name, finally making it a reality for himself.

His arms. You wrap your arms around his torso as tightly as you can, breathing in the familiar scent. His scent. This is real. The heartbeat. The relieved breaths and deep kisses in your hair. Real. You are back. You are home.

“Steve,” your voice softly reverberated through each other’s existence, making them hold on to each other tighter, bringing everything that was on pause- majorly his entire life- back to normalcy.

His arms break the hold they have on you to take your face in them while yours try to keep the cape in place, something that doesn’t miss his eyes.

“Are you-” he lowers his broken voice when his eyes see it- “are you naked under there?”

You nod, smiling sheepishly through the tears. “I love you,” you don’t waste any time. Not this time, getting on your toes to get closer to his lips.

He reciprocates with a deep kiss, letting go of your jaw from one hand to secure his arm around your waist. His lips, soft and supple, tasting of apples and cinnamon, slowly turn a little rough to push his tongue through your chapped yet tender lips. His hand goes into your tousled hair to bring you closer when the tongues discover each other once again with a need to declare their love for each other, only letting go when there is no more room for air.

“I love you too,” Steve breathes as soon as your lips part, his calm ocean gazing directly into your eyes. “God,” he closes his eyes and rests his forehead on yours, never letting go of you- not this time- “I love you so much. Please don’t leave me like this. Ever.”

You chuckle, the tears never stopping. “I won’t,” you sniffle, “I promise.”

You wrap your arms- this time with the cape- around him, closing your eyes to rest your head on his chest.

Home.

“Not this time.”

The rest of the gang sits on the porch appreciating the relief you have brought them and their Captain and yet looking everywhere else with stretched smiles on their faces, holding a very excited Stacie in place.

“So, she’s the reason I’m alive?” a very curious Bucky asks the rest of the group.

“Yup,” Clint answers, opening the beer bottle Steve left on the ground, “she’s the one. The reason all of us are alive, I guess.”

“She’s the reason he’s alive,” Natasha hums, sharing a knowing look with Loki- who simpers in return, “again.”

[itsladykit]

Troubled Souls - 7

Part 1 - HERE

Previous - HERE.

Characters - Swap Asgore, Swap Papyrus, Swap Sans

Relationships - Swap Papgore, past Spicyhoney

Tags - anxiety, skelepreg, inappropriate feelings regarding pregnancy.

Please note—at this time, I cannot tag for the fic on the whole, as it isn’t completed yet. If you’re concerned, then please DM me with specific questions or wait until Halloween, when this fic will be posted in its entirety on AO3 with all relevant tags. Until then, I can say this—

This fic contains references to BODY DYSMORPHIA, PREGNANCY TREATED AS HORROR, SOCIALLY UNACCEPTABLE EMOTIONS RELATED TO PREGNANCY AND HAVING CHILDREN, RELATIONSHIP TROUBLES, and DISCUSSION OF ABORTION AND/OR MISCARRIAGE (not played for angst).

Brace yourself.

-

Day 25

They met at the coffee shop. Rus wore an extra baggy hoodie, somehow afraid that Blue would be able to see before he was ready to say. They settled at a table outside on a small, sheltered patio out back. Rus stirred his decaf honey lavender latte—ignoring his niggling annoyance at the lack of caffeine—and tried to find the right words. When he did manage to speak, though, he asked after Blue’s new job and his classes.

Nearly wiggling in his seat, Blue was happy to prattle on about his work and school life, ecstatic to start a new semester and equally pleased to be working with Blackberry in the local bakery. It was easy enough to nod along and to smile, no matter how hollow the expression felt. He thought he’d been doing a good job of feigning interest, until Blue asked, “So? What’s wrong?”

Rus faltered, briefly floundering for his cigarettes before he remembered, again, that he was pregnant. “wrong?” he asked, “why do you think...?” Blue raised a brow-bone, and Rus sighed. Yeah. It was probably pretty obvious. He took a deep breath, and—unable to find the words—took his brother’s hand and pressed it to his abdomen.

Confusion flickered over Blue’s face, followed swiftly by shock. “Papy? Are you...? Having a baby?”

Still speechless, he nodded. He swallowed hard, trying to find the words. He needed to talk to someone, and surely his brother would be able to understand his fears. “yeah,” he finally said, “it’s, uh, still early. too early to be sure of—“

But Blue caught him up around the middle, yelling in unbridled joy. “Papy! I’m so—I’m so proud of you! And surprised! You’ve never really seemed that interested in kids—“

“yeah, i’m—“

“—but I just know you’re going to be an amazing parent! The best! Wait. Oh my stars.” Blue paused, holding both hands to his mouth. His sockets watered, blue magic welling. “I’m—“ His breath hitched. “I’m going to be an *uncle*.”

Blue continued his excited babble, talking so loudly they were starting to draw looks from the nearby tables. Rus would have been embarrassed as it was, but several of the other patrons gave him knowing looks. One old woman leaned over and patted his arm. “Is this your first?” she asked. Too stunned to speak, he simply nodded. She smiled knowingly and patted his arm more firmly. “First of many,” she said confidently, “You’ve got that look about you.”

It felt like swallowing a stone. He wanted to run, wanted to scream, to argue, to leave. All he managed to do was make an undignified sound and reach for his coffee—only for Blue to snatch it up.

“No, no! Papy! No caffeine for you—“

“it’s. but it’s decaf—“ He floundered, but Blue wasn’t listening either.

“No sugar, either! Healthy foods only! Oh my goodness, I can’t believe you’re going to be a parent! This is so wonderful! Here, I’ll go get some nice herbal tea for you.” With that, he bounced away, vibrating with happy energy.

Rus just sat back in his chair, feeling the heat of the magic in his pelvis. He swallowed hard, and wished he could still smoke.