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604to647 · 6 months

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Safest with You (Ch. 7 - The Third Date)

5.3K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Din takes you to see a prize fight, and the evening does not end the way either of you expect.

Warnings: Fluff but also Angst, pet names as usual (pretty bird, baby, pretty girl, etc.), descriptions of blood splatter, mention of alcohol consumption, men (not Din) harassing reader at a bar, very poor description of boxing by a person who knows nothing about boxing (me.)

A/N: I'm...sorry about this 🫣 Our (first!) chapter with angst; oh my feelings - we will get through it together? For some levity, while I'm trying not to be too heavy handed with the Star Wars references, I did have a lot of fun plopping in some character names from The Mandalorian to make up Din's rag-tag group of mob enforcer friends. Picking a Hutt to insert was another story - I tried to pick a name that (exists and) fit into the scene, but I'm not married to it; if upon reading you think another Hutt family character's canon characteristics are more fitting, please let me know and I'll change it! Thanks and thanks as always for reading!

Series Masterlist

“Ok, hang on, I gotta let Rory into the meeting.”

The mosaic on the screen shifts, and Rory appears in a new tile, “I can’t believe it’s a Saturday and I’m taking a Zoom meeting.”

“Stoppppp. It’s for the greater good – please help me pick an outfit,” you plead with an exaggerated pout.

“You never ask for fashion advice? We’re always asking you.”

“Ok, thank you for hyping me but for real I need help. I’m going to a boxing match!? Movies and pop culture tell me that every woman there is either wearing a bandage dress or a bikini and I’m not wearing either,” you step back to show off your bed that’s cover in heaps of clothing options.

You’re nervous. Not because of anything Din’s said or done, and not even because it’s the “third date” (not as if you and Din are following any type of out-dated dating script), but because you’re stepping into Din’s world tonight. So far, you and Din have been dating in a blissful little bubble, just the two of you (and Al!), but tonight, you were going to meet the people closest to him, his people. When you had confessed your nerves to Din earlier, he had affectionately told you he was proud to be bringing you as his date tonight; you didn’t want to let him down.

In the end, you and your friends opt for a white, off the shoulder silk shirt, loosely tucked into a silver skirt. The shoulder cut-out of the shirt drapes purposefully low down your arm, revealing the entire strap and more than a little of the top of your lacy black bra chosen especially for Din. There, you think, it’s not a bikini, but it’s sexy.

Din couldn’t agree more. Your little lingerie peek-a-boo is nearly all he can think about at the restaurant and the entire cab ride over to the fight venue. A few times during dinner he might have lost his train of thought mid-sentence, teased mercilessly by that small triangle of lace and the ample curve of your breast that isn’t contained within. You blush and smirk at his barely concealed drooling. Now in the cab, Din has his arm draped around you, and you let him absentmindedly toy with the exposed strap; periodically he slips a finger or two under the strap and slides it down as far as your innocent looking white shirt will allow, then back up again. You can feel your nipples harden against the soft lace, and by the time you step out of the cab, you’re flushed and your core is already fluttering.

You take Din’s arm and walk with him towards the entrance, still somewhat nervous; Din senses your hesitancy and not used to seeing you withdrawn in any way, he pulls you aside before you get to the main doorway.

Holding you close, one hand lingering on your lower back and the other cupping your face, he gives you a long, deep kiss, meant to be soothing. Opening your eyes and you murmur, “Just one more, please”.

“One more?”

“One more minute. One more kiss. While it’s still just the two of us,” you explain, wistfully.

“Pretty bird, we don’t have to go in. Just say the word and we’ll go somewhere just you and me. It can be just the two of us for as long as you’d like,” Din gently strokes your cheek with his thumb and gazes at you with sincerity brimming in his eyes.

Reaching up, you bring Din’s face down to yours and kiss him tenderly. You want to let him know you’re okay. You’re nervous, but also somewhat excited to see this world that’s such a big part of Din’s life, and the idea that he wants to include you and introduce you to his friends is actually so touching. You nuzzle into your favourite little nook right under his jaw, and whisper, “Let’s go in.”

Din takes your hand, and holding on tightly, leads you in to the building. It’s already insanely busy inside, filled with people here for the fight; as you thread through the crowd, even in the dim lighting, you hear lots of people shouting Din’s name – waving hello, clapping him on the shoulder as they go by. Din leads you through a side door away from the bustle and takes you down a quiet side corridor; you’re about to ask where you’re going when you see some people up ahead wearing “Mando’s Gym” gear. In the center of everything, there is an older gentleman in a colourful striped sweatsuit, and a young man, who is wearing baggy grey shorts and a loosely tied warm up robe; you recognize the younger man as Din’s sparring partner from the day you visit the gym after dropping your dry cleaning off at Peli’s. Din is greeted enthusiastically by both men with big hugs; he claps the younger man on the back and introduces you, then, his voice filling with pride, brags, “Pretty bird, this is Jimmy. Best middleweight division fighter this side of the bridge. One of Mando’s best. And our tireless chief, head coach, Greef Karga, the best of the best.”

You shake their hands happily, and they in turn seem happy to meet you as well; you think you spot them giving each other a knowing look, but it was so fleeting you’re not sure. Regardless, you enthusiastically wish them luck and let them know how excited you are to be here. When he hears it’s your first fight, Greef tells you you’re in for a treat and gives you some novice spectator pointers – in particular, he tells you to watch out for a move call the “Mando Roll”, a move made famous by Din during his career. Din hypes Jimmy up with some pep talk and some light combination drills before he takes your hand to go; you wave goodbye to the two men and wish them luck one last time before asking Din, “The Mando Roll, eh? Didn’t realize I was here with a celebrity.” You grin at him proudly, and Din’s chest puffs up a little but he responds humbly, “Nah. Don’t believe everything you hear about me here. Especially from Paz. Don’t believe a thing Paz says.”

As if on cue, you come upon the man himself, who seems to be waiting for you and Din so you can all walk to your third row seats together.

Paz is hilarious. He has a deep booming voice, and a boisterous spirit about him; he’s huge, bigger than Din, but in the same way you don’t find Din’s size to be imposing, neither do you find Paz’s. He regales you with childhood stories about Din and tells joke after joke, all the while pretending to ignore Din’s protests and looks of mortification that honestly make everything Paz says even funnier. He doesn’t forget to ask you questions about yourself, and your heart melts when Din chimes in to brag about you when he thinks you’re not doing so enough yourself; Paz looks impressed before he gives you a mock look of condescension, “You sure you’re with the right guy?” jabbing his thumb at Din. You look up at Din fondly and nod softly, “Yes, definitely.” Din can’t stop looking at you either, eyes filled with adoration and, if he’s being honest with himself, maybe love. When he pulls you in tightly, Paz gives him a look and nod of approval, which Din didn’t need, but finds himself appreciating nonetheless.

The lights dim and the fighters’ ring entrances begin; you cheer loudly with Din and Paz when Jimmy goes by, looking pumped and intimidating. The first few rounds of fighting go by in a blur; the fighters move with blinding fast speed, unleashing powerful punch after punch – it’s violent and graceful all at once. Both Din and Paz are pointing things out to you, teaching you boxing terminology and noting finer points on the bout that you definitely wouldn’t notice otherwise; when the bell dings signaling the end of a particularly intense round, Paz turns to you, “Did you see that last move, with the bob and weave? That’s the “Mando Roll”. Your boy invented that! It’s what’s going to win Jimmy this fight, you just watch.” You look at Din, who’s got a cocky smile on his face, even though he’s running his hand through his curls, bashfully. Your eyes shine with pride; you knew from the articles and awards at the gym and his apartment that Din had been a talented and successful fighter… but tonight you’re seeing for the first time that it was more than that. He’s an important figure in this community, a leader with a legacy… just like his dad. You make a mental note to share this thought with Din later; for now, you hope he can tell by the expression on your face how proud of him you are. And how proud you are to be here with him.

If you thought the excitement and intensity of the fight would die down a little in the later rounds, you were mistaken; if anything, the crowd gets rowdier and louder, amping the fighters up more, even though they have to be exhausted. Nearing the end of round 10, Jimmy gets the upper hand against his opponent, drilling him against the ropes before stepping back and delivering a knock out uppercut. This last punch happens as if in slow motion; Jimmy’s opponent’s feet leave the ground as the force from Jimmy’s glove propels him backwards, body twisting slightly before he falls to the ground unconscious. Before you’ve finished processing what you’re watching, you’re hit with the losing fighter's blood splatter. Most of it lands on the people sitting in the rows in front of you, but a fair amount lands on your shirt and you can feel a bit of it on your cheek. Instinctively, you touch it with your hand, accidently smearing it. Din looks at you in horror but gathers himself quickly to ask you with deep concern if you’re alright. You have to admit, you’re not sure how to feel, but you let him know you’re okay with a reassuring smile before asking him to point you in the direction of the restroom so you can clean up. In the restroom, the droplets that landed on your skin are easily and thoroughly cleaned off, but your shirt is a bit of a mess. The delicate silk is splattered in a big, almost Pollock-esque pattern; you decide to leave it as is, figuring you’ll probably just turn it into a bigger mess if you try to clean it here.

You get back to your seat as Jimmy is being declared the winner of the fight in the ring, and you’re glad to see that his opponent has regained consciousness and is standing up of his own accord. You cheer as Jimmy’s arm is raised as the victor, but notice that Din doesn’t appear to be joining in the reverie. In fact, he looks downright despondent. Taking his hand, you give him a soft, but quizzical look and mouth, “Everything okay?”

No. Everything was not okay. Din had seen a lot bloodshed in his life, hell, he had caused his fair share, but he's never become desensitized to the underlying violence. He was not prepared for that type of violence, bloody violence, to touch you. In the second before he had realized where the blood splatter had come from, all he saw was you covered in blood, and he had felt nothing but intense panic and fear. And maybe, a little voice in his head adds, guilt. Even now, he is reeling from those feelings. He doesn’t know how to articulate any of this, so instead he drops his eyes to your stained shirt and says sadly, “I’m sorry about the mess, pretty bird.”

Ducking a little so you’re now holding his gaze, you look softly at Din, somehow knowing he’s feeling more than he’s letting on; you kiss him warmly and whisper, “It’s okay. I’m okay,” before wrapping your arms around Din’s neck and pulling him down into you. You feel Din’s back muscles relax under your hands, as he presses you in tightly and just holds you for a minute. Behind your back, Din and Paz lock eyes; a look of understanding passes between the two men before Din closes his eyes and let’s himself melt into your embrace.

Now that the fight is over, most of the crowd moves, almost as one, to a bar across the street for the planned after party. Din’s mood seems to have lightened considerably; with his arm around your waist, he steers you through the crowd, shouting salutations to people he knows and sporadically introducing you to people as they come up to say hi. You don’t remember all the names, but they all seem to be people that have known Din from when he was a child, watched Din box during his glory days, are somehow associated with the gym, knew Din’s dad or some combination of the above. Even more memorable are some of the stories Din whispers in your ear when out of earshot of the person you just met (like the gym member who thought that the Mando’s locker rooms had a nude sauna. They don’t), and you’re glad that the faces are all kind of a blur because otherwise, you might never be able to face some of these people again. The entire bar erupts with cheers when Jimmy, Greef and some of the other team from Mando’s arrives; they head straight for Din and you give them your hearty congratulations once Din’s released them from his bear hugs. You assure Jimmy that you thoroughly enjoyed your first boxing match and you’re glad it was one of his; when Greef learns that you saw the “Mando Roll” he looks like a proud papa bear, of Jimmy or you, you’re not sure. Slowly, the entire friend group descends on your and Din’s location and you get a chance to meet them all. In addition to Paz, there’s Woves, Mayfeld, Bo, Koska, and a few younger boxers from the gym, Brian, Santos, and Iggy tonight. It’s a great group; everyone is welcoming and even appear eager to meet and get to know you. You dance with Din, laugh at Paz’s jokes and sip drinks with the group.

At a certain point, you need a bit of a breather, so you volunteer to go to the bar to get the next round of drinks for everyone. When you give your order to the bartender, you’re told it might take a while given the number of drinks; honestly, you don’t mind and happily take the opportunity to give your social battery a mini-charge, check your messages, and just take in your surroundings. You’ve missed a lot of messages and you’re about to dive into the group chat when you’re aware of someone standing directly in front of you. You look up; it’s a stranger, and not one you remember Din introducing you to earlier in the evening. He’s standing uncomfortably close to you, as if you’re already acquainted, which you most certainly are not. Once the stranger knows he has your attention, he lays on a thick, “Don’t think I’ve seen a pretty thing like you around here before.” You appraise the man in front of you; he’s okay looking but there’s something about his posture, his presence that’s just... slimy. Suddenly, you notice on either side of you his friends inching closer, flanking you, and they too seem to have a greasy, sluggish look about them. You almost sigh; their intent is so obvious, and all the more insidious for not trying to hide it well. Under different circumstances, you would be feeling at best, harassed, and at worst, panic, but with Din and his friends just a few steps away, you know you’re perfectly safe.

“You wouldn’t have. First time,” you give a thin smile, before making a gesture to show you need to check your phone now.

“Well let me and my friends show you a good time! We know everyone here.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got a great group of hosts already,” and you point towards Din and his friends. The men take a look in the direction you’re pointing and seem to hesitate, but then carry on as if what you said is a but a mere inconvenience.

Din had been talking to Paz when he looks over and sees you being surrounded at the bar and hisses, “Fucking Hutts.” Paz looks over as well, “She looks like she can handle it.” And it’s true, you really do look like you’re fine (annoyed, but fine), but Din sighs, “Yeah, but she shouldn’t have to. Those guys are slime. She shouldn’t be anywhere near them.” Paz raises an eyebrow, “You wanna talk about what’s really bugging you? I saw you back there when she got blood on her. You worried she can’t handle being with a Mando?”

Din shakes his head; it’s not that. He is sure you can handle anything… but should you have to?

“You’re worried she’s too sweet for all this?” Paz gestures generally.

Sighing again, Din shoulders droop a little, “Maybe. She’s a good girl, you know?” That little voice in his head from earlier is nagging him with more insistence now, too good. He’s watching you, knowing you’d make eye contact with him if you needed help, but he really can’t stand you being so close to those assholes. You’re not even giving Gorga Hutt and his cronies a forced smile anymore; he sees your mouth make the words: “No, I’m sure. No, thank you” and he’s off, long strides reaching you with just a few steps. He walks right past the man standing stupidly close to you, and maintaining eye contact with him, says, “Hutt.” The man practically sneers back, “Mando,” as Din slides an arm protectively around your waist and turns to stare daggers at the 3 men who have now all lined up together. Luckily, at this moment, the bartender appears and slides over a tray with all your drinks, so you tug on Din’s arm, “Do you mind helping me carry these?” and like that, the two of you leave the three Hutt men before they can get another word in.

Everyone is thrilled to get their refills, and you take the opportunity to ask, “How come those guys back there called you guys “The Mandos”? Is it just because of the gym?”

Maybe you imagine it, but there seems to be moment of stalled silence where no one in the group speaks, before Bo pipes up and answers, “It was the name of our club when we were kids; the gym was like our clubhouse, so… look, we weren’t very creative kids, okay?” Everyone laughs, and Bo waves you over and starts telling you some of the shenanigans the group got into when they were young.

“You really didn’t let her know what she’s stepping into, brother,” Paz says quietly so only Din hears.

Din looks at Paz with something like regret. He’s doing a visual sweep of the room; it’s second nature to him in crowds like tonight’s, but it also serves to distract himself from the agitation of running into the Hutts. He looks around the room and sees a few men leering at you; not just the Hutts, although Gorga is still at the bar where you left him and looking over with a sour expression, but other unsavoury types that Din is no stranger to. Din can read the look he sees in their eyes: to folks like that, you were a mark. Prey. The voice in his head gets louder: You were a pretty bird and he had brought you into a den of hunters, and you didn’t even know.

Din’s so deep in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice when a petite brunette breaks away from a group of girls hovering on the periphery of his friends and makes a beeline for you.

You’re in mid conversation with Bo, who you’re finding to be incredibly refreshing and interesting being a female body builder when you turn to put your empty glass down; however, turning back, you find a girl you haven’t met has wedged herself between you and Bo while you were faced away. The look on Bo’s face indicates she’s just as surprised you are.

“So you’re Din’s date.” This is stated more like a fact than a question.

“I guess I am,” you introduce yourself; the girl says her name is Vanessa and she’s giving you a smile but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, so you honestly can’t tell where this conversation is going.

“You know, so many of us girls have tried to lock Din down, maybe you’ll finally be the one to do it.”

Oh. Does Din have… groupies? “Oh!” you give a polite laugh, “I can honestly say that locking anyone down or having anyone lock me down, has not crossed my mind.”

“A couple of us girls have had a lot of fun trying,” she tilts her head in the direction of a group of girls that are hovering close by, “Din’s a total catch. One of the best I’ve ever had.”

Ah ha. This is new for you. All your life you’ve been a girl’s girl, and one thing about being a girl’s girl is to never let men be the cause for contention, but man oh man, this girl is definitely fishing hard for a reaction from you; you know what she wants, but it’s honestly not in you to give. Instead, you look at her with a sympathetic expression, “Oh I don’t doubt it. Din’s probably one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.” It’s the truth and the best you can offer her.

She looks at you with disbelief before scampering off; Bo stifles a laugh before the two of you return to your conversation.

Din is starting to feel like he’s been away from you too long; then he knows he’s been away from you too long when Bo comes by and tells him about your little interlude with Vanessa. He immediately finds you; slipping his arms around you from behind, Din nuzzles your neck and murmurs, “Sorry, I’ve been neglectful, baby. Not leaving your side for the rest of the night, I promise.”

You turn in his arms and winding your arms around his waist, you happily press your mouth to his, “Don’t worry. I’ve been thoroughly entertained. I’ve been learning soooooooo much about you, Din.” Your eyes are twinkling.

Din should have known that you wouldn’t let Vanessa bother you; although he still feels like he has to address it. He presses his forehead to yours, “So… I heard you had a visitor.”

“Oh right. Vanessa,” you chuckle.

“Pretty bird, there’s nothing going on, I promise.”

You give Din a quick, reassuring kiss, “Oh, I know. I wasn’t bothered by what she said.”

“…but you were bothered?” Din pulls away to look at you, as if checking you over to make sure you were alright.

You tuck yourself under his chin and sigh, “It’s nothing really. Just... surprising? It’s been a really long time since someone, never mind someone I don’t even know, has gone out of their way to be intentionally mean to me.”

Din feels his chest constrict. Of course you would be perceptive enough to recognize casual cruelty when you saw it, and of course it would wound your tender heart, “I’m sorry, pretty bird. You don’t deserve that.”

You burrow deeper into his arms, “Thank you.”

“I still want to make sure you know, there isn’t anyone else. Only you, baby.”

“Okay,” you lift your face to his and invite him to kiss you. He melts into your lips, but can’t ignore the persistent voice in his head that’s only gotten louder over the course of the evening anymore.

---

In the cab on the way home, Din is quiet. You snuggle extra close to him and when he tightens his arm around you, you nuzzle your way into your nook and press light kisses to his neck.

Din looks down at you and his heart breaks a little at the sweet look you give him; he can’t help himself, and he kisses you, soft and long – he knows he shouldn’t with what he’s about to do, but he also knows this could very well be his last chance to kiss you and he can’t convince himself to pass it up.

He wonders how it could end like this – when he first saw you this evening, gorgeous and sexy as hell, teasing him with a peek at your black lace lingerie, he was sure tonight was the night he was finally going to take you upstairs and ruin you, not the night he was going to walk away.

But he had made up his mind before leaving the bar. Paz was right, you were too sweet for his world. Din had been busy trying to make sure that he deserved you, he hadn’t thought about if you deserved what he would bring into your life. You didn’t; you didn’t deserve to be on the periphery of violence, never knowing if it would touch you directly, you didn’t deserve to be in the company of lowlifes and scumbags that would take advantage of your kindness, and you certainly did not deserve to be the recipient of any nastiness simply for caring about him. How could he bring this kind of darkness into your life?

You’ve been the best thing to happen to him in a long time, and Din’s heart aches knowing these are some of the last moments he will get to spend with you. But when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the same shirt that was so inviting to him earlier with blood splatter that looks almost black in the night, it hardens his resolve.

You sigh deeply into the kisses, only breaking away and opening your eyes when the cab starts to slow down. Din pays for the cab and helps you out; as soon as he closes the door of the car and it drives away, you make to walk into the building. Tugging on his hand, you playfully ask, “Did you want to come up and get Al with me, or are you still pretending you don’t want to come up?” To your surprise, Din doesn’t budge from his spot on the sidewalk and drops your hand. He stuffs both hands in his pockets and can’t quite look at you when he says, “I don’t think I can come up.” You’re about to make a silly joke about it being the third date, when he continues, “…and I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

At first, you’re not sure you heard him correctly but then you see Din's face; while not quite facing you directly, you can see it looks downtrodden and tired, and you realize he's being serious. You forget how to breathe for a moment and you don’t know what to say. Didn’t you just have a fun night, full of promise? Hadn’t he kissed you the entire cab ride over? Weren’t the last two weeks of getting to know each other romantic and deliciously tension filled? You’re confused and you say the first ridiculous thing that comes to mind, “You don’t… want to... court me anymore?”

Din didn’t think his heart could hurt anymore, but the way you were looking at him, confused and upset, was proving him wrong. He shouldn’t have kissed you in the cab. It had been selfish. He knows he's been so selfish when it came to you, and that stops now. Din struggles to get the words out, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I mean, tonight… I shouldn’t have taken you to the fight tonight. You don’t belong in a place like that. You showed up in a beautiful outfit and… fuck.” He’s getting flustered now, but he forces himself to press on, “…it’s ruined.” He gestures to the blood splatter on your shirt and hangs his head.

“It’s just a little blood, Din. It will come out. Nothing has been ruined, I promise,” you can see he’s distressed and you want to comfort him. You try making a little joke to lighten the mood, “I mean, I know you know a good dry cleaner.”

“It’s not right. It never should have happened! A girl like you doesn’t belong near any place like that.”

Oh. You only now come to the realization that perhaps you hadn’t been paying attention and Din didn’t have fun tonight. The date had been on his “turf”, so to speak, and around people he’s known a lot longer than he’s known you; maybe Din had had certain expectations on how the evening was supposed to go... expectations that you apparently didn’t meet. “Din, for the record… I had a lot of fun tonight. I didn’t realize I wasn’t fitting in; I’m sorry if the evening didn’t go the way you had wanted.” Now it’s you that can’t meet his eye.

“No, no, it’s not… it’s… fine. It was just clear to me tonight that we come from different worlds and… maybe it’s not a good fit. I’m sorry.”

You’re trying to swallow your feelings but they’re getting caught in your throat; you force yourself to say, “You don’t have to apologize. I thought… well… it doesn’t matter what I thought. But it was only our third date, Din – you’re entitled to feel that I’m not for you.” You’re trying so hard to appear calm and neutral despite your heart breaking, that you miss Din wincing at those words. “I guess I want to say that I’m still glad we met, Din. And, thank you. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me these past few weeks – all the food when I worked late, helping me walk the dog… the books. Really, thank you.” You pause, shrug a little, then hold onto your arms, trying to make yourself as small as you feel while delaying the next words for as long as you can, “Goodbye.”

Din nods, “Goodbye.”

You walk away, finally free to cry when you realize that you still have to walk the dog. Even though your tears are already spilling over, you turn around, “Din?” He’s still standing where he was, having not moved, but looks up when you call his name. Once you have Din’s attention, you look away; you can’t bear to see the expression on his face as he watches you cry. “I’m going to take Al for a walk. I’ll be back down in just a minute.” Your voice starts to break, “Is it okay if you’re not here when I do?”

“Of course.” Din turns and walks away from you. You don’t see his own eyes have welled up before you turn to go in.

Inside, you clip the dog up and give him a lot of kisses in the elevator. True to his word, Din is nowhere to be found when you get outside. Al looks around, excitedly; most likely for Din. Perhaps he can still smell him. You kneel down and say sadly to your dog, “He’s not here, baby. Turns out he didn’t quite like us as much as we liked him.” Al licks a few tears off your cheek as if to comfort you and then trots off to start sniffing a tree.

---

Din watches you with Al from a distance away, out of sight. He knew you were upset and he wanted to make sure you were safe, being out alone with your dog. But if he was being honest, it was a perfectly safe neighbourhood – he just simply wanted to look at you for as long as he could. He stays looking up at your apartment long after you’ve gone in, leaving only when your lights go out.

#din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #modern au #no y/n #modern!din djarin

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grace-nakimura · 7 months

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title: time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it rating: pg-13 for mentions of sexual situations and some light disturbing imagery. pairing: grace nakimura/gabirel knight. also brief mentions of malia gedde/gabriel knight and fredrich von glower/gabriel knight. trigger warning: pregnancy mention. slight sexual situations. disturbing imagery. threat of harm to a child (but thwarted). mental health issues. not beta'd bc it's against my gremlin religion, but can you guess how tswift inspired this? bc she totally did. summary: gabriel's point of view from whoops, in which he buries ghosts, admits that he does have feelings (just no brain cells!), and somehow doesn't run from fatherhood kicking and screaming. (jane jensen i am looking at you GIVE US A BONE TELL ACTIVISION TO GIVE US SOMETHING!)

Time moved slowly. Not for anyone else, but for him it did.

Seasons came and went, but there he stood, the last Schattenjager, holding down Schloss Ritter like a soldier overrun in battle who didn’t know how to surrender.

It seemed everyone had a life. They were all making moves, growing, and changing while he still felt stagnant.

Gerde had gotten married. He didn’t attend the service, didn’t think he could stomach it, but he sent the bride and groom a generous gift of money and beer. Seeing as how Gerde, like most German’s, didn’t trust Gabriel, an American, when it came to beer, she sent it back with a thank you note.

Mosely was even seeing someone—he didn’t know if he should tell them a good job or that poor woman, so he decided on both when he got the news, only to be hung up on—too. A widower with two sons for the past five months or so. “Still too early to be thinkin’ ‘bout this an’ all, but” Moseley had said over the phone, relaxing at the station in New Orleans while Gabriel nursed his Tennessee Whiskey near his typewriter. “Hell, Knight. Can you imagine me being a dad? Hell, I’m hardly a good enough uncle to my sister’s kids.”

He could, actually; one of those picket fence type of fathers who wore a fanny-pack with snacks, always complaining about the thermostat, and grilled burgers and hot dogs on Sunday evenings. The sort that Gabriel used to dream about when he was a kid. Like hell he’d ever admit it, though, so instead he went with, “at least they won’t get your looks.”

“Ass.”

“Still got a better one than you, Mostly.”

And he stayed still, all alone in Schloss Ritter, surrounded by mountains and trees, more of a ghost most days than a person.

Gran was another one he worried about. Her mind was sharper than a whip, but her body began to fall behind, little by little. Pretty soon she wouldn’t be able to live by herself, something she took so much pride in, and when he had to tell her that the hitch in her breath broke his heart.

“We all grow old sometime, Gabriel,” she had told him over the phone, keeping good cheer and forcing a smile that never met her eyes. He knew that smile. That was his girl. His world. He hated ever being the reason for her to have that look.

“You ain’t ever getting' old, Gran,” he said, in an attempt of levity. “Besides, ain’t for a while, yet. It’s just something we gotta look after. I’ll be by to visit you soon. Got so many stories to tell you about Granddaddy’s family.”

He also missed her more than anything.

She had laughed and if he could imagine it, he would be able to see how her eyes would roll heavenward good-naturedly, but at least her eyes were smiling along with her mouth this time. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart.” And then, as always, “I love you, dear. Take care.”

When he wasn’t being a Schattenjager, or a writer with the largest bout of writer’s block known to man, he would lay on his back spread eagle and stare at the ceiling in his study. Sometimes he would think of Grace.

Depending on how sober he was, or how lonely, he mostly just thought of the things he wanted to tell her. Whenever he had a new idea for a book, or a breakthrough on a case, or just a thought in general, his first instinct always was, I’ve gotta tell Gracie. Only to remember, oh, she was on another continent. Unreachable. Gone.

When he was really, really drunk, he would think of that night. If it was only once, they would both brush it off as adrenaline, but they slept with each other more than once. No matter what he’d tell anyone in the light of day, once wasn’t enough that night, and considering his back was covered with the markings of her nails the next morning, it was the same for her.

Three whole times that night.

He was thirty-five. While there wasn’t much thinking involved, he had to admit that he was damn impressed with his stamina. Mostly with Grace, who was every bit of the firecracker he had imagined. She was all fire and consumed every inch of him that, if he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought he was being possessed.

Morning had come, as it always would, and everything changed.

Now she was miles away with only a note. He didn’t remember what it said, didn’t bother keeping it when he crumbled it up, but he got the jest: she outgrew him, she needed more, and wished him the best.

He could focus on how angry, how hurt, he had been, but what really haunted him was how hurt she looked that morning.

“Ass,” he said to the ether, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“You do have a good one,” a silky voice spoke. When he turned around, Malia sat—or an apparition, or just his mind playing tricks on him, or both—on the sofa in his study, legs crossed, looking every bit the same she did when he first saw her. Ebony curls framed her face, and those deep brown that held flecks of gold made her eyes almost seem ethereal. “That was my first thought when I saw you with the Detective—damn, that man has a nice ass.”

A chuckle bubbled from Gabriel, his eyes growing misty, even if he didn’t want them to. Didn’t deserve to cry over her. He sat up but remained where he was. He didn’t dare stand. He also didn’t dare to walk over to her. He wanted to keep Malia Gedde, forever thirty-something, forever lovely, in his mind as she was.

“I wish I could’ve saved you,” he hated to make that bright smile falter, but he needed her to know that. She was the first woman he’d ever could imagine a future with. They had known each other for a handful of days, sure, but his parents were a whirlwind romance, too. That future went to ash just when she did. “I always save you when I dream.”

It was her who moved off the sofa, who sat by him, this phantom of Malia Gedde, the first woman he ever loved, and cupped his face with both of her hands so he could look at her. “You did, Gabriel,” a ghost of a kiss was pressed on his lips, “I didn’t have much of a life before you; I was Lazarus, and you gave me life. Now let me return the favor.” She rubbed her nose against his, and his eyes fell shut as did hers, willing time to continue to slow for this moment. “Live.”

“Ain’t that what I’m doin’?” He sounded petulant, which made her huff out a laugh, but he kept on. “Might have a great ass, but not exactly a great person to be around.”

She pressed her lips against his forehead, almost an atonement, almost a benediction. “Fight a little while longer, Mr. Knight,” her lips moved against his forehead, and he was brought back to the few nights in his room at the bookshop, entwined together as his hands roamed up and down her dark skin, entwining in those ebony curls of hers as she straddled his lap at a furious pace.

After, she always placed a kiss on his forehead, once the two came down from their heights and settled back on earth.

“I’ll always be with you, my love.”

He woke up, back acting up something awful for sleeping on the floor, still feeling the lips against his forehead.

***

Gran fell in her kitchen one Saturday afternoon. It took him no time at all to book the quickest flight to New Orleans, and within the handful of hours from Munich to the states, he onboarded the plane from Louis Armstrong International and took the first Taxi he saw to the hospital.

“It was just a little fall,” Gran had soothed him as he sat by her bed, holding her smaller, wrinkled hand in his. “Got a few bruises, is all. I’m fine.”

For all the times she’d narrow her eyes to his bold-faced lies, he returned the favor, placing a kiss on that hand of hers reverently. “This time it’s a few bruises, Gran. What about the next?”

His life was already full of shadows. The day Rebecca Knight would go gently into that good night, and he knew she would, all that was warm and bright would go with her. She had raised him. Loved him. Accepted him with open arms. He knew she had reservations on how he lived his life, mostly out of coming from a different time when most men his age were married, settled, with scours of little ones, but she never made a fuss. She always listened to him and encouraged him to follow his heart.

“We’ll pick out someone to come and see you regularly,” Gabriel began before she could say anything else, “someone that you like. Don’t worry ‘bout the cost; nothin’ but the best for my girl.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she lay on the hospital bed, smiling up at him as if he were nine and told her of his day, mostly about making mischief with Mosely. He had always left out the things that would get him in big trouble, though, but he figured she knew of them all the same. “And what about you, dear?”

“What about me?”

That smile turned sad, and the hand he had been holding snuck out of his grasp to run his hands through his unruly strawberry-blond hair. The red came from his mama, just like his eyes; the rest came from his daddy. Gran always said that his daddy lived on in his smile. “I know you’re a grown man, but sometimes I look at you, and I still see that little boy.” Gran looked wistful. “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

He made a face, but she ignored him. She knew his tells more than anyone else. “It’s your life, you know, I just... I just know how long life can be, if you’re lucky, but also how lonely it could be with no one, if you’re unlucky.”

A thought came to him, “were you lonely, Gran?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard, “never, not when I had you, even miles away from you—not lonely. Never lonely. I only want you to feel like that someday. Whole.”

***

He stayed for a week, or maybe edging on for a week and a half, meeting client after client. She eventually decided on a redhead who was studying for her Nursing degree at Tulane. The girl looked younger than she probably was, proudly showing her engagement ring to Gran who cooed and tittered, and that was that. Her name was Rose. Cute kid, bit of an old soul, and out of the fifty candidates she was the only one to make his Gran laugh so hard her whole-body shook.

“Call me when you can, dear,” she had told him and given him one of those bone crushing hugs that he’d missed more than he’d like to admit. He even returned it, causing her to chuckle. “Also, tell that Grace to call, too. I’ve missed her stories.”

If she noticed how his body went frigid at the mention of Grace, she said nothing, but with leaving a kiss on her rouge covered cheek he got his things and left. Not after telling her, he loved her, and that he would call as soon as he could.

He even met with Mosely. Met his girlfriend, Daniella, and immediately gave her condolences. Her boys were with her late husband’s parents for the weekend, but he promised to return soon to meet them, too.

Her oldest, Antonio, was a fan of his books, even though he was only fourteen years old. Hadn’t he read Dracula at eleven? He couldn’t judge.

He left New Orleans feeling a little lighter, anyway.

It just made returning to Rittersberg bearable, knowing he did right by at least one person in his life.

Imagine his surprise when he saw Gerde’s car where it usually was. Imagine his surprise when he went into the ancestral castle to hear two voices, female, whispering over a roaring fire.

The blonde with the curls was Gerde. Bright eyed and happier than she had been in some time, making peace with his Uncle Wolfgang’s death, while moving on with her life with the sort of uncanny humility and grace many of those who had plenty of years on her would never be able to do. The sort of resilience many never write stories about, or wax poetic about, or even consider to be a strength, when it was the utmost example of true strength that a human being could possess.

“— if I were you, I would focus on telling Gabriel—,”

That caught his attention, and suddenly he made his presence known, “Tellin’ me what?”

It was then he noticed the woman Gerde was speaking to. Almost hard to, since it’s been months since he had seen her. Every time he thought about her, he thought of that face she made when he dismissed her, how it was the first time he ever made her face crumble like a house of cards that he knew of, and it was a lance to his heart every time he imagined it. She began to cough, Gerde patting her back encouragingly, and once she waved the blonde woman off Gabriel noticed how quickly she scurried out of the room, leaving a cup of cocoa behind.

“Grace?” This wasn’t an apparition, right? Gerde was talking to her, who wasn’t in his mind since she had bumped into me in her attempt to leave—quickly—and even avoiding eye contact while doing so. She stood up slowly, pushing herself as if she were a guilty child, being prepared for the scolding of a lifetime, and slowly turned around.

Her hair had gotten longer. He liked it. It fell in a loose brain that she wore on the side, her dark bangs wispy, always said she liked them because it covered her large forehead. She looked fuller, skin aglow from the firelight, and the first thought was, hell, why did I never notice how beautiful she was? Oh, she was attractive, but beautiful?

It almost took his breath away.

When he noticed how she absent-mindedly rubbed her stomach—her rather round stomach, and not a product of eating well but something else—his breath did leave him.

“Hi, Gabe.”

She sounded younger. Five years his junior, sure, but now she just sounded so...small. She, who always seemed like a giant by way of her personality, suddenly didn’t seem so big anymore.

It killed him.

He made his way in front of her and there they stood, illuminated by the flames in the fireplace, no more than five feet apart and looked everywhere but each other.

It sounded like the worst thing to ever ask, and he knew he had no right to ask, “is it mine?” It didn’t matter the answer. He’d offer her all he could no matter what. She nodded, and he felt his stomach drop. Shit. “Right. Well, damn, Gracie. You keepin’ it?”

Not his business. Right, but the question slipped out none the less.

“Her,” and despite himself, his breath catches. Her. A girl. A little girl that, if Grace never made her way back to Rittersberg, he’d never know about. “I wanted to tell you in person. I, um, I don’t want anything, or I don’t want to make you do anything...”

He nodded. He kept nodding with every word she said like an idiot. “No, no, I get it,” but there she was giving him that look, “I do.” And then, because this was so much—he's going to be a daddy to a little girl that has been living for, what, six months, without his knowledge. He and Grace had made a little girl that night. He, a fatherless child, was going to be a father! —he blurted out, “well, um, your room is still yours. Nice to see you, Grace.”

He stumbled as he ran up the winding stairs, doing his best to ignore the sound of Grace’s sobbing.

***

“If you had chosen me,” a heavily accented voice told him in his ear, a firm hand placed on his shoulder almost gently, “you would’ve never been in this predicament.”

“And more lives lost than saved,” he told the phantom, shrugging off Fredrich’s hand as if it burnt him. More ghosts in the night, always hovering near him, and his bare feet made their way toward his window. A full moon. Sometimes if he imagined it hard enough, he would hear wolves howling.

He never missed how his heart clenched at the memory.

“Do you hate me that much, Gabriel, that you can’t even look at me?”

It’s because I don’t hate you that I can’t, he thought with a grimace, swallowing. “I told you to go before.” He hated how his voice broke.

Ever so dominant, full of confidence that Gabriel only played pretend at, he moved to where Gabriel had to face him anyway. He looked just like he did on the night he spent at his estate, sitting across from him, drinking and laughing together, being pulled in with those rich brown eyes. Christ. He had a type. “We would have made such beautiful memories, my friend,” his thumb traced Gabriel’s bottom lip, causing the man to open his mouth without thinking.

He never thought about men before. After, he only ever thought of one. Then Fredrich spoke, and the spell ended. “I only wished that you chose me.”

And since this had to be all in his head, he had a chance to be honest, “if only you wanted me as I was,” Gabriel replied. “I wanted you as you were.”

Or, well, maybe somewhat honest. Did he want him as he really was, or who he was presented as?

All Gabriel knew was that he wanted him. All he knew was that much like Malia, if things had been different, there could’ve been a future.

The smile the baron made was rueful, catching the uncertainty of his last statement, but instead of when he haunted him before his brown eyes weren’t so hard. “Sad, isn’t it? You kill me so you can live,” Gabriel’s heart clenched painfully, “but you are hardly living. Not even for your little one, growing in the belly of your assistant in a room not too far from you—do you hear how she cries, Gabriel? How scared she is while you hide in your room?”

He said nothing.

Still, the man went on, “do you know how lucky you are to be given such a gift? If I had a chance to experience a family, a family of my own choosing without being chained to what is considered traditional, I would’ve taken it without thought.” Regardless of his words earlier, Gabriel heard nothing but raw honesty. “Fought and killed for it with all my power.”

“Kill me or kiss me,” because he was at the end of his rope. Fredrich von Glower was dead and gone and he didn’t need to think of some fantasy where he and Grace and the black fucking wolf played house. It hurt enough to have him here when it wasn’t really him. “Just shut the hell up.”

Funny how the first kiss, their first kiss, would be in his head. All teeth and aggression, mixed with a pining he had never known. Fredrich von Glower had seduced him, who usually was the one who seduced, flawlessly, and even in death he had him in his web. Never slept with the man, but God, if he were alive, if he were here right now—

Air. There was nothing but air when he came too, leaning against the cold window of his room, breathing harshly.

***

Talking with Grace was...something. He couldn’t avoid it, push it under the rug, because the evidence of what they both did grew and grew little by little. She waddled about, rubbing her lower back herself, sporting mostly maternity overalls over a sweater because, even if she was raised in New York, New Orleans spoiled me with its heat. It’s too damn cold here, Knight. He’d almost grown fond of hearing the shuffling of her house shoes because, well, only white people walk around in a home with their shoes on, ass.

“That baby in there is half-white, you know,” the cheek came so easy, like coming home in some ways.

Grace gave as good as she got, “oh, I know. It’s why the only spices I’ve been able to handle are salt and pepper.”

He laughed. Oh, how he laughed, and oh how he missed her. The best thing about it? She laughed, too, and he missed that even more.

She wasn’t a ghost. She was there, in front of him, her eyes darker than Fredrich’s and Malia’s combined, but they twinkled like tiny diamonds whenever she laughed. No glasses, still, only contacts. Too much maintenance, she had told him when he had asked about the change.

He went with her to Munich to on check-ups, peering at a blurry, black and white blob on the screen as the baby’s heartbeat filled the room; couldn’t really tell that there was a baby, besides the heartbeat and Grace’s expanded stomach, but something made his heart skip, nonetheless. “You guys sure it’s gonna be a girl?” Hell, its technology, after all. It wasn’t perfect.

“Ja, Herr Knight,” the assistant replied with a laugh, “see here?” She pointed with the hand that wasn’t controlling the wand on Grace’s stomach and he leaned over to take a closer look, “that is just an arm, and there is a leg, and—oh, it looks like she’s tired of us looking! She’s turning around.”

“I don’t blame her,” Grace said, and Gabriel didn’t miss the note of fondness in her voice.

Blood work was fine. The scans were fine. Everything was fine, but something began to claw at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

After the appointment—to which she needed to pee as soon as she was dressed—they ate at McDonalds. It was cheap, near the clinic, and it had a restroom.

It seemed most of what Grace did was pee.

They ordered an extra pair of fries to go on the way back to Schloss Ritter, and when she wasn’t stuffing her face with fries—he was able to steal a few with only a glare that had no heat to it when caught—they made small talk. Safe topics. “I need to ask you something. Don’t be mad, okay?”

Well, mostly safe topics.

“Shoot,” he turned right, keeping his eyes on the road. He missed his bike, drove better on it, but when he suggested he could install a little seat beside him as he drove since she couldn’t exactly straddle a bike anymore, the groan she made sounded like she was being tortured.

“Are we having a Whoops, or just a black-and-white blob?”

He barked out a laugh. She laughed, too, and suddenly they both physically could not stop laughing. “I thought it was only me!” She shook her head and when she snorted, she quickly covered her mouth. “Maybe that can be another name for her? Gabrielle Whoops Heartburn Blob. Nobles always have more than one name.”

Settling just a bit, she shook her head, before suddenly her face fell. “I have to pee again.”

Of course.

Like always, as soon as they entered the castle, he went up to his study to check his messages while he heard Grace flush the toilet in the distance.

That itch came back tenfold when Scotland Yard contacted him.

***

It hit too fucking close to home.

A little girl had been kidnapped. Some occult group not unlike the old lady he met months ago, were said to have been kidnapping people in the Highlands for years. Scotland Yard was called when the child taken was the only daughter of Prime Minister hopeful.

The mother was beside herself, of course. Face gaunt with circles under her eyes. Devastated.

The father? The father appeared disinterested. Put out. As if this was all a waste of time. He was normally shit at reading people, but after all he’d been through, and maybe it was just paranoia, something at the back of his head sent out a warning. Could be something, could be nothing; he could be involved, or he could be a righteous prick that didn’t deserve to be a father, less a politician.

And you deserve to be one? a voice asked.

No, he said, but that doesn’t stop me from being one in a few months.

The mother, Wendy, was a frail thing, only a little older than he was, and said they had two older boys. James, Rory, and their little girl, Abigail. If things were different, he’d save the name as a possibility for Grace. He’d always liked that name, come to think about it. His first-grade teacher’s name was Abigial Lewis and she had great, big—

Maybe not Abigail, then.

He brought along a laptop. A compromise so when Grace was back in Germany, safe in Schloss Ritter with Gerde, he would contact her through SIDNEY, and she him.

That first time was quiet. He didn’t dawdle to get a feel of the scene like he usually did. Not even when Prince James’ son was missing did he ever feel this much anxiety. A little girl, only four, her survival depended all on him.

That could be my little girl, was what kept him going.

That night he was in a Cathedral. Everyone was dressed in black. His parents were there, just as he remembered them, staring ahead. Gran and Grandaddy were there, too, and so was Wolfgang beside them. In front of him at the end of the aisle was a closed casket.

Go, someone urged him, and he listened.

His boots were the only thing he would be able to hear as he made his way toward the closed casket. Something told him to open it. Something urged him to, so he listened, but instead of a corpse that rested inside the coffin was a very much alive, with bright eyes and a gummy grin, infant looking up at him.

He knew who she was.

A shy grin broke out on his face, and he stared, just stared at her, flailing her fists and making sounds just because she could. She wore a white dress, the sort people dressed their babies for baptisms, that bunched up when those tiny hands of hers fisted the fabric. “What’cha’ doin’ there, sweetheart?”

He bent down to pick her up, holding her where her chubby cheek was near his stubbled one, swaying from side to side. In this serenity, this sense of peace he hadn’t felt in so long, he had almost forgotten that he shouldn’t be so at ease holding a baby since he hadn’t held many. And yet, it didn’t matter; her tiny hands on his face, those eyes of hers staring at him like he’s the real wonder and not her, or that dimpled, gummy grin that made his heart flutter in his chest were the only thing in the universe he cared about.

“Hey,” he whispered, bouncing her like he had seen Mosely bounce his nieces when they were babies.

If something was too good to be true, it usually was.

The scene shifted. Instead of his arms, the infant lay on her back on slab, and a man in a dark rob was behind her, holding a knife in the air dramatically.

“Don’t you fucking—”

He lowered the knife and Gabriel plunged at the figure, only for Gabriel to jolt himself awake, drenched in sweat.

It was late, he knew that, but he had to know—had to! Grace picked up, voice hoarse with disuse, “this is Grace.”

“Hey, Gracie.”

“Gabe?” Her voice more alert, and by the rustling in the background he could imagine her sitting up in bed, “Are you alright?”

He said nothing. He was still trembling. She gave him a moment, only a moment, before, “What’s wrong?”

“Is Whoops okay?”

They really needed to call her something other than Whoops.

A soft exhale, before, “yes, she’s fine. My ribs and bladder aren’t, though.”

That made him laugh. It was weak, but still a laugh. “Good.” And then, “Are you?”

“Besides my bladder and ribs? I’m fine.” There was a pause, a comfortable pause of two people enjoying each other’s company, even if they were miles away. “Go to bed. You need your rest.”

He didn’t. Couldn’t.

No jokes were had, no flirtations, but an earnest need to find out what was happening. Besides Wendy’s kindness, the emails and calls he received from Grace either about the case or Whoops, he’d discovered allies in the very beings he was sent to investigate. White Witches, at that.

“Not every being you hunt deserves to be hunted, shadow hunter,” one had told him, not unkindly. “Men are different, so are we.”

And humans are usually the worst kinds of monsters alive, Grace had told him once.

Four days of nightmares. Four days of playing cat-and-mouse, toying with his psyche about his looming fatherhood as if it knew, whatever it was, only to find out the Witch they were looking for all along had been the girl’s father. Just like his dream, only besides his own little girl, the brown haired and blue eyed four-year-old lay bound on the stone alter, while her father, clad in a black coat, spoke an incantation—a summoning spell—but before he raised the blade to complete it, Gabriel had knocked him out cold.

He thought turning into a werewolf brought out his aggression; this was much worse. All he had seen was red.

He would’ve killed that man. That portly man who spent the four days on his black cell, checking his pager boredly, and looking down his nose at him whenever he tried to pick his brain in an effort to help. Hell, he’d even broach the comment about being a father himself, even if his own daughter wasn’t yet born, and all he got was a look of boredom.

Sobbing broke him from his trance.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he did his best to soothe the little girl, who still wore her clothes form when she was abducted, and untied her to draw her in his arms. She stank. Her clothes were soiled, too, but he didn’t mind. He picked up the small girl in his arms and began to leave the ruined and abandoned home. “You’re gonna be just fine, alright? Just close your eyes and hang on real tight.”

Wendy, who had been nothing but lovely and helpful, was found dead with her throat slit in her hotel room. Scotland Yard was called, arrests were made, and that little girl who clung to him so tightly when the ambulance rolled up was sent to her grandparents, along with her two older brothers. Nice kids. A hefty age gape since the eldest, James, looked to be around sixteen, while Rory couldn’t have been no more than twelve. After he spoke to Grace on the phone about what happened, all of it, he spent the rest of the time with little Abby.

If he didn’t already have one on the way, well, he would’ve entertained the brief thought of being a father. Regardless of the horrors she saw, she smiled, told jokes, and spoke to him about all the stuffed animals she had at home. In turn, he’d tell her about his bike, his Gran, and the doofus of a friend he had named Mosely. Apparently making fun of his lack of hair was a winner, because it sent her to a giggle frenzy.

“Is mummy alright, Misser Knight?”

He just smiled and said nothing, opting to turn her attention back to her stuffed animals. Not his place to tell her, anyway.

Turned out, little Abby was what the prick needed to ensure he’d become England’s next Prime Minister. A deal with a demon years ago; his firstborn daughter for all the power he could wield.

He should’ve killed him.

He didn’t.

He didn’t leave Abby or her brothers until she was discharged from the hospital. Her grandparents, Wendy’s parents, were just as lovely as their daughter had been. The English were said to be stand-off-ish with affection, but all he received were hugs of gratitude and pats on the back.

“We’ll never be able to repay you,” the grandfather, Phillip, which made his heart skip a beat, told him in earnest.

“Just make sure those kids are fine, and we’ll be square,” he had answered.

When he got back to the hotel, all the bravery he had vanished.

***

Schloss Ritter was subdued. He didn’t really eat, only when his stomach began to churn and ache and his blood sugar would drop low, and he certainly didn’t shower. When he slept, he would dream of nothing but gore.

He saved little Abby.

He didn’t save her mother.

Just like he didn’t save Fredrich, or Malia, or Wolfgang.

“My death isn’t your fault, Gabriel.”

In the corner of his eye, as he sat in the corner with his knees to his chest, he saw the kind face of his great-uncle. The same long, dark overcoat with his hair in a low ponytail.

“I lost a son,” he admitted, walking toward him languidly, before dropping to his knees. Considering it was his head and nothing more, he didn’t wince as he bent down. “A parent should never have to bury their child.”

Why are you telling me this?

He knew why, though.

He lost his parents when he was young. Left a hole in his heart so big that he tried to fill it with faceless conquests. There wasn’t a guarantee that he’d live long enough to see Whoops reach ten, or twenty, or thirty. There wasn’t even a guarantee that Grace wouldn’t come to her senses and leave him as soon as the baby was born, and he’d never get a chance to see if he would. He wouldn’t blame her. His life wasn’t exactly safe. Hell, even before, his life wasn’t exactly ideal, because he wasn’t exactly ideal.

The fear that gripped him, though, that made him crawl to the furthest corner of his study, was the possibility of having to outlive his child.

That...that made it hard to breathe. Hard to think. He thought the prospect of losing his Gran was terrifying, but Whoops? Unthinkable.

“You love her, don’t you?” Wolfgang asked.

“She ain’t even here and it hurts,” he responded.

“You love her mother, too, yes?”

He hitched a breath, his heart stammering, but it was with perfect clarity he answered, “yes.”

Grace wasn’t his first love. Grace wasn’t the love that awoke something inside him that he never knew existed. Grace was the sort of love that one might overlook, mostly because they weren’t ready to see it for what it really was, and for the few that would double back to take a closer look at what they missed, they would find something no words could name. The sort of love that pulled the rug from under you and screamed, got ya! For all the flirting, all the banter, all the tension he never expected Grace. Never expected the conservatively dressed college student who was overqualified for the position that waltzed into St. George’s to apply for a job to be the mother of his child.

And he didn’t love her because of Whoops, either; resting his head against the cool stone of the castle, he thought back—really thought back—to the small moments. It was after Fredrich and Malia, of course, the two living together at Schloss Ritter and going through the motions. How he would always want to talk to her about the first ridiculous thought he had, and this time out of genuine want and not a need to pester her, to just hear her opinions on anything and everything.

It crept up on him and, when it finally clicked that he might feel something, she left.

“She returned,” Wolfgang reminded him, as if he could read his thoughts.

“’Cause I knocked her up,” Gabriel groused petulantly. “Not for me.”

He made a tsking noise, shaking his head disapprovingly, “my boy, for one so smart, you see so little.”

***

It turned out he’d been blind for a bit. He normally hated to be wrong, because he did like to think he had some smarts under his belt, but this time? This time it was fine. More than fine. This time when Grace was in his bed, not a stitch on her body or his, he knew there would be no awkward deflections in the morning.

She loved him.

Not just because of the baby, but because of him.

And he had yet to tell her how he felt. Words were caught in his throat whenever he attempted, so he did his best to show her. Oh, there was still the cheeky banter; sarcasm was his first language and Grace wouldn’t be Grace without her sassing him to kingdom come. And so, with the cheek came back rubs, foot rubs, full body rubs that often led to something else. Oh, he received just as he gave; little conservative Grace may have appeared to be a librarian outside the bedroom, but inside? Well, his memories of that night were a pale imitation, because damn.

Mostly, it was good—damn good—because he loved her, too. Just like it was good with Malia because he loved her.

And if he had a chance with Fredrich? It would’ve been good, too.

He loved them, but they were gone. Grace was beside him, spent, her chest—which, not to be a total neanderthal, but damn did he appreciate what pregnancy did for her chest—heaving up and down just as his was. Both were worn out. Sex this late in pregnancy was tricky, but Grace was a diligent researcher, after all. Sometimes, like tonight, it ended with the two in euphoria and covered with sweat; sometimes it ended in a blunder, but laughter, nonetheless.

“Should take you out on a date,” he murmured, rolling on his side when he finally caught his breath to look at her. She was blissed out, dazed, with a small smile on her face. “Come to think ‘bout it, we never went on a date.”

She snorted, but he went on. “How ‘bout it, Gracie? Once that baby pops out,” she made a face at his choice of words, but he ignored it. “You and me, just the two of us, somewhere real fancy, too.”

“Let me guess, Burger King?”

“Stuff it, Grace.”

“You already did,” Grace parried slyly, turning her head over to face him with a smug grin, parroting what he had said earlier word-for-word. “Unless you’d like to try again? After all, you’re all—what? Thirty-six? You might need more rest for round three.”

Yes, the sass did not die out, but fondness only grew with every retort she’d make.

The night after, when he finally told her of how he felt, and then suggested a proper name for Whoops, their daughter decided to make her way into the world.

***

Rebecca Chiyo Knight. He thought they’d give her Grace’s last name, but she insisted. At first, she thought Rebecca—Bex, which was a lot better than Whoops—would be a Ritter. “I might have Ritter blood,” Gabriel had told her, “But I’m a Knight. If she’s gonna have my name, I want her to be a Knight, not a Ritter.”

He thought he knew love. He thought he had loved Bex when she was still growing in Grace’s stomach. He was dead wrong. Again, this was a time when he wasn’t so put out on being wrong. He only wished his Gran, Grace’s parents, or even Mosely could be there to see the first few days of Bex’s life.

They probably would’ve been there to begin with, if they, both Grace and Gabriel, hadn’t waited so long to tell them. Oh, when they did tell them, weeks before the birth, they both got an earful.

“My dad is going to want to know your intentions with me,” Grace had told him, looking pained. “If he pressures you into popping the question, just pretend all you can hear is white noise. It’s what I do.”

If it were possible, he’d fallen in love with her all over again.

When he had told Mosely he had laughed so hard, so damn hard, before going, “Wait, really? You’re shitting me, Knight. You? A daddy?”

But the love he felt for Bex? Still undefinable. Without limits. Oh, the fear was there; the sort of fear that gripped him by the neck and made it hard to breathe. The worry about his family being doomed to raise orphans after orphans, or even worse, outliving the little girl that seemed to illuminate his shadows with the brightest of lights. To even think of having that light snuffed out was unimaginable.

He wouldn’t be able to go on. How Wolfgang did it, he’d never know, and he hoped to God he’d never find out.

He wasn’t comfortable holding her as he walked up and down Schloss Ritter when Grace needed her rest. She squirmed and he would do his best to keep calm, tell himself he wouldn’t drop her, and did his best to soothe her. He learned earlier he shouldn’t sing if he wanted to keep her calm; that made her cry louder. After a month, though, he somewhat got the hand of it. Late night feedings came in shifts, but he grew to enjoy the times when it was his turn, because it was just him and Bex.

The nursery was finished, but she was too small to go into the crib, so the small cradle at the side of the bed in Grace’s room was where she slept. Not that she approved of sleeping there. She enjoyed it best sleeping on someone’s chest, her head tucked under the chin, drooling as she snored softly.

In the morning they would make their way to New Orleans to visit Gran. Grace’s parents would be there, too, which had Grace’s nerves shot. She needed the rest after wearing a hole in the ground going repeatedly on what not to say to her parents, how to greet them, and please, for the love of God, do not mention that she was Fuji in his story.

Apparently, her mom was a fan of his books.

He’ll never let Grace live that down, much to her annoyance.

And it was that night, where Bex was tucked under his chin, laying on his chest, as he rested on the couch in front of a dying fire in the lounge area, where, for once, no ghosts came to guilt him or give him benediction. The night was quiet, save the soft snores of his daughter, and when the sun rose, illuminating the world with light, he noticed his daughter’s gaze, and how if he squinted, he’d probably see galaxies dancing in those eyes of hers. All babies' eyes were pale at birth, but hers remained, if not slowly changing to another vibrant hue. “She’s gonna have your eyes,” Grace had promised on the drive home from the hospital.

He was going to have the time of his life fighting dragons alongside her. “I think you’re gonna be the best adventure I’ll ever get to have, kiddo,” and Bex smiled up at him, even if it was probably gas, he’d still swear up and down that it was a smile. “What about it? Ready to raise hell?”

As if considering his request, even if it was unlikely because she didn’t even know her own name just yet, she stared at him with those discerning eyes. Maybe his color of eyes, or will be, but her mother’s all the same. When she made her decision, whatever it was, she gave a loud yawn and closed her eyes, a thumb going back in her mouth to soothe into another long rest.

And the world still turned.

#myfic #gk #otp: if i loved you less; i might be able to talk about it more #otp: you said i killed you (haunt me then)#need an otp tag for malia/gabriel #but i really - while this is more gabriel/grace - wanted to honor all of his LI #especially malia #gabriel knight series #the gabriel knight series #gabriel knight #grace nakimura #malia gedde #rebecca knight #mosely #lmao #i stayedd up all night bc hyperfixation Be Like That

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buckyskorpion · 4 years

Text

11 hours - part five

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: alright things escalated VERY QUICKLY but shit had to go down sometime. i hope you enjoy! and sorry for the delay, i really been goin thru it recently. this part is 7k to make up for it lmao i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | my ko-fi

masterlist

It’s a big day. You had held Bucky’s hand as you stood in the doorway to his apartment, playing with his rings so you didn’t have to meet his eyes. You were nervous, not because you didn’t trust Bucky but because with every secret spilled you felt like a layer of your skin was being peeled away. But you’d held his hand and told him to pick you up tonight from your office. You handed him your business card, a physical embodiment of trust you hadn’t given to anyone else. It wasn’t your apartment address, sure, but it was something and Bucky held the card with the biggest, boyish grin on his face that melted your heart.

The real reason you’re so nervous is because if whoever followed you from Bucky’s apartment is following Bucky, then they’ll follow him right to your office door. You’d had a long talk to yourself in the bathroom mirror the other night, however, and decided you weren’t going to let a hypothetical stalker ruin yet another relationship for you. Not that stalkers are common in your life, but using any excuse to distance yourself and cut people out is most definitely your regular MO. Not this time.

That being said, stalkers aren’t common in your life so you are, understandably, fixated by it. You are sure it has something to do with Bucky because you don’t believe in coincidences and the guy literally followed you from Bucky’s apartment. The big question is, was the stalker after Bucky or were they after you? Since you have next to nothing to go on, you aren’t exactly on your way to answering that one yet. But you’ll get there, eventually, and you’ve got some ideas.

In the meantime, you wait for Bucky and attempt to tidy your organised mess. He’s meant to show up at seven on his bike, but seven is going on eight and he’s yet to show. You try not to picture the worst or convince yourself you’re being stood up, even though that’s what it feels like. The one time you give out personal details and he doesn’t show. That would be your luck. You kick a filing drawer closed a bit too harshly, the metal clanging loud in your deafeningly silent office. Whatever. It’s not like anyone is left in the building to judge you because Bucky is over an hour late and every other office in the place is long empty.

You water your desperately dry indoor plants, even the one on top of your bookshelf - a testament to how hard you’re trying to distract yourself from the imminent heartbreak. You stand on tiptoes on your swivel chair to reach the crispy fern, something your dad would yell at you for if he could see you, but he can’t so you just pray the wheels don’t slip out from under you. It’s a very precarious precision for you to be in when someone bangs your office door open and stumbles inside, that’s for sure. You nearly break your entire body falling from the chair, but catch yourself on the bookcase before any real damage can be done.

The invader slams the door shut behind them, making you flinch once again as you spin around to face your would-be attacker. Only it's not someone breaking and entering - it’s Bucky, panting heavily and bleeding from his temple while he turns slowly on his heel and assesses every corner of your tiny office for threats.

“Bucky?” you call out, hesitant to approach and startle him incase it’s not your office that he’s seeing. His dog tags hang out the neck of his t-shirt when they’re usually always carefully tucked under the fabric, and you notice now he’s not just bleeding from his head but somewhere under that shirt as well. He looks over at your voice and it takes a second for him to focus properly on you, shoulders visibly slumping, closing the space in three quick strides.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, pulling you bodily into a crushing hug. You wrap your arms around his waist, carefully holding him in case he’s got even more injuries you can’t see, but he squeezes you so tight you find it hard to breathe. He has one arm around your shoulders, that hand tangled in your hair and he presses your head into his shoulder. You feel him nose into the hair at the crown of your head, breathe in deep, let it out in shudders.

“You’re hurt,” you say into his t-shirt, and he shakes his head while still pressing his face into your scalp.

“M’fine, s’just blood,” he mumbles, barely coherent, so you let it go for the moment. You let him hold you and you hug him back, splaying your palms flat against his back and pressing him impossibly closer to you.

Eventually, you peel yourself from him in order to give him a once over. He smiles down at you like he’s amused, but you hardly find the situation funny when Bucky’s blood is literally all over you, now. You take his hand and make him sit on your swivel chair, spinning uselessly in the middle of the room from where it slid out from under you and rolled away. There’s a first aid kit in a box near the window, because you can never be too careful, and you take to soaking gauze in alcohol solution instead of speaking. You don’t trust what would come out of your mouth right now, anyway.

Luckily, Bucky fills the silence for you. He bites his lip as he looks over at you, taking in the tense set of your shoulders and jerky movements as you dig around for bandages. Then he says, “I got caught up, I really am sorry.”

You nod, but you still don’t speak. Instead you grab your supplies and move over to Bucky, avoiding his eyes as you assess the one wound you can see. Bucky has a thin cut from the corner of his eye to his hairline, shallow but bleeding profusely due to the thin skin there. You suck in a deep breath and start dabbing the soaked gauze on the wound, outside to inside, watching as the white turns coppery red with every swipe. Your stomach twists at the sight, and to your horror, you find you could almost cry.

“Doll,” Bucky says, eyebrows creasing up as if he’s just as upset as you feel. He hooks one big hand around your thigh, tugging until you let him manhandle you onto his lap. “I mean it, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t care that you were late,” you snap, clenching your jaw until you can get your flash of frustration under control. You drop your hand from his face, curling up further onto Bucky’s lap despite yourself as his arms come round to hug you to his chest. His bloodstained, most likely injured chest. You take a deep breath and ask, “What happened?”

“You wanna know?” Bucky asks. When you finally meet his eyes he doesn’t seem to be shutting down, shutting you out like you expect when it comes to talking about Bucky’s biker lifestyle. He just looks sad, and you let yourself soften just a bit to run your fingers down his jaw.

Bucky’s eyes flutter closed when you touch him, and you say, “I already told you - I just wanna know. No secrets.”

“No secrets,” Bucky affirms, smiling as he opens his eyes again. The corners are tight, though, as he starts to explain. “One of the things we do - the gang, y’know - is run protection details. Me and Sam were on it, supposed to be a simple job, but we got shitty intel and ended up having to fight our way out of a crappy spot. We got out, finished the job, but it definitely didn’t go to plan. ”

“Protection for what?” you ask. This is the most open Bucky has ever been when talking about his gang, so you’re not going to pass up this opportunity for a bit more information.

“For who,” Bucky corrects, smiling at you like he knows what you’re doing. He starts stroking up and down your shoulder blades as he talks, soothing the both of you it seems. “Rich businessmen, low-level politicians, mob affiliates - anyone who’s got a target on their back and need to get from point A to point B. They’re easy jobs for us ex-army guys and they pay well.”

“Better pay than fixing cars, I bet,” you say. Your attempt at levity works and Bucky grins. The way it makes his face turn young and open is so at odds with the trickle of blood down his cheek.

“Gotta be able to pay for your drinks somehow,” he says, and you slap his shoulder. He mock-winces and says, “Hey! I’m bleeding, ya gotta be nice to me.”

“Don’t gotta do shit,” you mumble, reminding you to press the gauze you’re still holding back on the wound on his temple to stem some of the bleeding. He hisses for real this time, the sting of the alcohol probably burning a bit, especially so close to his eye. You press a kiss to his cheek and in apology and Bucky hums, tightening his grip around your body to hold you close again.

“M’sorry I ruined our night,” he says, “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again, but I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, and he meets your eyes, slightly confused. You smile and say, “Not when you’re hurt. I know what I signed up for, I just want you to be ok.”

“What if, one day, I’m not ok?” Bucky asks, serious now, and you take your time before you answer him. His cut is clean of dried blood, and it’s stopped oozing any more. You doubt it’ll get infected so you should bandage it up but you can’t make yourself move from Bucky’s lap. Not just yet.

“I’ll fix you up,” you say. “That’s what we’re doing, right? Taking care of each other.”

Bucky blinks, once, as if allowing your words to download in his brain like a data file. Then he kisses you. He slides a hand up to cradle your head and presses soft, slow kisses to your lips like he’s got all the time in the world. He came storming in like a hurricane but now you’re in the eye, calm and quiet settling over you both as you cup his jaw and kiss into him all the tenderness you're too afraid to say. You mend his bleeding head and adrenaline-addled heart while he soothes your fear. Taking care of each other, and it feels nice to let someone else do that for once.

You know what Bucky is leaving out. The I hurt people admission, the fact he might have killed someone tonight, that the blood on his shirt isn’t just his. You really thought you’d care more - about the not knowing, about the truth of it, about everything. But he’s breathing and alive underneath you, trailing kisses and stubble burn from your mouth to your cheek to your temple, and all of those superfluous details become white noise. You’re surprised to find the simple fact that Bucky is alright is enough to supersede all the gaps you would usually itch to fill.

Bucky spins you both, tucking your legs up closer so you don’t overbalance as he looks around your office in a dizzying circle. A spike of nerves makes you feel sick for a second but Bucky smiles as he looks around, like he’s pleased with this part of your life he’s been able to see, and it makes you feel less afraid.

“This is where the magic happens, huh?” he asks, and you laugh at his teasing. “It’s very normal.”

“What did you expect? Like ‘Sherlock Holmes’ or something?” you ask. Bucky shrugs, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Maybe,” he says, then squints at you like he’s considering something. “So, no violin?”

“No violin, and no Mrs Hudson. I make my own tea,” you say, grinning up at Bucky even though he’s being stupid.

“Yeah, right,” Bucky snorts, “Pour your own wine, you mean.”

“Are you calling me a drunk?” you gasp, reeling back from Bucky and almost sending yourself off his lap and onto the floor. Bucky grips you tighter, laughing at the offence written all over your face, and then extracts an arm to point meaningfully at the half empty bottle of red by the side of your desk.

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he says. You fold your arms in a huff, if only to have him kiss the top of your head in a silent apology.

“You stick to the gang stuff, I’ll stick to the investigating,” you huff, and Bucky kisses you again until you wipe the frown from your face.

“Alright, smart girl,” he says. He stands, holding you up like it’s nothing and you can’t deny how hot that is, even if he is being condescending to you right now. He sets you down on your feet and smooths out your jacket, the warmth of his hands seeping through the leather as they pass over your shoulders and down your arms. He links his fingers into one of your hands, smiling down at you, and says, “Can we rain check dinner? I think I need a shower.”

Bucky stands unnaturally close to you as you lock up your office and head out, scanning the street while you lock the back door and set the alarm system for the building. He takes your hand wordlessly and leads you to his bike, parked haphazardly on the sidewalk and just begging for a ticket. He hands you a helmet but is looking over your shoulder, not at you, and both of those things are worrying - you’ve never known Bucky to wear a helmet, let alone offer you one. You didn’t know he owned one. You feel fidgety, your skin crawling like you’re being watched, and Bucky must feel it too because he’s a bit rough in manhandling you onto the bike as quickly as possible.

“Bucky,” you say, and he twists around to give you a clinical once over - much like you’d done to him when he’d come to you bloody and breathless. You feel sick to your stomach, guilt and fear twisting in your gut, as you ask, “Do you think someone followed you here?”

Bucky’s face is impassive, but you’d like to think you know him well enough to read the tick by the corner of his eyes as a silent, muttered, shit. He licks his lips and says, “I can’t know the answer to that for sure.”

“But there’s a chance,” you say, and your heart is hammering so loud you barely hear your own voice. If someone finds your office then they find you, and the carefully constructed bubble of anonymity you’ve created is shattered in the space of a second. But you knew that, that’s what Bucky asked you on his couch - will you stay? Knowing Bucky is the antithesis of your comfort zone, will you stay anyway?

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Bucky says definitively. You scan his eyes for trace of a lie but there is none. Bucky’s jaw is set, and he reaches up to grip your chin and hold your gaze on his, making sure you hear him. “Just like you said - we take care of each other. I’ll always take care of you.”

You let out a shaky breath, one you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and Bucky kisses the trill of fear away. You feel like you’ve dived off a cliff face, Bucky holding your hand all the way down the precipice of trust you’d promised yourself you’d never cross. But Bucky promises he’ll take care of you and god, it’s stupid but you want him to. You want his to be the arms you land in at the end of this free-fall. Even if, given who Bucky is, that’s the most dangerous place to be.

“Speaking of no secrets,” you say, more of mumble into his mouth than anything. Bucky pulls away, adorably puppy-like look of confusion on his face, and your stomach twists with guilt. “Remember the night of the party? At Sam’s bar?”

Bucky nods. He’s twisted uncomfortably on the seat of his bike and the helmet you’ve yet to put on is digging in o your stomach where you’re holding it. This isn’t the best place to be having this conversation but Bucky’s promise has made you brave, and if you don’t go against your own word now you never will. Not once have you ever spilled details of a case before you’d cracked it. This isn’t a case, you have to remind yourself. This is your life.

“That morning, when I left,” you say, omitting the fact it’s the first time you ever used his front door and will most certainly be the last, “someone followed me from your building. I shook them off, but they were waiting for me to leave and I don’t know if they were casing your apartment or if they were there for me, or what. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, I just-“

“You just what?” Bucky doesn’t sound angry. Worse, he sounds cold. Shut down, clinical, and the way his face has pinched off makes your heart break.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you,” you say, looking down at your lap to avoid the way he’s looking at you like a stranger. Saying it out loud makes it sound so much worse, but it’s the truth and Bucky deserves that at least. “To be honest, I’m still not sure. But I want to. If I’m going to trust anyone, I want it to be you.”

It’s several moments before you’re brave enough to meet Bucky’s eyes again. He is coming back to you slowly, the shutters pulling up from his eyes as confusion seeps out. He scans your face and says, “Usually I would tell you that’s a really stupid idea, but I think you already know that.”

“Stupid ideas are kind of my thing,” you say, and that makes Bucky smile. Relief is bone deep, hits so hard you could slump from the bike in a pile of goo. He’s not mad. In fact, he leans forward in what must be a truly uncomfortable twist to press his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, breathes in deep. You follow suit, so ridiculously relieved you still get to do this while simultaneously trying to control the adrenaline rush from handing over what feels like you’re entire life to someone else.

All your life it feels like it’s always been you versus the world. Your dad raised you that way, to rely on no one but yourself so you can never be let down, not even him. It feels wrong on a cellular level to trust Bucky like you are so blindly doing. Every instinct screams at you to run, to figure this out on your own, that Bucky would normally be one of your main suspects in a regular case. But here you are, showing Bucky all your cards, hoping against hope that you won’t live to regret it.

“No more secrets,” Bucky says, and you nod. You feel his eyelashes tangle with yours as you move, pressed so close like this, and you open your eyes to stare at the veiny lids covering his. “Next time someone follows you, you tell me.”

“Yes sir,” you say, grinning at the warning pinch he gives to your hip.

“Let’s go to the shop,” Bucky says, pulling away from you and turning back to gun his bike to life. “The guys can help us figure this stalker shit out.”

“The guys?” you ask, and your chest does something painfully restrictive at the thought of letting more people in. “As in, everyone? Like, your gang?”

Bucky laughs, like the way you say ‘gang’ is so goddamn amusing, and throws you one last look over his shoulder. You tug the helmet on as he revs the bike, suddenly regretting every other time you’ve gotten on this thing without one, as Bucky says, “Yeah, doll, my gang. That’s kinda the whole point - we help each other out.”

You hadn’t really thought of it like that before. Truthfully, your mind had been filled with shady drug deals and bloody fights, turf wars and tattoos and angry men on bikes. Bucky’s friends and the nights you’ve spent with them seem like a different world, the joy and love entirely removed from the illegal life Bucky leads outside of your reach, but you have to remind yourself - they’re one and the same. Your Bucky cannot be removed from the biker you’ve been kept seperate from.

Clinging to Bucky’s waist, you say, “Sounds very after school special for a gang, tough guy.”

You can practically see Bucky grinning just by looking at the back of his head as takes off, the streets of Brooklyn peeling away as heads for White Wolf Mechanics. Your anxiety and fear sheds off as well, floating away in strips down the tarmac like an outer layer of skin. You feel vulnerable, all new and exposed as you hold Bucky close so you don’t fall. That’s what makes it feel bearable - Bucky’s back against your cheek, the hand he places over yours against his stomach when you pull up at a red light. His promise, echoing under the rumble of the bike beneath you. I’ll always take care of you.

~~~

The shop looks closed from the outside, but you can hear a low bass-line from the street and people laughing somewhere inside. Bucky brings you round the back, the roller doors out front closed this time, and into the back rooms you’d yet to see since that first visit a few weeks ago. To your left you see what must be Bucky’s office, but the room he tugs you to looks more like a bachelor pad living room than a mechanics break room.

Sam and Steve lay sprawled on leather couches, beers open on the coffee table made of old crates stacked together. The Killers pumps through a very, very nice sound system which Natasha is quietly singing along to where she lays on top of the pool table, legs kicking off the edge to the beat. Her beer rests on her stomach, rising and falling with every breath, and she doesn’t even raise her head as she waves at the two of you entering. Sam lifts the icepack from his eye to look at you, grinning wide, and kicks Steve in the shin to get his attention.

“Barnes is back,” he says, rolling his eyes as Steve blearily blinks awake from what was clearly an unplanned nap. Steve focuses on you and Bucky, eyebrows drawn down in confusion, and Sam adds, “and he’s brought his girl.”

“Shouldn’t you be at dinner or something?” Steve asks, then seems to remember himself and smiles all big and perfect at you. “It’s great to see you again, by the way.”

“Quit brown-nosing, it’s embarrassing,” Sam says, and throws his icepack at Steve’s head. He swats it away, squawking at the wetness it leaves behind on his hand and cheek, which makes Sam grin.

“I need a beer for this,” Bucky mutters so only you can hear, which makes you smile. You lead the way to the minibar in the corner, right by the bookshelf full of video games and the cardboard cut-out of Guy Fieri (you don’t want to ask). Bucky follows, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into his chest as you walk - even without the watchful eyes of the other gang affiliates which usually follow you at his parties, Bucky seems hell bent on making sure everyone knows who you’re here with. Even his closest friends.

You can’t say you entirely mind.

“So, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Natasha asks. She’s sat up now, twisting on the pool table to face you both as Bucky grabs you some beers. Sam and Steve still continue to argue about nonsense on the couches and are ignored by the three of you for the moment. However, they stop bickering as soon as Bucky speaks again.

“Someone’s been watching my building,” he says. The silence is thick, and you feel almost guilty for ruining their fun night with your stalker woes. Bucky hands you a beer and looks at you pointedly, eyebrows raised. You take a sip before you follow his not-so-subtle direction to start talking.

“I was followed home the morning after Sam’s party at the bar,” you say. You have the full attention of Bucky’s closest friends, and you can’t help but feel a little intimidated. You take a deep breath and decide to look at the situation like you were debriefing a client on a case - remove yourself from the equation. “There was a man smoking against the building next to Bucky’s. He followed me about four blocks before I lost him. He was over six foot, caucasian, brown hair and stubble.”

“Sounds like every white guy,” Sam says. “You could be describing Bucky, for all we know.”

“Yes,” you say, frowning. “If I was putting a tail on someone, I would make them very nondescript. Makes sense, right?”

“And you’re sure he was following you?” Natasha asks. You glance at her, but she doesn’t look like she’s condescending you or anything. Surprisingly, she looks like she believes you far more than the other two men in the room. Maybe your trial by fire proved to her you know what you’re talking about, so you nod.

“Definitely. Either he knew I was there and was waiting for me to leave, or he was watching Bucky’s apartment and would have followed anyone who came out of it. Without more information I can’t be sure if he was there for me or Bucky.”

“You’ve never seem him before?” Steve asks. You shake your head, and he says, “Could you describe him a bit more detailed? I might be able to draw him.”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Or, we can just wait until he shows up at Bucky’s again and follow him.”

Bucky does not like that idea at all. He practically growls, grabbing your elbow and turning you to face him as he glares at you. Roughly, he says, “Are you fucking insane?”

“What?” Mildly annoyed, you tug your arm from Bucky’s grip and say, “If this was a case, that’s what I would do.”

“This isn’t a case. This guy is going to be a hell of a lot more dangerous than some rich businessman cheating on his wife,” Bucky says, voice raised to an almost shout in one of the quickest escalations you’ve ever seen.

A switch flips in your brain, and you see red.

“Thank you for the condescending analysis, Bucky,” you snap. You ignore Sam’s muttered ‘oh shit!’ for your own health and sanity. “But you have no idea the kind of people I’ve dealt with in my life. I can manage a fairly mediocre stalker.”

“A fairly mediocre stalker who works for someone who won’t hesitate to use your hamstrings as handcuffs,” Bucky hisses. He steps towards you, chest brushing yours as he breaths deep and ragged, and oh- there’s the Bucky you’d been missing. The guy who’s still wearing clothes stained with blood, most of it not his, angry in an incandescent kind of way which reminds you he could hurt you in many more ways than just a broken heart. He leans down to say into your face, “This isn’t something you fuck around with, alright? There’s a reason why I’ve kept this world from you.”

“I thought we said no secrets?” you say, raising your eyebrows. You will yourself to hold your ground, even if you are shaking like a leaf and your words come out soft in the face of his anger. Like you’d poked a pin in his chest, Bucky deflates. He backs off of you, face crumbling from anger to guilt as quickly as he built himself up there.

“I won’t let you get hurt because of me,” he says, shaking his head. The switch in your brain flips back, all indignation and pride fading away. He’s still trying to take care of you, just like he promised. Already it’s abundantly clear you’re not going to make that easy for him, and you wonder how long it will take until he gets sick of trying.

“This isn’t going to work if you don’t trust me,” you say, gesturing between you. “I let you into my world, now it’s your turn. I know it’s dangerous - I could have left, remember? But I’m here. So let me be here.”

“If someone touches you-“

“I’ll get over it,” you say. Bucky stares at you like you’re crazy, and maybe you are, but it’s true. “You said you were going to take care of me - how’re you gonna do that from all the way over there?”

You don’t mean the other side of the room, the valley of the pool table and the metaphorical arms-length which which he’s keeping between you. There’s only so much Bucky can hide from you before you either dive right in or walk away. This is the turning point.

“Fine,” he says. He looks physically pained as he scrubs a hand over his cropped hair, but at least he’s not angry anymore. “I still think thats a fucking stupid idea.”

“Like I said,” you say, offering him a smile he shakily returns, “stupid ideas are kind of my thing.”

“Uh, can I say something?” Sam asks, breaking the illusion that it was only the two of you in the room for that particular argument. You both turn to look at him, and he almost backs down with the weight of both your gaze. He carries on, however, saying, “I’m glad you guys have had this breakthrough in your relationship, but that doesn’t really help us in figuring out who this guy is. Or who he works for. Or why he followed you. Or how he knows where Bucky lives in the first place.”

“We could go around and ask,” Steve says, shrugging at Natasha’s eyeroll. “What? Baseball bats really jog people’s memories.”

“Why don’t we ask the private investigator for some expert advice,” Natasha says, giving you a look that seems to say men, right? You’re still trying to get your head around the image of Steve threatening someone with a baseball bat when you’ve seen him with his own puke on his jumper singing Sweet Caroline into a toilet bowl.

“Well,” you begin, darting Bucky a look but he seems to be listening and not getting ready to yell at you again, “since apparently following the guy is off the table for now, I would start with me and Bucky. Enemies, bad blood, someone with an axe to grind. Pull at some threads and see what happens.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Sam says, “Bucky’s got more enemies than friends.”

“So do we all, punk,” Bucky grumbles, glaring at Sam. “We’re in a gang.”

“This ain’t about me.” Sam holds his hands up in mock innocence, grinning big like he gets unrivalled joy from making Bucky’s face do the twitchy, dark thing it’s doing right now. The impact is somewhat lessened by the swollen, black eye Sam’s sporting from the mission gone wrong today, you assume, but it doesn’t curb his enthusiasm.

“I can put together a list of the most recent run-in’s you’ve had by tomorrow,” Natasha says to Bucky, ignoring the bickering with practiced ease. “Until then, we should put some protection on your building.”

“You guys have bodyguards?” you ask before your brain can tell you that’s a dumb fucking question. All three of them laugh, Bucky hooking an arm around your shoulder to ruffle your hair as he tugs you into his side. Point taken, you think as you pout under Bucky’s arm.

“I’ll stay in the spare room,” Steve says, swinging himself off the couch to his full, ginormous height. That image of him with the baseball bat starts to take a bit more shape in your mind, and you don’t doubt for a second he could offer some extra protection where the stalker is concerned. To you, he asks, “You don’t mind if I third wheel?”

“It’s not my apartment,” you say, attempting to hide your blush under the weight of Bucky’s arm. You are unsuccessful, if Sam’s smirk is anything to go by.

“We’ll survive one night, punk,” Bucky says, giving you a squeeze. “Or just buy some earplugs.”

“Gross!” Sam cries, flailing an arm around. “Too much information!”

You have a feeling akin to whiplash at how well these people are taking a stalker and potential threat on their lives. Joking around, Steve fake-moaning just to make Sam scream, Natasha laughing until tears form in her eyes at the antics of two grown men chasing each other around the couches like school children. Glancing up at Bucky and the warm look he’s giving them all, you suppose it must be lot less scary to face something like that with friends. Family, you think, as Sam crash-tackles Steve into the couch and smothers his face with a pillow.

“You’ll be alright?” Natasha’s soft voice manages to scare you, jolting under Bucky’s hold as you turn from watching Steve and Sam to find her right by Bucky’s other side. She’s looking up at him, lips pressed into a firm line, and you remember the last time you were here - James is the only family I have. Maybe some are taking this development a bit easier than others.

“Always am,” Bucky says, using his free arm to punch her lightly on the shoulder. She gets him back, much harder, and you feel Bucky wince away from her and into your side. “Serious, Natashenka. I’ll be fine.”

“Good,” she says. Smirking, she adds, “I’ll kill you if you aren’t.”

You look back to Steve and Sam before they can notice you eavesdropping, a hot, honey-thick feeling melting through your skin. You want to know what that feels like in a way which burns; to have people who have your back like that, and your dad doesn’t count because he literally has to. You understood Bucky’s gang even less than you originally thought - he’s not just a biker, a criminal, a hit man or an ex-army vet turned enforcer, whatever the case may be. He’s a guy doing what he has to do to protect the people he loves, because he’s surrounded by them. You’ve never had to protect anyone but yourself.

You tuck yourself closer into Bucky’s side, letting the warmth and smell of him consume you. That’s gonna change, you think. This feeling in your chest is telling you that change is already happening.

~~~

Steve does not have to get ear plugs to survive the night, and you make both him and Bucky coffee before you head off. Shower, new clothes, work - all that normal people stuff you have to do. Steve, golden in the morning sun with the brightest smile on his face, and Bucky’s moody scowl at the early hour and dark rings under his eyes, wave you goodbye. You kiss Bucky’s pout before you go, letting him grab your ass for a second before you slip away.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he says, and Steve snorts like there’s some joke you’re missing.

“I’ll go out the laundry window,” you say, as if this is a new development and not your usual routine. “Nobody’s gonna follow me, promise.”

“Hmph,” is all Bucky says and then you’re really gone, racing down the stairs and out the window like you always do.

Sorry Bucky, you silently think towards his apartment as instead of making to cut through the gym parking lot, you wrap back around his building and scan the street from behind the bins. Sure enough, opposite Bucky’s building with a baseball cap on and another cigarette, stands the same dude who followed you the first time. You really weren’t lying - stupid ideas are kind of your thing.

You make sure you’re hidden by a group of pedestrians as you slip out the side alley of Bucky’s apartment building and walk away from your stalker. He doesn’t notice, and you manage to walk a block and cross the road without him any the wiser. Your roles have switched as you hang out at the news-agency a few doors down from where he’s waiting, pretending to flick through a magazine. It’s easy to take a few picture of him over the top of the page with your phone, grainy but useable for when you show Bucky later.

You can deal with Bucky being angry at you, because you know how to do your job and this is the most efficient way to get intel. It’s always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Eventually, you watch your stalker watch Bucky and Steve leave his building. It’s 9AM and they head to their respective bikes, revving off down the street in the general direction of Steve’s tattoo shop. Your man hunches his shoulders and pulls out his phone, taps into it for a bit, before he walks off in the opposite direction to Bucky and Steve. Not following them, then. Your stomach twists as you fall into pace a few people behind him. Just following you.

He gets on the subway, which makes it very difficult for you to remain unnoticed but you manage to sit at the internal doors in the next carriage and watch him through those. He gets on his phone again, talking to someone with evident frustration if his clenched jaw and balled fist is anything to go by. He gets off in Manhattan, walks a few blocks, before ducking into a darkly lit bar called the Lerna. You decide it’s probably best not to follow him there, but you snap a few photos on your phone of the bar before doubling back out to Brooklyn.

You call Bucky as you go, a bit jittery at the incoming argument you know you’ve created, but you can’t help but feel it will be worth it. Now you have something to actually go off - a face, a name, some concrete facts. Much better than stabbing around in the dark. A few rings go by before Bucky picks up, saying, “Miss me already?”

“Get over yourself, tough guy,” you say, but you’re smiling. Maybe you do miss him already, just a bit. You were so focused on getting your information you didn’t get to fully savour Bucky this morning, all tanned muscles and tattoos, all yours. You force yourself to ruin the moment by saying, “I’ve got some information for you.”

“Me too,” he says, which surprises you. “Nat’s gotten together some potential candidates for your stalker. Have you got time to come to Steve’s tattoo place?”

“Sure,” you say, beginning to pick at your nails as the nerves set in.

There’s a beat of silence before Bucky must realise what you’d said before, and he doesn’t sound nearly as light and playful anymore “You said you had information? On what?”

“I’ll just show you when I get there,” you rush out, closing your eyes at the way Bucky sucks in a breath like he already knows what you’ve done. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oh, I’m not mad,” he says, as if through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking livid. Please tell me you didn’t follow that guy this morning.”

“Ok, I won’t tell you,” you say. “See you in twenty.”

“You’re dead meat,” he says before you hang up.

It could’ve gone worse, you muse as you round the corner to the subway station. Sure, Bucky threatened you with lethal violence and sounded even angrier than he’d gotten at the shop yesterday, but you can still imagine him smiling at his phone as you hung up the same way you’re smiling at yours now.

You text him the photos with a quick, Don’t say I never do anything for you xx

A minute after the photos deliver, Bucky is calling you again. You frown down at his caller ID, confused - you were on your way, why is he calling you back already? But before you answer that question, someone grabs your arm and tugs you away from the subway steps and into an alley instead. His grip is bruising, unbreakable, even as you scream and kick before he shoves a gun into your neck and you fall deathly silent.

“Scream and you’re dead,” the man says, hot on your ear. You can’t shudder away, his vice grip too tight and the cold steel on your jugular paralysing. You twist a bit to look behind you despite yourself, your stomach bottoming out at the familiar face which grins back at you. Baseball cap, brown hair, stubble - just like any other white guy. He sneers at you and says, “Not so clever now, huh?”

All you can hear, as your stalker marches you down the alley and into a waiting SUV with a gun to your back, is Bucky’s voice yelling this isn’t something you fuck around with. You’d let him say ‘I told you’ so a thousand times if it meant you got out of this alive. Hopefully, the phone tucked into your back pocket will be enough to save you. You hope Bucky is listening, the call you just managed to answer still catching the grunted conversation your kidnappers are having. You’ve never needed someone before, but god, do you hope Bucky’s got you now.

Part 6

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x reader fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fic #biker!bucky #biker au #avengers fic #marvel fic #reader insert #pov fic #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #sam wilson #11 hours #bucky barnes x reader fic #biker!bucky fic

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callmecallmecrazy · 4 years

Text

Keeping Up with Old Friends

*****

Well, it’s another odd one. Somewhere between preppy and stodgy, old-fashioned man I guess? This is actually brand spanking new! If it hadn’t been for Covid, this would have been the fastest story I’d ever written!

*****

“Josh? Is that you?” Henley saw his old college pal, the wannabe hipster with a scruffy beard and flannel button downs ordering coffee at a Starbucks. Except, scruffy Josh was smooth shaved with a gentle part in his hair and dressed in a tight fitting lime green polo, creased khakis, and polished loafers. And the Josh he knew would never order from Starbucks or any corporate chain for that matter. But the tiny polo logo on his chest suggested that had definitely changed.

“Henley! Hey man,” his voice was still the same chipper and little high pitched. Henley met his friend in a hug, noticing that his formerly thin arms had a plethora of veins bulging up over visible muscles. For someone who claimed to hate pretension, he sure had gone full tilt.

“Surprised to see you here,” Henley half-joked while teasingly pressing on the polo player on Josh’s shirt.

“Ha! Yeah man, turns out they have some good stuff! Plus, it’s close to work.”

“Where are you working now?”

“Hemplebaum Inc.” The big smile he offered was met by a wide eyed stare from Henley. Josh was a film and lighting guy. Last they’d talked, he’d been working on some plays downtown. Certainly not at “evil corporation incorporated”.

“What happened to the plays?”

“Ya know, I wanted a change.” Josh shoved his hands into his pockets. “Plus, the money sucks. I didn’t want to share a studio my whole life.” “Aren’t they, like, totally evil?” Josh frowned, his face taking on an overly broad and exaggerated look. Had his head grown?

“Hey man, they’re cool. I got headhunted by a department chief. I’m not one of those office drones filling foreclosures and manipulating bank accounts.” In response to Henley’s increasingly horrified look, Josh shrugged and laughed. “I don’t think they do that stuff anymore either.”

He glanced at his watch, a shiny rolex, and then back at Henley. “Hey man, great seeing you. Maybe we’ll hang out sometime? I gotta get back to the office!” Henley watched Josh walk out, noticing how well he filled out those khakis. His buttocks had developed a shelf like quality, curving the pants out awkwardly as he walked away.

“That was so strange,” Henley said aloud. But people change. Josh seemed happy and healthy. Maybe he always wanted to be a frat boy after all? Henley got his coffee, black, and took the train downtown. As he sipped on the scalding coffee, Henley did think about some of what Josh said. Downtown was prohibitively expensive. Henley paid in time what he couldn't afford in rent having to ride in everyday. Sure, he loved life down here but he really couldn’t enjoy it as much as he’d like. But then, Henley could never handle being some corporate drone.

-----

“Josh? Is that you?” The big man standing in front of the drink counter, picking up a gigantic fuzzy looking drink, didn’t physically resemble Josh at all. He was big, the Navy blazer he wore couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and his green and blue rep tie had a hard time lying flat over his bulging pecs. And his hair, last time well groomed but still with a youthful length, was sheared down into a practically flat bit of black hair, shiny and parted. The face was still the same, even though the hair made his face look extremely square.

The man looked back at Henley confused for a moment before a tinge of understanding glittered in his eyes.

“Henley Tator,” his voice was slower and deeper. While Henley went in for a hug, Josh replied with a one armed side hug and pat on the back. He practically grimaced when Henley went full hug.

“Josh! Man, it’s been awhile.” “Yes Henley, I’ve been very busy at work. And please, call me Joshua, it’s more professional.”

“Wow, still at Hemplebaum?”

“Yes, moving up the ladder. What about you, Henley?”

“Oh ya know, I’m still at the art funding startup. It’s hard but I enjoy it.”

“Pay well?” “Ha, you know it doesn’t.” “I can tell,” Joshua eyed Henley’s tattered jeans and waffle shirt with distaste. Henley was taken aback by the outright disdain.

“Well, I’m passionate about it.” Joshua just nodded. “You’re looking good. Gym time is really paying off.” “Yes,” Joshua’s stern demeanor dropped a touch, there a bit more levity in his voice suddenly. “There’s a corporate gym and it’s free and they even give you an hour a day to use it - paid!” He was practically giddy as he talked. Henley relaxed a bit. This was the Josh he knew, chirpy and friendly though not exceptionally outgoing. And honestly, Josh had always been the kind of guy who dove head first into anything. It really wasn’t shocking that he’d treat his job the same way he’d treated edibles, EDM, and frisbee golf.

“You still doing frisbee golf? Since you’ve got the bod now,” Henley playfully slapped one of Joshua’s broad shoulders and was shocked at how firm the muscle was.

“I’ve been doing a lot of golf! I play with several of my coworkers and even some of the junior partners. I’m getting my handicap down too.”

“Oh, you’re playing real golf?”

“Yes, it’s very enjoyable. And great for business bonding. Chance for men to talk about work, wives, sports. Say, you watch the game last weekend?” That was wholly unlike Josh. But again, he was probably throwing himself into the corporate world.

“Nah, man, I’m not into basketball.”

“It’s football season.” He replied so directly and sincerely Henley almost fell over. “I know not everyone is into the NFL, but I assumed you would at least watch your alma mater. And our Bulls are having a great season. 4-0 in conference play.” Joshua kept talking about football as Henley stared deep into his eyes. Was this really Josh? The guy hadn’t even known what sport a touchdown was part of.

“Anyway, Henley, it’s been great catching up. Maybe we can grab some beers and watch a game sometime. I need to return to the office.” Joshua checked his watch, flashing the shiny gold in front of Henley. As the muscleman walked out, Henley couldn’t help but notice the incredibly large derriere. The vents on his suit jacket hung awkwardly over the luscious rump and it jiggled every so slight as he walked. A stunning contrast to the hard muscle covering the rest of his body.

“Yeah, great to see you Josh-ua,” he forced out the last syllable. It made sense to do it. This was not the Josh he knew. This was apparently Joshua, his friend? Henley grabbed his coffee, black, and tried to sip on it on the train. It was a little too hot for him and he was stuck holding it between his hands awkwardly for the whole ride.

-----

“Josh? Is that you? I mean, Joshua?” Henley had avoided the coffee shop since their last encounter. He told himself it was all in his head, but everything about these encounters creeped him out. Joshua seemed like a totally different person. He wasn’t sure if it was steroids, the growth seemed extremely quick, or perhaps just the makeover itself made him look different. But he was finally caffeine deprived enough to step in, and there was Joshua. Or at least a Joshua facsimile standing next to another man.

This Joshua wore a tight fitting suit, seemingly straining at both the broad shoulders and around the crotch. It was exceptionally subdued, a rather pale black color with a white button down shirt and blue and green rep tie. His hair was the same, but his face had undergone a change. His jaw, formerly a little pointed and sharp, spread wide and hung low, giving his face a square, lantern shape. He stood ramrod straight, sipping from his milky looking drink. The man next to Joshua was older, but otherwise nearly identical. He was thicker around the middle, but any gut he might have was hidden by the extremely high rise of his pants, sitting above his belly button just under the rib cage. His tie was black and grey with a subtle windowpane pattern.

The man stared at Henley for a moment before tapping Joshua on the shoulder.

“John Howard,” his voice was slow and deep. “I believe this boy is trying to get your attention.” The younger man turned to look at Henley and then a faint bit of recognition crossed his face.

“Henley Tator,” the voice was practically monotone, low and deep. He took a few powerful steps forward and offered a large, rough hand. Confused, Henley accepted it and the grip practically shattered his bones.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Joshua turned to face the older man. “This is a friend from college. Henley Tator. Henley, this is my boss.” He gestured robotically between the two. Amplebottom offered his hand and it was the same rough shake.

“Nice to meet you….,” Henley sort of trailed off, hoping to get a first name.

“And to you, Henley,” he put a very strange emphasis on the words, as though he had never said them before. Henley turned back to his old friend.

“So, Joshua,...” he was cut off by a cough from Amplebottom.

“Please call me John Howard,” Joshua said curtly. “Mr. Amplebottom thinks I would be better suited professionally as John Howard.” The way he spoke, extremely even in both rhythm and pitch, was unnerving. Henley could make out some of Josh’s features in the hulking face before him. An upturned nose and naturally thin eyebrows over wide eyes resembled the Josh he knew. But the rest of the face clearly belonged to this corporate meathead named John Howard.

“Okay, John-”

“John Howard.”

“John Howard. So, how is work?”

“I am very happy at Hemplebaum. I was recently put in charge of development acquisitions under Mr. Amplebottom. He has been a great advisor in my career.”

“That’s great. Glad to hear you’re doing good!”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom has assigned me to a downtown acquisition project.”

“Acquisition?”

“Correct, we have a potential development on 520 Porter and need to remove the building.”

“Huh, okay. So what building are you removing?”

“Currently the future site of Hemple Housing Porter is occupied by the Cherub Theatre.” “Cherub Theatre? You used to work there? You wanna tear it down?”

“It is an eyesore. And it occupies a lot with high economic potential. It is better suited for development.”

“Josh-,”

“John Howard.”

“What the hell happened to you?” The wide eyes suddenly narrowed sharply and almost seemed to sink back into his skull a little.

“I’m offended by your tone, Henley. And honestly,” he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves while disgustingly eyeing Henley’s dirty clothes up and down. “I grew up. You could do with some growing.”

“You’ve grown into a soulless jerk. We used to mock those fucking money obsessed frat boys back in college.” “I just bought a house out in Chester. Right next door to Chadwick Statton. You remember Chadwick?” “Oh my god, he was that Kappa Kappa Kappa asshole.”

“The KKK joke is stale. Besides, it’s very difficult to purchase a home in that neighborhood. I was fortunate to golf with him and he gave me an in with the Board. Plus, I’m working on my country club application. The application fee is $50,000. Could you afford that?” “Jesus Christ! Fifty k just to fucking apply? You’re insane.”

“And you, Henley, are a child. But if you ever decide to grow up,” he reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a thick black card and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“John Howard,” Mr. Amplebottom suddenly interrupted the discussion. John Howard stiffened up and faced his boss. “I’m glad you had this chance to catch up with your fraternity brother, but we have wasted time. I assume you’ll stay late to make it up?” “Of course, Mr. Amplebottom.” They turned to leave. Henley got a good look at the pair. Despite the broad shoulders and bulging pectorals, both had a distinctly pear shaped body, with wide hips and massive butts that shook just a touch as they walked. Henley laughed to himself, realizing Amplebottom really lived up to his name.

Henley grabbed the card from his pocket and examined it. It was a thick card stock and slightly textured. The Hemplebaum logo was obnoxiously large in one corner. Right in the middle was John Howard Johnson, Associate. Henley was quite sure he was going mad. That was absolutely not his last name in college! Had he changed his entire fucking name to fit in with these people? Golfing with Chad, obeying his boss like some braindead goon, destroying his old workplace to build, what? Multi-use condos? Like there isn’t enough of that? The Cherub is a relic, in a good way. Had Josh been putting on the entire time he was in college? Was this who he truly was? No, no this name changing was a deeper sign. Maybe a psychotic break?

It occurred to him that standing in a Starbucks staring at a business card as people queued up around him made him look insane. And he had to get to work anyway. This whole thing had become so ridiculous he’d just ignore it. He ordered his coffee, adding a heavy dose of cream, and went downtown.

-----

“John Howard? Is that you?”

“You’ve reached Hemblebaum Inc acquisitions division. How may I direct your call?” Damn, his card didn’t even list a direct number. Henley had tossed the card around his apartment for a while, even starting to dial once or twice. But then he’d ask himself why exactly he was doing this. John Howard, whoever he was, wasn’t Henley’s old friend. He wouldn’t have even spoken to Henley back in the day. But theoretically this man was Josh or had been Josh. And Henley couldn’t shake him from his mind.

“May I speak with John Howard Johnson?” Henley’s voice cracked a touch as he spurt out the words.

“I’ll transfer you to his desk,” replied the chipper female voice. The line filled with static and then began ringing. After a few rings, he was bumped back to the secretary.

“Would you like me to give Mr. Johnson a message on your behalf?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.”

“If this is a private matter, I can forward you to his personal mailbox.”

“Sure.”

“One moment.” There wasn’t any ring, just straight to the mailbox. He could practically see the stodgy man who produced the recording.

“You have reached the desk of John Howard Johnson. Leave a message and I will respond.” Damn, he was so terse and humorless. And what exactly was he going to say? The words came out of his mouth before he could think about them.

“Hey, John Howard. This is Henley Tator, from college. I was thinking about what you said when you gave me your card. So, call me back?” He left his number and hung up. What on earth had he been thinking? I mean, the growing up thing had crossed his mind. His two bedroom apartment was rough to afford even with two roommates. It would be nice to have his own place. And his clothes could use an update from his student days. Of course, he wondered exactly how long he’d be waiting for a call back, which gave him far too much time to ponder his plans.

------

“This is Henley,” he wouldn’t normally answer the phone for an unknown number, but since he had no idea when John Howard would call, or from what number, Henley snagged the phone every time it rang. Sure, he’d fielded a few calls from telemarketers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this. Hardy Boy or something or other.

“Hello Henley, this is John Howard Johnson, I am returning your call from 2:15.” Damn, he was a total stiff. He was probably sitting at his desk, feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight staring straight ahead.

“Hey John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley, how may I assist you?” Straight to the point.

“Well, you know I was thinking about what you said at Starbucks. About growing up and stuff.”

“Yes, you are quite childish.” “Can you help?”

“Of course, I think an interview with Mr. Amplebottom would be a delightful way to have a new start. I shall arrange an 8:00 a.m. appointment tomorrow. He’ll be expecting you. Check in at the lobby by 7:45. Oh, and please find more suitable attire. This is a professional work environment.” “Great, well, that’s a lot more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Umm, no idea.”

“You asked for help, I am providing it. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, no. Thank you so much! I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll see Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, John Howard.”

“You are welcome, Henley.” Click. Well, that was brisk. But a development. Now of course, he’d need to find clothes. I mean, he had a suit, just the one, in navy blue, and it got pulled out once a year or so for weddings. A dab of cologne would top it off. He didn’t want to be suspicious. Of course, as far as he could tell, the only person who thought something was amiss was him.

-----

“This is Henley,” he replied to the officer checking name at the front desk. He was a private security guard, bulky and bull necked with biceps that practically shredded his sleeves. The stern faced man checked a list carefully.

“First name?”

“Henley.” The officer stared at him.

“Henley Henley?”

“No, Henley Tator.” He could sense the guard sighing internally. Henley was such an odd name, it usually was more than enough information for people to locate him. But, judging by John Howard, this was probably an extremely by-the-books business.

“39th floor. Please give your name to the secretary and she’ll let you in. Tator, Henley. Less confusion.” The man curtly directed him towards the elevator and returned to his post by the door.

Everything about the lobby, the elevator and the entry way on floor 39 was the same: wood, dark, overbearing. Harsh fluorescent lighting easily guided the path. The whole place was like a time capsule, the height of early 60s style. This might as well have been a set for the early seasons of Mad Men.

The sharp ping of the elevator signalled his arrival and after a quick check-in, he was led across a sea of cubicles towards a large office in the corner. Despite the early time, the office was already alive. He caught glimpses of suited men at some desks and a trio of buff suits standing by a water cooler.

Amplebottom’s office continued the trend. It was big with large windows along the wall. He had a gigantic wooden desk with an equally large chair that seemed twice as wide as normal. Which made sense given his butt. He glanced up as Henley entered but did not stand.

“Henley Tator,” the way he said his name was so peculiar. He spoke so slowly that emphasis ended up on the wrong syllables, making the words sound foreign to Henley himself.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley walked over in front of the desk and offered his hand. Amblebottom leaned forward and shook it. He’d prepared himself for the vice grip and felt the muscles in his forearm swell as he clenched back. Once that was over, Henley pulled back a chair and began to sit.

“Before you sit down,” his thick words poured molasses over Henley’s movements. He found himself standing upright and looking at Amplebottom. The man was a practically a hypermasculine parody, low brow, big nose, wide jaw with a gigantic cleft chin. A touch of receding hair over the temples added more dignity than age. His clothing was similar to the other day, pale black suit and subtle tie.

“John Howard setup this interview. I am unsure how you can contribute to Hemplebaum.” Henley stood uncomfortably as Amplebottom stared at him. He took a dry swallow and stared into the big man’s eyes. They were a strange grey color, cold and severe and almost lifeless. He also found it hard to look away, they were enrapturing. “What do you expect from me?” Henley was almost sure he saw the grey eyes flash.

“I guess, umm, I was just hoping for a job?”

“That sounds very convincing, son,” the droll response unnerved Henley more.

“I want to try something new. More grown-up.”

“Hemplebaum isn’t some urban start up with billiards and soy milk. This is a very demanding corporation. I expect my employees to be eager and dedicated.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley found himself nodding in response. He spread his legs a little wider and clasped his hands behind his back. It was more comfortable than just letting them hang and it prevented fidgeting.

“This job can also be very rewarding. Acquisitions works on a baseline salary plus commission incentives and bonuses.”

“How much could I make?” Henley honesty hadn’t thought about the actual financial potential of the job. Sure, he’d casually looked up the cost of homes in Chester, but he hadn’t really considered the salary.

“As a Junior Associate, you’d start with a baseline of 100 plus three percent commission with incentives quarterly based on goals and projects. Do well, and you can quickly move up.”

“Shit, seriously?”

“I am always serious Henley.”

“No, sorry, Sir,” he tacked on the honorific quickly. The financial prospects were huge! “That’s more than twice what I make now.”

“Yes, the corporate world has perks.”

“I’d like a job as a Junior Associate, Mr. Amplebottom.” That caused the bigger man to smile.

“Are you willing to dedicate yourself to your job, Henley? We do not tolerate slackers.”

“Yessir!”

“Well, I think, based on John Howard’s recommendation, that I can give you a test run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“However, there will be a few adjustments required. Your suit is fine, the sneakers are not. And ties are mandatory with a collared shirt. Human resources will give you a rundown of our policies. I’m assuming you probably won’t have work appropriate clothing. The company can offer you a corporate card to get yourself setup. You’ll receive automatic payroll deductions to pay it back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“I appreciate this new eagerness from you. I assure you, if you work hard, you’ll find Hemplebaum the most rewarding place.”

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he said confidently to the guard. The officer, a gruff man with visible tattoos on his hulking forearms, gave him a once over and checked his name off a list. He said nothing as Henley headed inside towards the elevator. The glass walls of the elevator gave him a great chance to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

The employee handbook was massive. Something like 200 pages of rules, regulations, and suggestions mixed in with corporate speak and industry jargon. While HR had gone over some basics of the position, personnel forms, and whatnot, the only section he’d read closely was on wardrobe since Amblebottom specifically mentioned it. It wasn’t terribly confusing since it included not just general recommendations but pictures, stores, and tiers of items towards “building a man’s wardrobe.”

Henley followed the basic directions and found the elegant, tiny menswear shop the manual recommended. Upon hearing that he had recently gained employment at Hemplebaum, the elder employee immediately went to work, selecting an array of khakis and polos to start. Henley had resisted the creased pleats but to his dismay the shopkeeper insisted. He had successfully rebuffed the notion that he needed new underwear. He was an adult, he could make private decisions on his own. The man also said he’d begin working on a basic suit. Henley referred to it as “black” and was politely informed that the color was “charcoal” and black suits were only for funerals.

Which is how he found himself, smooth faced from new toiletries, in a salmon polo and crisp khakis, waiting on the elevator. He had a minor flashback to when he first ran into John Howard. Joshua. Josh. Whoever he was now. Their outfits were similar, but Henley took a moment as he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes to remind himself that he was just playing pretend. He was figuring something out. Capitalist finery was required. Although his mind had already started calculating exactly when he could get his own apartment.

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he answered as the office desk rang. He’d quickly been put into a cubicle and signed into a company website to begin training. Usual stuff, safety procedures, privacy policies and intellectual property, then lots and lots of company information, acquisition and retail training, even negotiating for beginners. He had been expecting to find a diversity or harassment training, but the program, like seemingly everything else here, was highly structured and old-fashioned. It was probably deeper in the training. He’d swiped his new ID card when he got up for the bathroom or to get some water, the program seemed on a timer because if he dallied or got distracted the pages would time out and he’d have to start again. On the plus side, it made the day pass extremely quickly.

“Henley Tator,” he recognized that stoic bass. “This is John Howard Johnson.”

“Hey, John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley. I will be going to the cafeteria for lunch in 15 minutes. If you are hungry, you are welcome to come along.”

“Sure thing, John Howard! Thanks! I am getting hun-.”

“Please meet by the elevator in ten minutes.” John Howard was not a chatter. Never had been. But it gave him something to look forward to so he rushed to finish a basic finances video quiz narrated by a corporate casting finance bro in a tasteful suit talking about “life at the club” and “the importance of appearances.” Finally, he badged out of his computer for lunch.

By the elevators, in an impossibly rigid stance, legs apart, hands straight at his side, face forward, was John Howard. The square faced muscle man was packed into a charcoal suit and shiny dress shoes. Henley noticed the colorful tie had been replaced with a more muted one with barely noticeable muted black stripes.

“Henley Tator,” he offered his rough hand and Henley accepted.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said, half mocking but also happy to see a semi-familiar face.

“The cafeteria is on Floor 15,” John Howard said briskly as they stepped in.

“So, having a good day?”

“My day is doing well, thank you. How is your day?”

“Good, lots of new information. Guess I need a lot of training.”

“The gym is on the fifth floor. It is a good source of weight training.”

“Oh awesome! Yeah, man you look great. I definitely should hit that up.”

“I am happy to show you. I workout an hour before work each day and one hour afterwards.”

“Holy crap dude! And you live out in Chester? How do you find time to sleep.”

“A good night’s sleep is important for muscle growth. I try not to waste time on silly things.”

Henley had built a small salad for himself and grabbed some water. John Howard had taken the platter, a slab of meat in gravy, potatoes, and greens. Combined with what appeared to be a frothy glass of milk. He sat the two down at a table with two other men. One was a stoic, stern faced man who looked like he could be John Howard’s brother. The other was a much flashier man with smooth blonde hair and a plaid bowtie.

“Henley, this is Bert Anderson, accounting,” he gestured to his clone. “And this is-” he was cut off by the flashier man.

“Rotterham Casper Cornelius Southard, call me Rip. Accounts. So, J.H. mentioned you were his old college bro? Bet you got up to some mischief back in the day, eh?” he gave John Howard a playful punch, and he did not react.

“I prefer John Howard.”

“I know you do, J.H.”

“So, you’re both in accounting?” Henley asked. Bert shook his head while Rip laughed.

“No, Bert here is a number cruncher. I manage accounts. Management, keeping clients happy. Happy-hours, bars, strippers, the works. I’m the fun one.” “I’m sure your wife does not approve.”

“She approves of that pool boy I hired for her. She approves of our second home in Mayfield Valley. She can approve of my dalliances.” Henley mostly stayed silent as they talked about work, wives, and sports.

-----

“Take a seat, Henley,” Mr. Amplebottom gestured to one of the extra wide chairs before his desk. Henley hardly took up half, but he wondered if they were wide enough for Amblebottom’s ample bottom.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” Henley hadn’t seen much of his boss the past week, but he’d found himself thinking more and more fondly of his boss. The training videos included a lot of stuff on professional behavior, and while a lot of it seemed like a pathetically antiquated throwback to worse times, it wouldn’t hurt to adopt some of the culture. At least while he was here.

“Just doing a check-in, seeing how it’s going.” Amplebottom made constant eye contact. Those grey eyes were engaging, sort of hard to look away from.

“It’s good, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Enjoying the training?”

“It’s very informative.”

“Glad to hear it. I take my employees personal development very personally. I want you to think of me as a mentor.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, let me give you some advice.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate the fraternity makeover. Really, it’s a classic look. But it doesn’t say corporate. It doesn’t say rising star. It doesn’t say money. Does that make sense?”

“Umm, I guess so.” “Page 183 in the handbook. Suggestions for the transition between fraternal life and entering the corporate world.”

“I wasn’t in a fraternity,” Henley laughed.

“I was under the impression that was how you know John Howard. That you were one of his Kappa Alpha Sigma brothers?” “I, umm, no. And I don’t think… John Howard was either?”

“You should work on speaking directly. These umms and pauses don’t project confidence.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.”

One his way out, Henley took a moment to swing by John Howard’s desk. Partially just to wish his fellow worker a good weekend, but also because that fraternity question bobbed around his head.

“John Howard?” The stalwart man seated perfectly straight rotated his chair to face Henley. Henley noticed that he sat on an extra wide chair and seemed to fill it well. All those hours in the gym seemed to harden every muscle on his body except his butt.

“Henley Tator, do you need something?”

“Just wanted to say have a good weekend.” “Enjoy your weekend as well Henley. If you’re feeling comfortable, I can show you the company gym Monday. I workout at 7 am and 7 pm everyday.”

“Yeah, that would be great- wow you’re here a long time!”

“I take a lot of pride in my position at Hemplebaum. I hope to become a division partner. Legacy membership at Rolling Acres is five hundred grand. And that’s my place.” Henley pondered the man before him. Honestly, there was a lot to like about John Howard. He was honest, straightforward, and hardworking. But there was something callous, cold, and privileged about him.

“Hey, John Howard. Were you in a fraternity?”

“Kappa Alpha Sigma, you know that Henley.” Did he know? He looked like a K-Sig, the kind of former athlete who came to party hard and maybe pass a class or two.

“Anyway, enjoy your weekend. I need to finish up. Good night.” John Howard turned back towards his desk without another word, leaving Henley to shrug and walk to the tube and head home.

-----

Page 183 started with three pictures: a polo and khaki sporting college student, a man in trousers and blazer, and finally an old and noticeably thicker man in a conservative suit. Then it talked about the foundations of a man's future and his wardrobe.

“The navy blazer is a classic item that works for semi formal occasions and casual office places. Even as a man transitions to daily suits, the navy blazer will always have a place at a garden party or fraternity alumni event.”

“Ties and bowties are a delightful way to add color to an outfit. It is important to view the event and location when making a selection. Bow ties in particular are more flamboyant in a workplace and should be considered carefully. Business attire defaults to long ties, and more conservative workplaces require more conservative choices. Consider emulating the attire of your superiors.”

“Supports should be practical and supportive. Belts are fine for casual outings; however, braces are more desirable for suiting, both for support and style as it allows a more traditional and flattering cut. Similarly, undergarments should provide support and coverage. A traditional undershirt with sleeves is ideal, as it provides sweat protection. Briefs are the most appropriate underwear choice, as it provides support without being extraneous. It is also compatible with tennis for those who participate in sport.”

This had to have been the third comment someone had about his choice of underwear. It seemed a deeply intrusive thing for a company to comment on. But a lot of other sections are good information. It explained why men like Bert and John Howard wore ties and Rip, in a more colorful position, had the flashier bowtie. He took some basic notes and decided he’d hit up that menswear shop. They had a company account, he could probably just tack it on to his previous bill.

-----

“Henley Tator,” he said simply. The guard, the same one as every other day, checked the list and let him in. Uncharacteristically, the guard spoke to him.

“Early start?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Ah, good choice. I’ve been lifting since my football days,” the guard said while flexing a bicep. It strained the fabric of his shirt so much there was a tiny tear at the sleeve.

“Ah damn, gonna have to size up. Sorry, please don’t report me.” He suddenly seemed mildly afraid.

“Report you?”

“Some of the guys here are real sticklers about manners. They don’t like cursing.” “No, man, we’re cool. You look great! Not sure I’d want to be that big honestly.”

“Hey, once you start, you never wanna stop.”

Henley wanted to stop. John Howard was already changed and waiting on him, so Henley rushed to change and hit the floor. The next hour was a diabolic hell. John Howard started with squats. Henley got a good look at his friend's monstrous calves and steel cut quads, surprisingly pale but doubted John Howard wore short pants much. The most shocking feature was watching that jiggly ass clench and thrust with each repetition. Hard muscle lurked underneath the jelly-like layer. And it went on and on. Big lifts, slow lifts, legs, legs, legs, he was deeply certain he would never be able to walk again. John Howard had to help him strip down and lumber into a shower stall.

He took his time rinsing off, rubbing the corporate provided products into his aching muscles and letting the hot water relax him. Leaning against a wall, still gasping for breath, he let himself drift off for a bit.

“You alright, Henley?” John Howard asked, cracking the curtain.

“Just, just finishing up,” he said, turning off the water and grabbing his towel. In the locker room, he saw John Howard's muscled glory in more detail, the ravenous cuts of his back rippled as he walked. He was thick from below his pecs down to his butt, no real waistline, and most of that part of his back was covered in cotton fabric. His legs were bare below the butt, the garganuan thighs popping through the pristine white cotton of the briefs.

While Henley got ready, John Howard went to a mirror and began applying white shaving cream to his practically smooth face, treating every exposed piece of chin and neck to the cream and razor. Slipping back on his underwear, Henley donned a white undershirt and pulled up some pleated khakis. Out of his locker came a white button down shirt which he began hastily buttoning. John Howard was finishing his face with aftershave and examining himself in the mirror. As he approached the lockers, Henley got a frontal look at him. He hadn’t realized how high waisted these briefs were from the back. His bellybutton was completely hidden, practically cartoonish.

Henley went to the mirror and began combing and styling his hair, working in product and brushing a part in. His hair was getting trained for it, the strands beginning to grow a part on the right side naturally. It looked pretty good like this. More corporate that he had preferred, but it was a classic style for a reason.

As he returned to his locker, John Howard was pulling some trousers up his legs, hoisting them up with a pair of silk braces. Everything about John Howard was just so big nowadays, his proportions practically Marvel comic level, that he hadn’t realized how high waisted his pants had become. No one wore them like that nowadays. At least no one who wasn’t LARPing or Mr. Amplebottom. John Howard reminded Henley of Mr. Amplebottom, a lot. The book said to copy your bosses outfits. John Howard had taken that to heart.

Henley fashioned the gold and green tie around his neck before slipping into a navy blazer with prominent buttons. John Howard walked towards the mirror again as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt and adorned them with cufflinks.

“Nice man,” Henley admired.

“Thank you,” John Howard was almost bashful as he showed them to Henley. He noted the onix black button had the letters J.H.J cut into them.

“Are they monogrammed?”

“Yes! It’s very popular at the club. And they were suggested by the haberdashery.” “Haberdashery? Wow, that sounds so English.”

“These are made in America. All the clothes recommended by Hemplebaum are.” John Howard seemed agitated by the suggestion. “I just meant the word.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m un American.” The stern response caused Henley to stay silent as the pair continued dressing.

-----

Henley was honestly looking forward to his weekly review meeting with Mr. Amplebottom. He was starting to get in the swing of this whole corporate thing. And the tantalizing prospect of his first paycheck was right around the corner. That wasn’t the only corporate benefit he was enjoying. His clothes were tight. Quite tight. At first he’d thought something was snagged, but the small strain on the buttons of his shirt was unmistakable. As he pulled up his pants this morning, he’d heard a slight tear as a few seams in the rear snapped. He’d have to get some things let out. Or maybe new ones altogether.

The growth had bothered him a bit at first, it seemed to come out of nowhere. But John Howard explained it was just the result of an effective workout and diet plan. On John Howard’s suggestion, he’d dropped the salads and switched to the daily platter, a fuller meal for growth. And the workouts meant he was exhausted everyday after work and went right to bed. Which kind of went against his reason for working here in the first place. Wait, why was he working here again? To make money. He wanted to enjoy more of life downtown. Wasn’t it something about John Howard?

“Take a seat Henley.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Henley gratefully replied. He plopped himself into the cushioned chair and did his best to keep his back tall and straight. The men around here had impeccable posture, at least the ones in acquisitions. Rip certainly knew how to relax. Which gave him an idea for after the meeting.

“How has work been proceeding?”

“Very good, sir. The trainings have been very helpful and I am eager to begin assisting with projects.”

“Good. I am pleased with the energy you’ve devoted to your job.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“I’ve decided to assign you to the Hemple Housing Porter project under John Howard Johnson.” “I look forward to it.” “Very good. We’ve acquired the property, but there is still concern about ‘historical value.’ You will be tasked with pricing and selling anything valuable inside.” “Yes sir… is that the Cherub theatre?” Henley got a touch concerned.

“We refer to projects by our goals. But the Theatre currently sits there. Is that going to be a problem, Henley?” His grey eyes seemed to flash.

“No, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Good. You never struck me as the theatre type anyway, Henley. I assumed you were into sport.”

“Not really Sir.”

“That surprises me. Since you are friends with John Howard, you must have attended many football games with him. And that sport is your preferred leisure activity.” The words came out like a metronome, even paced and simple. But they stuck in Henley’s mind. What else would he and John Howard have done together? He was clearly obsessed with sports and his fraternity. And Henley was enjoying the gym, which was truly just another sport.

“Now,” Mr. Amplebottom continued. “You will be working with some old men from assets and banking. Really conservative types. You should try speaking slower. That will deepen your voice and give you more presence.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” the words spilled out in nearly double the time. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke and every syllable seemed to require extra effort to spit out.

“Very good, Henley, with practice you will also be able to use a deeper, more masculine tone. That will be very helpful in business.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, just one last thing, Henley,” there was a venomous glint in his eyes as he stumbled over Henley’s name. “Henley is a very peculiar name. Unique. It sets you apart when you should fit in, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” “In business, you know how important it is to give the right impression. The men in these industries tend to be very old-fashioned. And so much of this business is based on rubbing elbows and social connections. You have to give yourself every possible advantage.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“I know you want my advice. I am a good mentor.”

“Yes Sir. You are a good mentor.”

“Professionally, I think you should introduce yourself as Henderson.” Henley’s brain practically exploded.

“Yes Sir,” he muttered weakly.

“Try it on me.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” More brain explosions. It felt partially like getting hit in the head and partially like taking really good meds. “Slower.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” A glitter bomb went off in his brain. It felt like magic.

“Very good, Henderson.” Hearing someone else say it, as though it always had been, made the magical glitter settle on his brain, covering it in an ashy fog. “Well, I figure you might want this before you go for the weekend.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a large printed piece of paper. He handed it over to Henderson who grabbed it eagerly. Upon seeing the amount of money on his check, Henderson’s pupils practically morphed into dollar signs.

“Associates get more than double that.” More dollar signs flashed before his eyes. “And it’s a fairly simple promotion. Good work is always rewarded.”

“Yes Sir! Thank you sir!” The first set of words rushed out of his mouth. He calmed himself and regained his slow speaking tempo. He glanced down at the check and realized it said Henderson Tator.

“I don’t think I can deposit this.” “You’ll use the company banking system from now on. You’ll find it has much better rewards for higher income brackets. We have built in direct deposit. But I wanted to see the look on your face the first time.”

John Howard was hard on work when Henderson knocked.

“Henley Tator,” monotoned his deep voice. Henderson had a flashback to Starbucks and a similar conversation, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

“Please call me Henderson, John Howard,” his thick, slow voice drawled out. “It is more professional.

“I agree, Henderson,” Henderson could have sworn a tiny smile crept onto the corners of John Howard’s mouth. But the stoic man’s face returned to it’s sculpted indifference immediately. “What can I do for you?”

“I was considering asking Rip for some... herbals, for the weekend and wondered if you cared to partake. Maybe watch a game?” Henderson had a distinct memory of two dudes chilling out to some cheap weed and beer while watching Reefer Madness and laughing their asses off. John Howard's face was not amused.

“No, Henderson. You know I do not partake in such things.” “What? You went through a whole rasta-ganja phase in college…”

“I did not,” John Howard was visibly angry even if his voice maintained its impressive monotone. “I do not approve of illicit substances or behavior and I do not appreciate your slander.” “Woah, calm down, big guy,” not that John Howard wasn’t calm. But Henderson knew that one punch from the dude would knock him silly. “I was just thinking back to our college days….”

“Yes, I remember Chadwick forcing us to try the stuff during Hell Week. As I recall, you disliked it even more than I did.”

“What? What does Chad have to do with this?” “The only time I ever tried marjiuana,” his voice gained a hushed tone as he said the word. “Was for a fraternity induction. And if you continued to use it, I was unaware. If you would like to watch the game and enjoy some beer or liquid that would be fine. But I will not associate with drug users.” Henderson was taken aback. This man, well maybe not this man, but this dude he might have been at one point spent nearly a semester acting like some sort of stoner God.

“I’m sorry, John Howard.”

“If you are still interested in watching the game and having a beer, I would not be opposed.”

“Yeah, totally!” Henderson swallowed awkwardly after he spoke. Those words felt wrong. But either way, he’d spend a little more time with Josh Howard and figure out what was going on.

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said at the gate. The officer was the same as before, but there were a few subtle differences. His tight uniform now had full length sleeves and he wore a cap on his even more masculine face. “Good morning, Mr. Tator,” the man’s deep voice spoke slowly and severely. His face had not a glimpse of recognition. That was fine by Henderson because he was actually quite tired. He’d ended up in Chester Saturday, bringing a small batch of beer to a football party. It was very strange to him, meeting several of John Howard’s neighbors, though Chadwick was mercifully absent. He had a great time, watching, drinking, and shooting the breeze. The evening went on far later than he anticipated and despite the offer of a guest room, he had taken a late night Uber back into town. Newfound interest in football meant he had spent Sunday watching football, drinking beer, and ordering pizza. And now he was meeting John Howard for a workout with a beer hangover on a Monday.

The workout was much better this week. He found himself making great strides in his max lifts which made him exceptionally proud. John Howard gave his butt a big swat after they finished cleaning up and he felt his rump shudder within his pants. His pants had gotten so much tighter and when he looked in the mirror, the back of his sportcoat practically lay flat from the shelf on his behind. As he admired his form in the mirror, Henderson couldn’t help but brush the smooth shaved line of his prominent jaw. It really stood out nowadays.

“Miss a spot?” John Howard asked, assuming Henderson was rubbing stray hairs.

“Hey John Howard, why is working out making my jaw bigger?” John Howard stared at him curiously and shook his head.

“I don’t think I understand.” “Since, I’ve been working out with you, my face just seems bigger. My jaw and chin in particular.” “Maybe losing some baby fat? Or maybe your improved posture is making your face look different?” Henderson couldn’t explain it. He examined the reflection a few seconds more, sure that something was amiss. But he didn’t have an idea better than John Howard’s so he let it pass and went into the office.

Henderson’s job required calls, lots of calls. Calls to landowners, historical groups, insurance companies, auctioneers, all with their own opinions and interests. Henderson wasn’t actually supposed to do any research, simply talk to the right people to get appropriate evaluations and transportation. He found himself mimicking John Howard’s voice, deep, slow, and disinterested. It wasn’t exciting work, but the progress was slow and consistent. Museums wanted some old posters, there was a buyer in Argentina for the chandelier, and several vintage stores wanted furniture pieces. A few calls were less productive, with upset protestors yelled at him. He’d tried being sympathetic at first, but quickly found that being stern and direct got them off the line quicker so he could return to work.

His days soon blended together. Morning workouts, work, lunch, work, home, sleep, repeat. He sometimes worried that he was missing out on stuff, his old friends called or texted but he rarely responded anymore. It always seemed to happen at an inconvenient time. Eventually, he joined John Howard for his evening workout as well, the results were great, even if he’d had to go up a size or two. Walking around with pecs straining a dress shirt felt incredible, like a huge dose of testosterone had been injected into him. Strangely, his buttocks were growing considerably, in strength and size. But it accumulated a soft layer of fat that spread across, making him even wider. He’d asked John Howard about it once, and he simply told him a big butt was better than a big gut. And Henderson had to agree. None of the men here had big guts. Mr. Amplebottom had a huge butt. And Henderson wanted to be like Mr. Amplebottom as much as possible. More and more, Henderson felt extremely grateful towards his superior. Not only had he hired an unqualified applicant, but he had acted like a mentor and guide and coach. He gave Henderson more and more advice, about standing, walking, talking, and each time he came back eager to learn more.

“Stand tall, Henderson. Head up, don’t slouch. Keep your hands at your side. And don’t fidget.”

“A deeper voice commands attention better. Be direct. Contain emotions, you are better suited to appear calm and in control at all times. There is no need to appear energetic or excited.”

“Wide steps, heel to toe. Legs apart.”

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said calmly as he buzzed in. It was old hat by now. The security guard was probably the same one as before. Henderson paid less attention nowadays to things like that. He had noticed that the security uniform had slowly been replaced with something more formal. The man wore a coat and bowtie along with his cap, looking halfway between a mobster and the world's most muscular butler.

“Good morning, Mr. Tator,” he intoned back as he let him inside. Henderson felt the weight of his body as he walked, his chest stuck out and helped keep his chin up. The broad shoulders made him feel like he took up the entire doorway. And his big wide stride made his butt and crotch kind of wiggle as he walked. He could feel the fabric of his pants tighten around his balls and release, then tighten on the other side. It was mildly arousing.

As he walked in, he greeted a few of his fellow coworkers as he walked to his desk. Moments after sitting down, he received a call to head to Mr. Amplebottom’s office.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, legs apart, arms slack at his side, and staring directly into the grey eyes of his supervisor. Amplebottom seemed to examine his employee for a moment before directing him to sit. Henderson did, his increasingly wide and plump bottom expanding out, consuming nearly 3/4ths of the extra wide seat. He bagged his pants as he sat, causing the crotch of his pants to ride up and give him a large moose knuckle.

“The last sales were processed by accounts payable. You did a good job getting every last dollar out of that disgusting building.” “Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom,” came the monotonous reply.

“How do you feel about the Theatre?”

“The Hemple Housing Porter project will be very profitable.” “Yes, but how about the Cherub Theatre. It’s an old building.” “The lot is better suited for new development.” “Do you like theatre, Henderson.” “No Sir, I was never interested in art.” “More of a sports fellow?” “Yes Sir, I love football.” “Bet you were a big ole lineman back in the day, huh?” “No, I never played.” “I’m pretty shocked,” Amplebottom smirked. “So, no hard feelings about tearing down a 100 year old Theatre.” “No Sir. The development will be very profitable for Hempelbaum.”

“Good man,” Amplebottom kept his eyes focused on Henderson, maintaining steady eye contact. “Well, looks like you’ve earned your first commission check.” He pushed a small piece of paper forward to Henderson, who picked it up. His eyes bulged and dollar signs flashed before his eyes.

“Holy crap!” “Don’t swear Henderson, it’s unbecoming.” “My apologies Mr. Amplebottom. I wasn’t expecting this.” “Three percent commission can be an awful lot when you do a good job. And your percentage goes up with promotions. And good work like this makes me think you’ll be getting on very soon.”

Henderson thanked Mr. Amplebottom profusely and headed straight to John Howard’s desk.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said in a deep, slow voice.

“Henderson Tator, what can I do for you?”

“I got my first commission check,” he said, flashing it for John Howard to see.

“Congratulations. It feels nice to receive appropriate compensation. Men like us work hard, we deserve to make money.”

“It feels great. I could get a down payment on a house.” “Or you could apply for a membership at Rolling Acres Country Club.”

“Oh, no offense, John Howard, but I don’t think I’m country club material.”

“I think you’d like it, Henderson. It’s very nice, and a good way to make connections with other successful men.” John Howard flicked his wrists and displayed a set of ostentatious cufflinks engraved with the country club logo, a laurel wreath surrounding a tree with “Rolling Acres” written over it.

“That seems flashy for you.” “I was accepted as a legacy member. They only let legacy members purchase them.”

“They’re very shiny.” “Yes, too much for the office normally. But I was very excited. Oswald Laurence Carrington IV called personally to inform me. It’s very rare to get a call specifically from the Director of the Board.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henderson said simply.

“Come golfing this weekend. I know you will enjoy it. I can bring guests now!” John Howard’s voice was still precise but there was just the subtle hint of mirth that made Henderson smile slightly.

“Fine, what do I need to wear? I’m sure they have a dress code.” “Meet at my home before. I will have appropriate clothing.”

-----

Henderson had thought a lot about Chester since his last time out here. The spacious green lawns, gigantic homes, and expensive cars cleaned daily should have disgusted him or at least made his eyes roll. Nowadays, he couldn’t help but imagine what life must be like out here. There weren’t music festivals or concerts, but there weren’t smelly people vomiting on the sidewalk or polluting cabs on every corner honking loudly. John Howard’s elegant home had a room dedicated for watching football. It wasn’t even the media room, he said there was a room with a movie projector on the second floor! This was just his man cave, except it was a sunlit, high-ceilinged game room. It was bigger than the apartment Henderson was currently living in alone. He’d kicked out his roommates a month back. They smoked too much weed, it made him dizzy, and he could easily afford the rent on his own nowadays.

John Howard answered the door dressed exactly as he went to work. Henderson had expected something more casual- he’d worn khakis and a pink polo himself. Instead, his bulkier counterpart was embarrassed by his attire and insisted he put on one of his old suits. Henderson thought about protesting, but instead allowed himself to be turned into a Ken doll clone of his coworker, the only difference being the subtle patterns on the tie. He asked John Howard if they were golfing like this, and he insisted they would be changing at the club. Henderson wouldn’t imagine most people showed up dressed like this, but whatever made John Howard comfortable.

Henderson was glad he’d been made to change. After they got past the gate and into the main clubhouse, every man he passed had a tie on. Some of the younger lads were dressed in polo and khakis, but the acne and baby fat on their faces made him happy to not be confused with them. They checked in and “Legacy John Howard Johnson” entered his guests name and they headed to the lockers to change. John Howard handed him a pair of black trousers made of a stretchy and breathable material.

“You sure this one is mine?” “They’re identical.” “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” “I’m certain we’re the same size, Henderson.” Which they were apparently. Henderson was shocked as the pants expanded over his thighs, showing off the thick trunks he’d developed and the amble jiggly buttocks that pressed generously backwards. They sat a little higher on his waist than he was comfortable with, but he didn’t want the pants to sag on the ground. John Howard handed him a white sport polo with the clubs logo on the left breast. Then he added a black golf cap. Henderson had been afraid he might be wearing jodhpurs and knee socks, so the mainstream outfit was relieving. They tidied up in the mirror, and seeing the two of them side by side, dressed exactly the same, Henderson had a bit of a shock realizing how much he looked like John Howard. His body had filled out tremendously, broad shoulders and baseball like biceps, a thick but strong core, that overly wide ass that led into legs and calves formed by deadlifts and deep squats. The biggest thing was his face. He really could swear that his face had been almost heart shaped, but now there was a distinctly square shape to the thing. His longish ivy league haircut gave him a more youthful appearance than his coworker, but otherwise he might have been a son or young brother.

As they walked out onto the course, golf bags strapped across their backs, Henderson could see a tall figure in the distance, seeming to greet them with a small wave. John Howard returned the small gesture.

“Who’s that?” “Chadwick Stratton. I invited him to play with us?” “You invited Chad?” “Chadwick, yes. He’s been a friend since my fraternity days. You know that Henderson. I thought you would get on quite well. Besides, he’s on good terms with many important people. No one is a better connection.” Chadwick was in stretchy salmon colored pants and a white polo exactly like the ones they were wearing. He had a ballcap on with their college logo on the front. Locks of blonde hair spilled under the brim.

“Hey bro,” Chadwick shook John Howard’s hand and pulled him in for a pat on the back. For his part, John Howard tensed up but did not resist. “Damn, you’re getting thicker all the time.” He groped John Howard’s shoulders aggressively.

“Henderson, this is Chadwick Stratton. Chadwick, this is Henderson Tator. We work together in acquisitions at Hemplebaum. He also attended college with us.” Chadwick grabbed Henderson into a similar handshake to hug and Henderson felt a strange repulsion in his stomach.

“You look familiar. Were you a brother?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Henderson replied.

“What fraternity were you in?” “I wasn’t.” “A big bro like you? Damn, we missed you. Would have loved to see you on our intramural teams. Bruiser like you can definitely rough some people up huh?” He laughed playfully and punched Henderson solidly in the chest. It didn’t hurt. “Well, let’s play.” “Are we taking the cart?” Henderson asked, pointing to a line of white, polished golf carts.

“Nah,” Chadwick reached out and gave both John Howard and Henderson hard butt slaps. “Figure you two fatasses need some cardio!” He laughed barkingly and John Howard laughed along. “Kidding, bro. I know dudes like you are all about that max lift. But I still got abs and the ladies love ‘em!” He pulled up the bottom of his shirt showing off the solid, smooth abdominals carved into his tiny waist.

Chadwick was extremely friendly and a little physical. Upon learning that Henderson had never golfed, Chadwick took it upon himself to teach him everything he could, resulting in him saddling up behind him to correct stance and form, but also jokingly pressing his crotch into Henderson’s butt and thrusting. The boys all laughed at the inappropriate horseplay.

Henderson had a hard time hating Chadwick. Taking away all the pomp of politics and social structure, Chadwick turned into an incredibly friendly alpha. The kind of guy who would be quarterback, homecoming king, and fraternity president (all things he learned Chadwick had been). And Henderson was just another one of his bros, dressed in expensive clothes, spending a morning on the course talking about work and finances and spouses. He could remember specific events, Chadwick being horrible during the election season when he was campaigning for a fraternity brothers father, taunting an LGBT students group, and pissing on Tara Kissimmee’s car. But his brain was giving each of these events a little different interpretation now: he was working hard to get Senator Mulligan elected, taunting the gay kids had been meant as a harmless prank, and he was drunk out of his mind with Tara and she never pressed charges so it wasn’t that big a deal. Chadwick was just being a drunken frat- fraternity brother like everyone expected.

“Wife’s pregnant with the third. I got started early!” He bragged while grabbing his crotch. “Chrissy Collop was always into you.” “Yup! Her dad’s super rich, he’s president of the C-Group, that big currency trading operation. Old, old money. But how about you?” Chadwick got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he hand reached towards John Howard’s crotch and gave it a hard smack. John Howard yelped as he grabbed his balls.

“Nut check!” Chadwick busted out laughing. “But seriously, bro, getting those fellas ready? Almost breeding season, boys,” he whispered to John Howard’s balls. Henderson was kind of disturbed but John Howard was laughing and so he joined in too.

“What does that mean?”

“J.H. is getting married. Missy Dorianger.”

“Congratulations!” Henderson said happily.

“Thank you. We’re finishing some final details. Her Mother is very specific. Sometimes she acts as though I’m unworthy.” “Missy can’t do better.” “She is a perfectly suitable spouse. I am very pleased with the situation.” “Can’t wait til we can throw that bachelor party!”

“We’ll do something at the club. I have no desire to watch you stagger around Vegas and hold your head while you vomit.” “It’s your party bro! I’d be holding your hair for once,” Chadwick laughed. John Howard rolled his eyes as he set up his shot and launched the ball. He let out a whistle of appreciation.

“Good shot,” Chadwick and Henderson said simultaneously. John Howard suppressed a grin.

“Henderson, I know it’s late notice but I hope you can at least attend the wedding. The club has strict guest limits and I’m running out of passes for nonmembers for the bachelor party.” “Thank you John Howard. I’m sure I can make it.” “And if you get your membership before, you can enjoy all the fun!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and snagged at his nipple that pressed out firmly from the polo. The boys laughed and continued playing.

The locker room at the clubhouse was a lively place stocked with bathing supplies and also booze. Henderson intended on just showering up and getting dressed, but John Howard and Chadwick were both sitting in their briefs (Chadwicks a traditional cut, John Howard's extremely high waisted to fit over his enormous rump) and undershirts removing the cork from a glass bottle and pouring three full glasses of amber liquid.

“Bourbon,” Chadwick said shortly as he handed Henderson a glass before taking a deep swig of his own. Henderson was very confused about what to do. He was standing in a towel while his two golf buddies relaxed in their unmentionables sipping on a bourbon that probably cost more than those obnoxious club cufflinks John Howard has. He didn’t want to upset his new friends, and the financial connections they represented, so he pulled on his grey Hanes Boxer briefs (his growing buttocks had necessitated so many new underwear purchases that he was desperately searching for cheaper brands) and white undershirt and sat down. Taking a big swig of the liquid, he did his best to relax, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs as his friends chatted.

“You’re getting pretty good at the trap shot,” Chadwick toasted John Howard.

“You’re still better,” John Howard was already refilling his drink happily.

“Always gonna be, dude,” Chadwick laughed again. “But keep trying. I enjoy competition.” He held out his cup which John Howard dutifully refilled. “Man, I’m glad you’re here, J.H.. I miss having some bros. This club is great, but too many of the brothers moved away. But at least I got you two!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and encouraged him to finish up as another round needed to be poured. Despite his increasingly sturdy frame, Henderson hadn’t been drinking much lately. He hadn’t been much other than working, but the alcohol was working its way through his golf dehydrated body quickly.

The trio continued chatting until John Howard excused himself to the toilet, leaving Henderson alone with a man he once thought of as detestable. But this afternoon was fun. He got a small knot in his stomach as Chadwick turned to him with a viperous grin.

“Henley? Henley Tator?” Chadwick suddenly said, dropping his voice low. Henderson was confused for a moment. He hadn’t thought of himself as Henley in a while. It was almost shocking. But then he cautiously nodded yes.

“Please, call me Henderson, Chadwick.” “Oh, I will, Henderson,” he emphasized the name. “You look good. I was pretty sure I recognized you, though you look a lot better now. Hemplebaum’s done wonders for you.” “Thank you, Chadwick. I am very happy working at Hemplebaum Incorporated.” Chadwick nodded and smiled as the robotic words left Henderson’s mouth.

“I like having fraternity brothers around. It’s a real lifetime bond, ya know?” He took another deep swig. “Something that really defines a man. Who he is. Who he’s going to be.” He seemed to stare at Henderson curiously. For his part, Henderson had no idea what to say, and so stayed silent. “If I’d known this is who you were going to be, I’d have made sure you were my brother. Of course, I knew Henley. Not Henderson. Not big strapping Henderson.”

“Yes,” Henderson stirred his glass and sat there. Chadwick was slurring slightly, but Henderson wondered if he'd be able to stand up. This drink was strong and Chadwick was pouring him a third.

“Now, Henderson. What do you think Henderson was like in college?”

“I’m Henderson.” “Yeah, but in college you weren’t. I just wonder what you wish you had done?”

“I wish I’d gone to football games. I love football.” “Fuck yes dude. Big guy like you played in high school,” it wasn’t a question.

“I’d want to have a group of men to watch sports with.” “Yup, every game we had a part at the house.” Henderson stared at him with glassy eyes. He was confused. It seemed like Chadwick wanted him to say something but he could only shrug.

“Would have been nice.” “I hope you apply for membership. The club would be a good fit for you.”

“I really enjoyed myself. It’s very expensive. I was kind of looking into getting a new apartment.” “Where are you living nowadays?” “I have a two bedroom downtown. It’s a heap, but I live alone.” “Thought about buying a house?” “I can’t afford a house in the city.” “What about in Chester?”

“What?! No, I haven’t, I mean, I don’t need a mansion,” Henderson sputtered as he spoke despite training himself to not.

“Not yet, but once you get a wife and some kids, plus Chester is right next to Rolling Acres.” “I’m not sure it’s right for me.” “It’s right for Henderson. For football playing, fraternity brother, corporate shark Henderson,” Chadwick smiled and let out a tiny burp as he finished another drink. Henderson blushed, though it was hard to tell through his liquor flushed face.

“It’s hard to buy a house in Chester.” “I can set you up.” “Really?” The idea was setting itself in Henderson’s mind. Far from feeling like a fresh fantasy, it embedded itself deep inside, as though it had always been there, as though he’d always wanted to buy a giant mansion in a gated neighborhood with an expensive country club. It was always the goal. It’s why he did what he did.

“I always support my Kappa Sigma Alpha brothers.” He poured two more drinks and raised his glass in a toast.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick said and stared at Henderson. Henderson hesitated, but his mind wanted it so bad. He wanted Chadwick to like him, to be his brother, to go back and be a total frat boy in college.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick smiled and the two chugged down their drinks. John Howard showed up a moment later and plopped down while pouring himself another, though he was several behind now.

“What did I miss?” The other two smirked and poured another round and the three K-Sig brothers passed another toast to their fraternity.

-----

Henderson woke up naked with a gigantic erection on the softest white sheets he’d ever felt. HIs head throbbed like never before. A glass of water and several ibuprofen sat next to the bed and he swallowed both without hesitation. Looking around, he admired the pristine cleanliness and order of the room. He was pretty sure where he must be, even if he’d never seen John Howard’s guest room before.

A white cotton robe laid over an old wooden chair, but no other clothes were about. Wrapping the fabric tightly around himself, he opened the door and peered down an equally clean and quiet hallway. He ducked back in the bedroom, helping himself to the toiletries in the attached bath before heading downstairs. John Howard was dressed similarly, though the half closure of his robe meant that Henderson could see the waistband of his briefs. He smiled weakly at Henderson and offered him a cup of coffee which he accepted happily.

“Where are my clothes?” Henderson croaked after a strong sip.

“Washing machine. You vomited all over your suit.”

“Your suit, sorry man.”

“Quite fine Henderson,” John Howard let out a quiet laugh. “Haven’t had a night like that in years. Reminded me of our fraternity days.” Our fraternity days. Henderson went to protest but found his brain muddled. They had talked about it a lot last night, keggers, hell week, initiation, rush, all kinds of random details of fraternity life flooded his brain. The memories seemed like his mostly, though they had a dreamy quality that he attributed to the hangover.

“Remember that party where Van Boegearden vomited after his keg stand? And then he insisted on drinking it up again?” Henderson laughed hoarsely and John Howard joined in. “He’s a congressman now,” John Howard added.

“Good, good. Always knew he’d do well in politics.” They both took large sips of their coffee. John Howard was reading a paper but also had ESPN on, reviewing yesterday's college football.

“We missed the game!” Henderson moaned.

“We watched the game, Henderson. At the club.” “Oh God. They’re never going to let me join now!” “I wouldn’t be so sure. Oswald V seemed quite amused by you.” “Which one is that again?”

“Son of the Board Chairman. I’d commit that to memory.” “I have now. Well, so long as he was amused. Hopefully he can appreciate old fraternity brothers getting together.” “We’ll have to do it again soon.” “Hopefully often once I’m a Rolling acres member.” “I’m glad you’re going to apply,” John Howard smiled.

“I belong at a place like Rolling Acres,” Henderson said with a new confidence.

“Men like us need places like Rolling Acres,” John Howard replied.

“I’m going to have to call a cab,” Henderson said looking at the clock.

“I can take you.” “It’s quite a drive into town.” “I slept through church,” John Howard said, yawning. “And I’m not feeling up to a workout today. Besides, I thought I might take you around Chester first. There are a few lovely homes for sale you might want to see.” “That would be delightful!” The two men turned their attention back to the TV and their coffees, nursing the kind of hangovers they swore they’d never get again but always did.

-----

Henderson strode into the building swiftly, impossibly perfect posture, dressed in a charcoal suit and tie that he borrowed again from John Howard. He noticed there was a new guard at the gate when he gave his name.

“Fine weather, Henderson?” the young guard, a redhead with a trace of a tattoo on his neck asked. Henderson was appalled. He’d ended up spending most of Sunday at the club, enjoying dinner at the men’s grill. At the club, the staff spoke using honorifics and only used questions relative to their service. He was deeply annoyed that this young guard spoke. However, he buried that feeling as he hustled to the elevator. He had a busy morning ahead.

After his workout, a grueling leg day that left him wobbly but his calves looked tremendous, Henderson asked Mr. Amplebottom’s secretary for a meeting, and his 9 a.m. was open. So it was that he found himself standing before his boss's beautiful desk, arms at his side, staring into his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Henderson?” Henderson had been trying to find the words to be concise but found that impossible.

“I want every piece of advice you can give me.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Amplebottom was suppressing a smug smile though Henderson didn’t notice.

“I want to be just like you. And John Howard. And the men at Rolling Acres.” “Enjoy the club?” “Immensely. I belong there. And here at Hemplebaum. I want to become a partner. I want to move out to Chester, in a house, not in some rubbish apartment in this squalid town,” he cast a disgusted look out the skyline of the window. “I want money.” That was low, deep and felt like a great truth awoke inside him. Mr. Amplebottom smiled.

“So, Henderson, are you willing to fully commit yourself to Hemplebaum?” “I am sir,” he replied like a soldier.

“Excellent. Well, I may say this suit is a good start.” “I’m borrowing it from John Howard.” “Yes, a good start. You should get a dozen I think, at least. Plus a few formal ones for special occasions. Many ties and shoes. New supports as well, you do look much better with your trousers at your proper waist.” “Thank you Sir.”

“A haircut. I’m quite surprised you’ve stuck with the ivy league so long. You are much better suited to something short. Like mine and John Howard’s. The part is a classic. But I can set you up with my barber.”

“Yes Sir.” “Now, there is a rather large change that I believe is a necessity for your continued progression at Hemplebaum as well as your new social circle.” “What is that sir?” “Tator. Just a gross, common name. You agree?” Henderson snapped back confirmation even though it made his head spin. “Personally, I’ve always been very fond of alliterative names. It’s a nice mnemonic device socially. And it looks so great monogrammed.” “You want me to change my last name? To something with an H?” Henderson asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I thought you wanted to. To succeed.” “Yes Sir.” “So you want to change your name? To what?” “I don’t know Sir.” “So you want my help, is that what you are saying?” The words were coming so fast and his eyes so enticing that Henderson nodded.

“Yes Sir, please tell me what my name should be.” Amplebottom leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the moment even though Henderson had no idea why.

“This is my favorite part.” Henderson didn’t say anything. His boss clearly didn’t want him to. And he’d just asked for help so there was no need to say anything. “It’s a great moment, when you realize you want to be whatever I want you to be. I was wrong about you Henderson. I did not think you’d make it. But here you are, willing and able. And looking much better with the muscles.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced something that looked like a ring box. Ceremoniously, he pulled it open before Henderson’s eyes. Inside were two silver and black cufflinks. LIghtly engraved in the black was three vertical lines and one horizontal connecting them all.

“Henderson Harold Hearst. H.H.H. Classic, but preppy, which seems to be the direction you’re taking. Though I believe you should at least be a Junior. Yes, Henderson Harold Hearst, Jr.” Amplebottom suddenly got a concerned look in his eyes and made even more intense contact with Henderson. “You’ll insist on being called Henderson. No nicknames or shortening it. Certainly, not Henry. Tell them it was Grandmama’s maiden name. A fitting tribute.” Amplebottom seemed deeply satisfied as he leaned back in his chair a bit. His jacket fell a touch to the side, and Henderson caught a glimpse of his black silk bracer. He eyed the waist of the trousers, noting the lack of wrinkles and the perfect transition from charcoal wool to starched, cotton white. Nothing was ever out of place on his supervisor, it was probably easier when you had such a boring wardrobe, each piece fit together without thinking.

-----

Henderson had set up an appointment at Winston and Co. right after his meeting with Amplebottom. They booked him for a half day on Saturday, which seemed like a very long appointment but they had assured him that this would be a one time appointment to get a permanent account situated. His palpable excitement made his workouts and work days fly by. He’d reworn the suit he borrowed from John Howard three times. It was remarkable how it made him feel, strong, manly, and also kind of plain. He’d talk shop with other men in his department, bland conversations about work and sports and home, that he found uninteresting but comforting. There existed very little variety among the men at acquisitions. No one ever brought up a thoughtful or challenging conversation, the most confrontational it ever got was between rival football teams.

And so it was that Henderson showed at exactly at 8 a.m. in front of the delightfully antiquated haberdashery (as John Howard had called it) for the full treatment. He was greeted studiously by an old man with silver hair and thick black glasses who introduced himself as Art Sebert and insisted on calling Henderson “Mr. Hearst.” That name made his blood jump and boil. He’d thought the concept awkward only days ago, but found himself spouting off the name with such a simple, natural cadence he might as well have been born with it.

Forced to strip down in a rather spacious dressing room fitted with a few chairs and mirrors, Art had offered him coffee which he happily accepted after adding some cream and milk. His personal fears around nudity had decreased in the corporate locker room but it still took him a minute to feel comfortable letting Art assess his bare form. But he measured every inch with such quiet professionalism that Henderson soon became quite comfortable. Art rattled off small measurements as he worked, informing Henderson that he’d need custom clothing for life. Henderson found his brain startled by that information, but an honest assessment in the mirror showed how true that statement was. He simply wasn’t built like a normal person anymore. His neck was thick and his shoulders cartoonishly broad. The jutting chest gave him a permanently puffed up vibe. Uninterested in cardio, his thick rib cage continued straight down into hard abs. And then the true shock, his sumptuous round booty. It looked unreal, not only were his hips and buttocks wide and strong, but somehow there was a gelatinous layer on top that wiggled and shook whenever he moved. It was a shockingly feminine touch on an otherwise hyper masculine body. Henderson loved his butt. It reminded him of being a lineman in high school, it was just like John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s. Ridiculous but masculine and prominent, it took up space, like a man should.

“Alright, Mr. Hearst, give these a try,” he handed Henderson two carefully folded white objects. The first was an undershirt, quite stiff and recently pressed. He pulled it on with little problem, the starchy material felt soft enough on his skin and he appreciated how there wasn’t any excess pulling or snugness. Even better, it actually reached past his belly button, which was further than his current shirts were doing, but still seemed undesirable. The next item was a comically cut pair of briefs, again seemingly starched and pressed, blindly white with a simple waistband with a thin blue line running halfway through. Henderson’s mind mounted a short-lived protest that didn’t even exit his mouth. He’d known it was coming, it was in the book, from his boss, even at the club. It was just another way he was going to fit in with the others. It was deceptively erotic, something overly personal but seemingly inconsequential that he was giving up to fit in. He pulled the cotton fabric up his body, watching the white fabric stretch perfectly across his rump. He attempted to leave the underpants lying low, just above his hip bones, but Art stepped up and dutifully pulled them higher, keeping the undershirt tucked in as they stretched over the belly button, up the stomach, before settling just below his rib cage. He looked like a strange sort of sausage stuffed into a bleached white packaging. There was something about, so uniform and simple, that Henderson couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly at his reflection.

It went significantly faster after that. Art offered him a range of trousers of slightly different fits, making marks and eyeing alterations, seemingly finding the best base. An overly starched, white button down slipped over his upper body. Henderson let it hang open as he sat in his skivvies and shirt, drinking a whiskey the store offered, as a suitable pair of trousers were whipped up for the day. Half an hour later, he was being ordered to button up his shirt, as silky black dress socks were pulled on his feet and the wool fabric of the pants began their climb. Higher, much higher than his old pants, even seemingly than the borrowed ones, these custom trousers rose up until the very top of the pants rested just millimeters below the briefs. The pants were already designed for braces, completely lacking belt loops, and Art adjusted them precisely, ensuring that his pants would sit at this exact height forevermore. Henderson recognized something was being pushed out, some bits of color or variance in his lifestyle and perhaps personality as he allowed himself to be dressed like a doll, clothing cut and shaped so he wouldn’t even have an option on how to wear it, let alone what to wear. It was a deeply comforting thought.

The process was repeated with the coat, explaining why he had been required to book hours of time with a salesman and tailor. But they assured him, everything would be perfect afterwards. All his measurements would be on file, new pieces would be created on a strict schedule to ensure he had neither too few nor too many pieces. He enjoyed another libation as he waited, the old fashioned television in the room had been flipped on to college football and he delighted in sitting back and watching. Not that he really sat back as it were, the stiff shirt and exact cut of his trousers seemed to keep him upright and tall, legs planted firmly on the ground, the crotch of his pants pulled tight into a prominent moose knuckle, head staring almost directly forward. Henderson sort of laughed to himself about it, feeling slightly robotic, and enjoying the rigid pose. It reminded him of John Howard. And he liked John Howard. He liked being like John Howard.

The cut of the jacket was phenomenal, even with a thick waist, his broad shoulders and bulging pecs required a fantastic V shape that made him look thick and strong and almost debonair, in a sort of boring way. Art selected a beautiful silk tie, completely generic and tasteful, and made it taut around the neck. He stepped back, admiring his work and checking the length of the cut of small sections as Henderson stood, militaristically straight posture, arms at his side, staring straight ahead. Once everything seemed to be in order, he instructed Henderson to remove the tie, jacket, and oxford shirt. He’d continue working as another man offered him a pair of house slippers and escorting him into a room that looked like an old-timey barbershop with two chairs.

The wall had four pictures on it of generic hairstyles, each numbered. His barber pointed at number one and told him he would receive that cut unless he did not approve. Henderson felt nothing and simply nodded. The shearing began, his back and sides thinned and trimmed and the edges shaved smooth. The top was reduced and thinned repeatedly, clumps of hair falling lazily to the floor. Each time, the barber seemed to be examining something on his head, but he said nothing to Henderson, who was silent in turn. Finally, apparently satisfied, he squirted a greasy clump of goo into his hands and began working through Henderson’s much thinner hair before combing it aggressively. The final look should have been shocking, but Henderson seemed to have accepted it already. His hair was now dark, short, and combed and parted within an inch of his life. The product gave his hair of bright sheen that was the only notable trait on the otherwise generic hairstyle. It was an exact replica of John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s and almost every man in acquisitions. It was perfect.

The only thing left was a hot shave, which left his skin buttery smooth, and tingly once the aftershave was applied. The barber briskly informed that all the items would be added to his order, so he’d have everything he needed to maintain his appearance. Henderson thanked him shortly and was directed back to the dressing room. The slippers were removed and a highly polished pair of black oxfords were slipped onto his feet. He was redressed in shirt, tie, and jacket and Art began applying a few small touches. First, his french cuffs were closed with shiny silver cufflinks, square, with a delightful HHH cut in them. A white handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket and folded ever so carefully so that the monogrammed HHH was just visible over the jacket. A dab of cologne followed, smelling woody, leathery, and astringent. They informed him he could leave today with undergarments, ties, and grooming products, and to return in three days to pick up a large order, twelves suits, twenty four shirts, plus two speciality suits (one in seersucker and a formal black) in addition to a tuxedo. He shook hands with the salesmen who had helped him, feeling quite pleased with the whole experience.

-----

“Heart, Henderson,” he said curtly to the well dressed guard at the gate. Henderson noticed that he was far less chatty than last time. In fact, the security officer barely seemed to register Henderson as a person, and more as an item line to check off. He marched dutifully to the elevator. Henderson admired himself in the mirror as he waited. Quite frankly, he embodied everything a man should be: big, strong, soon to be rich. Those commission checks had added up quite quickly, combined with incentives and the fact that Amplebottom had been hinting that he would be moving up to Associate very soon, so Henderson was feeling mighty pleased with himself, and honestly a bit haughty, as he slipped how hands up and down the tasteful braces holding up his trousers. Despite the fact that his clothing hardly moved an inch in any given direction, he still unconsciously attempted to pull up his pants and underwear, making sure everything was in place. It was a big day after all.

Mr. Amplebottom took John Howard and Henderson out to a large lunch in a company car that was clean as a whistle and beyond luxurious. As they stepped out of the Partner elevator, they were greeted by a strapping man in a full chauffeur outfit, cap, gloves, and jodhpurs. He greeted the men properly before taking Amplebottom’s keys and practically running to fetch his car. He held the door open militantly as each man entered. Henderson stopped to give him a good look, there was something familiar about him. Henderson realized this was the old door man from his side, although the corporate makeover and more servile uniform gave him a less threatening appearance, and his empty obedience was a far better look than the military scowl and tattoos that were once visible.

The car took them downtown. Amplebottom had made casual conversation about work but the atmosphere in the car was mildly tense. Henderson had never been invited to something like this and he wanted to make a good impression. John Howard seemed rather himself, upright and professional, nary a mention of personal life unless questioned.

They exited the car and Amplebottom led them into a high rise building with black reflective glass covering the outside, making it look kind of like a supervillain’s lair. They rode the elevator up, stopping at the 6th floor. Unfinished with not even a desk or chair in site, they ambled over to the window and looked out. They weren’t high enough to have a great view of the city, but they did overlook one particularly small building below. Police had cordoned off a section as a throng of protestors with signs seemed to be confronting them. Behind the police, by the building, were construction workers.

“I thought you’d want to see the results of your hard work,” Amplebottom said slyly. John Howard and Henderson stared down curiously as the protestors seemed to get louder. He hadn’t been here in so long, Henderson was unsure what he was looking at. The chintzy building was old and surrounded by expensive real estate. His mind began wondering how much the lot was worth and who could possibly own it when John Howard spoke.

“Cherub Theatre,” his voice was different than usual, quicker and lighter. Amplebottom smiled.

“The future site of Hemple Housing Porter,” he gloated. “And it’s all thanks to you.” John Howard seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Henderson just looked quietly. Then something happened. The entire building shook and collapsed.

“Well, it wasn’t very grand, I admit. But that’s the start!” Ample said happily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two envelopes and handed one to each of the men. Henderson opened his tenderly, wondering what awaited him. It was a very formal letter, on thick paper, declaring his promotion to Associate with a new salary of 400k a year, four percent commission, and a new set of company perks. Henderson practically came inside his briefs and when he looked at Amplebottom he was holding out his hand. Henderson accepted the firm handshake happily.

“Wow,” John Howard spoke quietly as he read the letter.

“Surprised?” “Yes, I, thank you, Sir!” John Howard’s momentary trepidation was gone, replaced with a beaming smile and he shook both their hands with the energy of a toddler on redbull.

“You’re a little young, to be honest. But I think you’ve demonstrated a dedication and promise that will benefit Hemplebaum for years to come. And Hemplebaum rewards good employees, Junior Partner John Howard Johnson.” Amplebottom emphasized the last bit so Henderson understood. J.H. had just moved into a whole new income bracket. A whole new way of seeing the world. There had been some trepidation, some fear, as he had looked at the theatre, but now all he saw were profit margins.

“I'm starving. There’s a great steakhouse nearby. I say we get some prime rib and bourbon and have a toast.” The three fatasses business men strutted out of the building, richer and more content than ever before.

-----

Things had progressed really well for Henderson. He was now a member in good standing at Rolling Acres Country Club, which meant he’d been bumped up from guest to groomsman at John Howard’s oversized wedding. Apparently, everyone and their dog walker’s best friend had been invited, so long as their net worth was greater than John Howard’s. Which is how Henderson found himself, sitting in an auxiliary dressing room with the rest of the groom’s party, in nothing but their skivvies getting toasted hours before the ceremony. John Howard himself was maintaining a pretty stoic demeanor, but several of the groomsmen were going whole hog.

“Just brilliant, J.H.,” Rip patted John Howard on the shoulder again, his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Careful, you’ll be unconscious before the ceremony,” came a stern warning for their co-worker Bert.

“Imma juss wishing my buddy all the damn- happiness in the world! Hopefully, your marriage is happier than mine!” Rip sat down clearly woozy. Rumor around the club was that his wife did not “approve of his dalliances” like he had hoped. He’d recently spent some time warning the college boys about the value of pre-nups.

“Have some water, Rip,” Chadwick said, forcing a tall glass of sparkling water into his hands. Even though it was John Howard’s day, Chadwick did a great job of ensuring he was generally at the center of things. He’d been the best man, the bachelor party planner, the one who got everyone to relive fraternity induction by sitting around half naked drinking whiskey straight on a saturday afternoon. There was something deeply fraternal about the thing. Henderson could recall himself and a few dozen other young freshmen in a similar situation as their pledge master and rush chair had guided them through a vow committing them to the fraternity.

“I’m ready for another, not you Rip. You’re sitting this one out,” came a highly affected male voice. It belonged to Oswald V, practically a guest of honor. John Howard had been absolutely beside himself when Oz had agreed to be a groomsman. Henderson was happy for him. J.H. was definitely a social climber and at Rolling Acres he could not do any better. For his part, Oz was charming and congenial, born into a life of socializing and money, he had all the natural airs of an heir apparent.

“So, I got the bridesmaid situation worked out,” Chadwick leaned into John Howard and Henderson. “Missy was insisting on Kitty Bell being third, but I got her to swing her down the line and swap in Millie Cashon. Oz doesn’t like her, but fuck him, he’s married. So, Henderson, I got you set up with the hot one. And the single one.” Henderson looked bashfully at the floor as the other two stared at him.

“Oh, okay,” he sort of shrugged.

“Listen, Huck,” Chadwick had taken to calling Henderson “Huck” because apparently all men needed a nickname among brothers. “This took a LOT of work on my part. I’m not saying you have to marry her, but if you don’t get to at least second, I will consider you a waste. Also, I owe Missy a doubles game of tennis now,” John Howard looked horrified at the prospect. “So, J.H. is gonna have to slip into some tiny white shorts and I’m gonna deal with a ticked off aristocrat. So have some fun!” Chadwick slapped Henderson’s shoulder in a paternal fashion as he returned to keeping up the fun in the room. John Howard and Henderson made awkward eye contact for a minute.

“Sorry,” Henderson said sheepishly.

“She’s hot,” J.H. appraised. “Dad’s not worth too much, but he does have some great boats. Might as well make the most of it.” He tipped his glass up to Henderson who met it solidly, producing a harsh click in the room.

“Here’s to J.H.!” Rip was attempting to make a toast, seemingly recovered from his drunken daze.

“To J.H.-John Howard!” Henderson polished off his drink and happily accepted a refill. Without John Howard he never would have gotten a job at Hemplebaum, he’d never been sitting in this room, drinking liquor that cost more than a cable bill, planning on making an offer on a home in Chester, and planning on how to get into Kitty Bell’s dress tonight. Cheers to J.H. indeed.

#callmecrazy #preppy #mental transformation #suit #nosex

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thethirdamell · 3 years

Text

The Cruelest Month

Zevran/Amell - WIP / Writing exercise

The Blight was over. Amell was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden. He was also blind - mutilated by his father - and had fallen to drink, drugs, and despair. One love of his life had left him, and the other had died.

For a year, he'd had nothing. Then, for one cruel month, he'd had hope.

1. Champagne Flavored Kisses

“You can kiss me," Amell had said, and so Zevran did. Amell had been drinking wine, but the stutter in his breath was like the breaking of bubbles at the surface of champagne. For all it seemed his Warden had forgotten how to breathe, he had not forgotten how to kiss. Wintermarch fell before him, a flood of warmth in his lips, in his hands, in his trembling breath.

How Zevran had missed him. Amell's arms wrapped around his waist beneath his jacket, but it could not have been the cold that made him shiver so. He made a sound - a sort of whimper - like the union of loss and lost - and Zevran didn’t know what to do with it. There was so much in that sound.

And then all at once, there was no champagne. No bubbles. No light. No air. Nothing but gasps and sobs and snow.

2. Opportunities

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the Maker. Perhaps it was simply Leliana, but Zevran had been afforded an opportunity and he did not intend to waste it. Amell wept and Zevran forced himself to listen. To feel the racing of his own heart, and the way Amell’s hands seemed to fist around it and not his back. He was almost too much. Too fast. Too vulnerable.

Amell had been blinded and Zevran didn’t know how or why. Rumor said it was the Crows, and what if the rumors were true? What if the Crows had sent him here to finish the job? The contract on Amell had existed once. Zevran could have taken it. Amell had no way of knowing he hadn't. Nothing beyond his word, and Zevran had already proven his word meant so very little.

Zevran could have been lying. It was possible. Surely Amell knew it was possible. Yet still, the weeping. Zevran traced over the old scar at the top of Amell's ear. His Warden had pierced it years ago, on nothing but the hope that one day Zevran would give him the earring and it would mean something. And so he had, and it had. "You wish for it to mean something!? Here is what it means!" Zevran had thrown it at him, and Zevran had left him.

"Amor-" Zevran said gently.

"Don't-" Amell cut him off. Amell was taller than he, and had to bend slightly to embrace him. His hunched shoulders shook with a rickety inhale. "Don't call me that. Don't call me that unless you mean it."

"... Amor," Zevran said again. Softer. Slower. "Amor." Zevran set his fingers to Amell’s chin, and peeled him off his shoulder. What a mess he was. Face flush, blindfold stained with tears, spit cobwebbed between cracked lips. What a mess Zevran had made him. "Amor."

He meant it. He would mean it. This time, he would mean it.

3. Condensation

Condensation from the glass ran over Amell’s fingers, the chill white almost warm in winter. Amell tipped the glass back to his lips, and washed away the taste of his tears. Whatever room he was in smelled like a headache. Leliana meant well, but going from huckleberry to vanilla blossoms to cinnamon to some sort of soap was so disorienting he would have lost his sense of smell half way through the night even if he hadn’t been crying.

Zevran hadn’t wanted to stay for the rest of the First Day Ball. Leliana had found Zevran a room at the palace, and Zevran had pushed the key for said room into his hands before leaving for the night. “In case you would like a more thorough apology,” Zevran had whispered into his ear.

Amell kept a hand in his pocket, turning the brass and all its promises over in his fingers. He hadn’t been with anyone in almost two years. Not in truth. Not without magic, and a bemused bottle of wine while he compelled whatever nobleman or dignitary that wanted a night with the Hero of Ferelden into thinking they’d gotten one.

The first time he’d managed sex after he’d lost his eyes, he’d thrown up afterwards. It had gotten easier, but it had never been the same, and he hadn’t tried or wanted to try since Anders had died.

“Kid?” Oghren’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hm?” Amell asked.

“... Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go balls deep in the elf the second you see him,” Oghren explained. “You gotta play a little hard to get for once.”

“Three years isn’t hard enough?” Amell asked.

“Elf ain’t been back three minutes. Lemme guess, he’s a changed man. Well, lemme tell you something, I was a changed man. Every day, I was a changed man. Every drink, I was a changed man. You know what I didn’t do? Change.”

“You changed,” Amell argued. Oghren was sober. Oghren had changed more than he had.

“For you,” Oghren reminded him. “Cause I wasn’t about to find you the way I found you when you tried to do you know what you know when because of you know who. Cause I love you.”

“... Zevran loves me.”

“He tell you that?”

“...”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

4. Love and fear. The most destructive forces on earth.

Fuck it.

“Excuse me,” Amell caught the hand of the servant that went to refill his wine. “Could you show me to the third floor in the west wing, where the guests are staying?”

“Yes, Chancellor,” The servant gulped. A woman. She sounded young, but nerves did that to a person, and Amell couldn’t say for certain. “Of course, Chancellor.”

The woman hesitated, as if unsure what to do with him, but ultimately tangled her hands around his bicep and set off. Westward, hopefully. He didn’t need her hands. He could follow the pulse of her heart, but he wasn’t drunk enough to forget how disconcerting most people found that. “Forgive me, Chancellor - aren’t you worried about the scandal?”

“Which one?” Amell asked. There were so many on any given day it was hard to keep up.

“Of walking with a servant,” The woman explained.

“Only if you’re worried about walking with a mage,” Amell countered.

“But you’re not a mage!” The woman protested. “You’re the Hero of Ferelden.”

“What’s your name?” Amell asked.

“Nessa,” Nessa said. “... I’m an elf, messere.”

“Nessa, I’m Amell, and I’m a mage. I promise it’s fine if we walk together.”

Nessa seemed to accept that. She talked on the walk through the palace, but Amell had had too many drinks to follow along with everything she said and restrained himself to a polite hum whenever it seemed like he should respond. Eventually, Nessa announced, “We’re here, messere.”

“Thank you,” Amell said.

“Would you like me to walk you to your room?” Nessa offered.

“No, thank you, Nessa,” Amell waved her off. It wasn’t his room, and he didn’t want Zevran to know he had to have someone walk him to it. “I appreciate your help. I’ll have to repay it someday.”

Nessa said something and left. Amell’s head was so heavy he felt like he kicked it down the hall to the seventh room on the left. Zevran’s room… Maybe Zevran’s room. Shit. Which left? His left? Someone else’s left? Was this actually the seventh door or was he so drunk he’d lost count? Someone was inside. He could feel their heartbeat, but nothing beyond that. They weren’t a warden or a mage, and Amell couldn’t distinguish between anyone else.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Nessa was gone. Why had he let her go? Why did he have to be so fucking proud? What did he have to be so fucking proud about? There was no one else in the hall, but there were people scattered throughout the rooms. The last thing he needed was to knock on the wrong door and scandalize some foreign dignitary. With his luck, he’d bring half the palace out to check on him. Alistair would hold it over his head for so long he’d never feel the sun again, and Amell liked the sun. It made him feel something.

The sound of the door opening.

“I knew you could not resist,” Zevran’s voice. Amell let out the breath he’d been holding and felt for his heartbeat, a hand to Zevran’s chest and whatever fabric he wore atop it. Suede maybe.

“Why would I want to?” Amell countered.

“Why indeed?” Zevran pulled him inside and shut the door behind them.

Amell found his jaw, tracing over the memory of black ink on bronze skin before he sought his lips. His kiss was almost enough to bring him back to tears. Oghren was wrong. Amor meant love. Amell knew it meant love. It was enough that it meant love. It didn’t matter that Zevran never said it in the King’s tongue. Amell didn’t even like the King.

He liked Zevran. He loved Zevran. Amell had loved Zevran as much as Zevran had feared Amell loving him. For one passionate year love and fear had felt like the most destructive forces on Thedas, a force to rival the Archdemon, but in the end love and fear hadn’t destroyed anything but them.

Amell fisted his hands in Zevran’s hair and kissed him harder. Zevran kissed back, cradling his jaw and caressing down his side. It was just a kiss, and then it was just a haze. Flashes of miserable memories Amell buried beneath skilled hands and hot breath and so many fucking buttons. “What is this?” Amell asked while he fought with whatever Zevran was wearing.

Zevran chuckled against his neck, his hands finding easy purchase beneath his doublet, “You would think it a chastity belt with how you struggle, no?”

… A joke. It was a joke. Amell meant to laugh, but the sound was a harsh hum.

“Allow me-” Zevran started.

“I should go,” Amell untangled himself from him.

“Should you, now?” Zevran asked, a familiar evenness in his voice that spoke of anything but, “You are too much, my dear Warden.”

“You mean I’ve had too much,” Amell corrected him with forced levity.

“This as well.” Zevran allotted. “... Very well. Go then.”

Amell patted himself down, checking over his outfit, and whether or not it was still something he could be seen wearing, but Zevran hadn’t gotten much further than he had. He found two undone buttons and fixed them. Because he could fix them. Because buttons were easy as long as he was the one wearing them, and he wasn’t undoing them from the bottom of a bottle.

Zevran’s hand, tangled around his collar and pulling him back when he turned to go. “... but take the memory of me with you.” Zevran kissed him. Just once, and there was surprisingly little pressure in it. “Another night, yes?”

“Another night.” Amell promised.

5. Thick, wool jackets piled on a leather chair in the corner of a dark bar.

"I'm turning in, Kid," Oghren thumped a fist against his back. "You know the way back to your room?"

"Hm," Amell took a long pull of blood lotus and waved him off.

"Lay off the coffin nails, will you?" Oghren said.

"One pull won't kill me." At this rate, nothing could. He was already dead. He’d died so many times he was losing count. In a closet in the Circle. On the Tower of Ishal. On the back of the Archdemon. In his bed. In his bath. Death after death after death, but he kept coming back.

"You got court tomorrow," Oghren reminded him.

"I'll be up," Amell promised.

"Yeah, alright," Oghren said, chair creaking across the floor when he stood. Amell didn't hear him leave, and turned to take in the pulse of his heart. Slightly sped up. Stress.

"I'm fine, Oghren." Amell lied. There was only so much drinking could do for him, but he didn't plan on overdoing it. He just needed to forget everything Zevran forced him to remember. The Blight. The breakup. The fucking closet. Amell took another pull for the high and the hallucinations that followed it.

Oghren left. Amell smoked, resting against a pile of thick wool jackets stacked high on the leather couch beside him. They belonged to whoever else was in the parlor with him, but all their heartbeats bled together with the lotus, and he felt alone in the not-dark.

6. Allergic to bullshit

Oghren couldn't sleep. He was itchy as a cuckold, and his throat kept swelling up on him and choking him awake. Coulda been the palace. Coulda been the bed. Coulda been something he ate. Coulda been, but it wasn't. It was the Kid, giving him a full on reaction in the middle of the night. After three years, Oghren was allergic to his bullshit.

Oghren got up, got a drink of water, and got dressed. He went back downstairs to the parlor, first at a walk, then at a jog, and eventually at a full on sprint, but the Kid was where he left him. Lying on a couch in the smoking parlor, the air around him so thick with blood lotus folks could get high on the fumes.

A few had. Some noble lass was lying on his chest while Amell blew smoke in her face. Another noble fellow sat on the floor, leaning against the couch and smoking his own roll while Amell toyed with his hair. The Kid was fine. Fucked up, but fine.

He wasn't dead. He wasn't lying in the bath, a bottle of aqua magus shattered on the floor, incense still burning while he overdid it on everything there was to overdo it on. Oghren just had to drag him off the couch and not out of the grave. "Let's go, Kid," Oghren said and didn't sob.

Kid was still breathing. Kid was still dressed. Kid could still walk. Oghren made it back to his room with him, and Amell slumped to the floor as soon as Oghren untangled him from his shoulder. Paranoia made him check his pulse, but the Kid was alright. He was just out.

Oghren rolled him onto his side and pushed him up against the wall to keep him that way. It would be his sodding luck if the little shit suffocated on his own sick in the middle of the night. Ironic maybe, considering being sick was the only thing that'd saved him a few months ago. Stupid shit. Stupid little shit.

What the fuck, Kid!? The fuck were you thinking?

I don't know. I'm sorry.

Fuck your sorry, you little shit! You trying to kill yourself?

I don't know. I don't know.

Fuck you. Fuck you, Kid.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

You stupid fuck. You stupid little fuck.

"You're alright," Oghren decided.

He was alright. The Kid was alright. His kid was alright.

7. Earl Grey

Fuck. Where was he? Not the parlor. The air wasn’t thick enough. Amell splayed a hand across the cold floor beneath him, a stark contrast to cushioning leather and the few vague memories he had of last night. He was still dressed, but his cape was gone. He must have left it in the parlor, buried in some indistinguishable pile of woolen outerwear.

Where was he? Amell dragged himself to his knees with the help of the wall beside him, a rising panic in the pit of his stomach and a growing ache in his head. They joined together in his heart, like feral lovers tearing each other apart, and every pulse was agony. Where the fuck was he? Amell clutched his forehead, cursing his lack of creationism and struggling with the magic that pulled on the pulse of those around him.

His hand crawled across the wall until it connected with something. Wood. A post. A bedframe. Rich sheets. Layered. Fine quarters. For a noble or an honored guest. His room? Someone else’s room? Why was he on the floor? Amell stumbled to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed. Probably his room. Maybe he’d made it back or gone back with someone.

Amell pulled his blindfold off, blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Fuck,” Amell muttered. What time was it? When was court? Had he missed it? Where the fuck was he?

A Warden’s pulse. Oghren. Alone, some distance from him but closing. He should probably put his blindfold back on. Oghren couldn’t stand his eyes, but his head ached and his forehead itched and he was as sick of the fucking blindfold as he was of everything else. Amell stayed on the bed, stretching the knots from his back until he heard the door to the room open and close.

“Morning, princess. Get your beauty sleep?” Oghren pushed something into his hands. Ceramic. Warm. A cup. Amell sniffed it. Leaves and dirt. Tea.

“Where am I?” Amell asked.

“My room,” Oghren said, the bed lurching with his weight when he sat somewhere off to the left.

“What time is it?”

“Morning.”

“Did I miss court?”

“No, but you’re gonna.”

“Oghren-”

“Get over it,” Another dip in the mattress accompanied by the rustling of sheets as Oghren made himself comfortable. “They will. Drink your damn tea.”

Amell took an obedient sip. Bergamot. Not that it mattered. He hated tea, no matter the type or how it helped with his hangover. “I’m expected,” Amell reminded him, “I need to go.”

“You’re the Chancellor,” Oghren countered, with a slurp and a satisfied gasp that was wholly unwarranted, considering he was probably drinking the same piss. “You don’t need to do shit. Besides, it’s the King’s court.”

There was that. Alistair would take his absence for an insult. The nobility for his backing of the Queen. There were worse days to be absent. Amell took another drink.

“You can’t go back there, Kid,” Oghren said. “Not over the elf. You’re better than that.”

No he wasn’t.

“Well?” Oghren pressed.

“Well what?” Amell asked.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“You know what,” Oghren kicked him, but he was too far away to do anything more than push the sole of his shoe into his hip. “Let’s hear it. You talk it out or you drink it out. You want your kid to find you like I found you?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Nuh-uh.” Oghren cut him off.

Amell sighed, cradling his cup in his lap. He didn’t want to talk it out. He didn’t even want to drink it out. He didn’t want it out at all. He wanted it buried or branded with the rest of his emotions. He should have just let them do it in the tower.

“Kid,” A clink of Oghren setting his drink down.

“I can’t,” Amell croaked.

“I ain’t asking you to walk on lava here. I’m just asking you to talk.”

“I can’t sleep with him,” Amell clarified.

“Like you two ever did much sleepin’ anyhow,” Oghren snorted.

“I couldn’t get his jacket off.”

“Can’t believe I’m giving advice on this, but so what? So he keeps the jacket on. Just get your pants off and go about your business like I do with the ladies.”

“He said something. A joke. I just-... I felt like I was back there… in the Circle… I always feel like I’m back there…”

“... You’re not, Kid.”

“I know.”

“Do ya?”

“... no.” A shudder tangled up in his chest. Amell fought it back with tea and shallow breaths and time. “…I never know where I am.”

“... I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know, Kid.” Oghren shifted again, and his hand fell on Amell's shoulder. “... You’re in Denerim. You’re at the palace. You’re on the second floor in the west wing. You’re in a guest room. You’re with me, Kid. You’re with me.”

8. Hygge (A quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment)

A wave of stress. The sort of stress you feel in your skin, under your fingernails, paralyzing you more effectively than any spell or poison. The sort of stress that says run, fight, stop, you're dying, you're dying, you’re dying. It was the kind of stress Amell felt whenever he stopped to think about how he felt. How he really felt.

Amell couldn't have feelings. Growing up, feelings were just a thing the Circle could take from you. If you wanted to survive you had to take them first. Nothing could matter. Nothing had mattered. Nothing except Jowan and Anders, but Jowan was Leyvn and Anders was dead and they couldn’t matter now because they were gone.

The Blight had only made it worse. He’d been one of only two surviving Grey Wardens, trying to save a country from civil war and a world from annihilation. Nothing else could matter in the face of that, and after? He was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden, trying to resurrect a dead Order and a dead Arling as one of the first mages openly entrusted with a position of nobility since the Shame of Serault.

There was no room for feeling in any of that, but he’d had feelings anyway, and his feelings had died. After everything, how was he supposed to have them again?

Amell finished his tea and held the empty cup in his lap. He didn’t know where he could put it down. So far his assessment of Oghren’s room was limited to the floor and the bed.

“There’s someone at your door,” Amell noted.

The knock came a moment later.

“Could you be more of a creepy fuck?” Oghren took his cup away. Amell wasn’t sure what he did with it. He found his blindfold, tied it back around his eyes, and the sound of the door opening followed.

“Elf,” Oghren noted.

“Oghren,” Zevran’s voice returned.

Amell forced himself to take a steadying breath. He couldn’t break down every time Zevran was around him.

“You start your monthlies yet?” Oghren asked.

“I missed you too, my foul smelling friend,” Zevran returned.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on.”

“You are only slightly more attractive to me than a slime-filled pool of swamp water,” Zevran assured him. “You have my oath.”

“Better be,” Oghren grunted, “Come on in then.”

“Here you have caught me off guard,” His steps were soundless, but Amell felt his pulse when he stepped inside, circling Oghren to stand a short distance from him. “I came only to ask if you knew what room Amell was staying in, and yet I see it is this one. Amor, if you have taken in with the dwarf then I fear you have traveled to an awkward place I dare not follow.”

“He wishes,” Oghren said. “Boss’s room’s across the hall, three down on the left.”

“I should probably get to it,” Amell stood up. “I need to change.”

“Perhaps I could help with one or both of those things?” Zevran offered.

“Don’t you two start with that. Not in here,” Amell imagined a finger wagging accompanied Oghren’s threat, but his blood magic wasn’t quite precise enough to distinguish between the veins in someone’s fingers and their hand. “Go on, get out.”

Amell took a step towards the door, when a hand on his arm stopped him.

“May I?” Zevran asked.

“If you like.”

Zevran escorted him out of Oghren's room and back to his own. He smelled like leather, but the texture of his sleeve was linen. Maybe a vest. Amell ran his hand down to what felt like an armband with some sort of embossment. He couldn’t quite tell what it was by the time they reached his room. Amell let them inside, and stood in the center of it, trying to think of what to say to him.

"Let us dispense with all the awkwardness of last night, shall we?" Zevran saved him. "My words were ill chosen, but I meant no ill will."

"I know."

"Ah,” Zevran cleared his throat. “Of course you know. Why would you not? I-... meant only that if you need help-"

"I don't,” Amell cut him off. Maybe a little too sharply.

"Truly?" Zevran sounded surprised. Amell must have frowned, because when Zevran continued he sounded uncharacteristically soft. "I don't know. How would I know such a thing? I have not been with you. You are blind and I am not and you must tell me."

Amell let go of whatever emotion had been fueling him. Pride, probably. “I will,” He promised, and hoped he meant it, “If I ever do.”

“Good,” A pop, like the anxious cracking of knuckles. “Then I shall be there to give it if you do… I am told the king is holding court today?”

“He is,” Amell didn’t want to talk about Alistair.

“And I am told you should be there?”

“I should.”

“Haha! I do love a good royal scandal. Perhaps we could add to it? The Chancellor of Ferelden, out in public, a handsome fellow on his arm. A lover perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

Zevran clasped the back of his head, tilting his head down to urge him into a kiss that tasted like mint and spoke of a purposeful morning. Amell tangled one hand in Zevran’s hair and ran the other down his chest, catching on some sort of necklace resting against a loosely laced linen shirt. Leather vest, like he’d guessed, and familiar mixed metal rounds still belted at his waist.

Zevran tugged his doublet free of his belt, and Amell forced himself to break from him before the day went somewhere he couldn’t. “I don’t need help changing, Zev.”

“Are you sure?” Zevran joked, but this time it was easier to handle, “Such a complicated outfit you wear, my dear Warden.”

“Is it?” Amell couldn’t help smiling.

“Why yes! You see, there is…” Zevran floundered for a moment, “A belt?”

“I can’t, Zev,” Amell said, bracing himself for a fight. “Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran relented, so easily it didn’t seem possible. “I shall wait outside, then.”

“Thank you. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“A few minutes it is,” Zevran went to the door, but didn’t leave.

“I know you’re still here,” Amell said.

“Nonsense,” Zevran laughed, returning to him for another kiss, and Amell couldn’t help wondering why he’d hesitated. What more he’d wanted to say. “You are alone.”

“Who am I talking to, then?”

“Why yourself, of course! You are so very vain, after all.”

“My mistake.”

“One you will make again, I am sure. Do not take too long.”

Zevran released him, and actually left the second time around. Amell changed into a fresh doublet and trousers, and rejoined him in the hall. Zevran took him to the servant’s quarters, where a second, smaller, First Day celebration was taking place the day after the nobility had had theirs. Whatever room they were in was warm, and slightly crowded, but the furniture had been cleared away to make room for dancing.

Nessa was there, and sounded excited to see him again, as did a handful of others she introduced him to once they realized he wasn’t there to interrupt the festivities but join them. There was no alcohol being served. No incense choking out the room. Just music and laughter, and a comfortable conviviality to it all.

“Can you dance?” Zevran asked.

“Can you lead?” Amell countered.

Zevran’s laugh was light. “I shall be glad of it,” He took his hand, found a space for them, “You have led long enough, no? I think you deserve a rest.”

9. Crisp

Amell was not Rinna. He was not Taliesin. True, he was many things they were. Cunning. Ruthless. But he was also many things they were not. Forgiving. Gentle. Alive. The palace gardens were frozen over, and so conveniently abandoned. Zevran sat on a bench of ice and stone, Amell's head in his lap, their breath misting in the crisp winter air.

Zevran threaded his fingers through Amell's hair, wisping a few raven strands free of his ridiculous blindfold. "Why do you wear this?"

"For the aesthetic," Amell joked.

"I do not suppose I can persuade you to take it off?" Zevran asked, thumbing the edge of the cloth and wondering at what lay beneath it. Eyes, surely. Real or glass, red or some other color, mangled or not.

"Just the blindfold?"

"And anything else that you fancy removing, of course, this is a given," Zevran laughed, "Come now, I am serious. What is the purpose?"

"I told you," Amell said.

"No, I do not believe so," Zevran traced one of Amell’s eyebrows, relaxed despite his prying, which seemed a good sign, "Shall I guess? You are concerned for how they look when you cannot?"

"Something like that.”

"Something like that is not that,” Zevran noted.

"Tell me about Antiva," Amell deflected.

"Antiva," Zevran let the conversation go with a wistful sigh, watching the word catch in the cold. "Very well, Antiva. It is a wonderful place, save for all the Antivans. I have been killing rather a lot of them, and the Crows are cross that I have crossed them, as it were."

"Why have you?" Amell asked.

"Why not?" Zevran laughed.

“You said you just wanted to escape them,” Amell reminded him.

"And so I have,” Zevran said. “And yet when I left, I realized it was not enough to be free. I had to do something with my freedom. You remember the orphanage, yes? In Denerim?”

“I remember.”

“We do not have such things in Antiva. Not such as they are here. The Crows empty them too quickly. We are not so very different men, you and I. I was sold to the Crows. You were given to your Circle. Tell me, Amor, if you could go back, would you not do the same? That day at the tower? All of your templars gathered in one little room… You have such a spell that would serve - a cloud of death. I have seen it.”

Amell cracked his knuckles, “...We needed the soldiers.”

“True.” Zevran allotted, “But this was not my question.”

“... you know I would.”

“So I do,” Zevran traced the anxious tension out of Amell’s brow. There was no need for it. Zevran knew the man he’d come back to. “And now you know I would as well.”

Amell caught his wandering hand, and kissed his fingers and the ring Zevran wore upon them. Amell’s brow furrowed again, in confusion and not confession, and he spun the silver band around his finger. “... Is this the ring I gave you?”

“So it is.”

“... I thought you would have added it to your belt.”

“I considered it, I will not lie.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Who can say?” Zevran shrugged, but the deflection was an old habit, and he’d promised to break them. He traced Amell’s lips, dry against the cold, until a smile curved in them. “... Who needs to say?”

10. Melting snowman

Amell caught Zevran’s hand, still tracing his lips, and wove their fingers together. "What are your plans?"

"My plans?" Zevran repeated with a blithesome laugh, still unchanged after all these years. "Have I given you some indication I make a lot of these?"

"How long are you staying in Ferelden?" Amell revised. "Until the snow melts? Wintersend?"

"Who is to say I am leaving?" Zevran countered.

Experience.

"You love adventure," Amell said instead.

"And there is none to be had here?" Zevran asked. "I had thought to offer my services to the crown, and the lovely woman who wears it, as it were. You will put in a good word for me, I am sure?"

"I'll have to think of a few," Amell joked.

"Tsk,” Zevran flapped his hand free to swat him with it, “So cruel you are. I think I may cry.”

"Skilled," Amell ventured, trying to remember the man he’d fallen for years ago and wondering how much of him remained. "Dashing. Clever. Charismatic."

"Sexy?" Zevran suggested.

"Obviously," Amell dropped his arm off the bench and squeezed Zevran’s calf when it proved the easiest part of him to reach lying on his thigh. Amell had always liked his legs. "Gallant."

"Gallant?" Zevran laughed his familiar laugh. "You are aware of the meaning of this word, no? I regret to inform you an assassin is no gallant thing to be, amor."

"You are," Amell argued. "I remember how you spoke against Knight-Commander for locking the mages in the tower and calling for the Rite of Annulment… you were the only one who did. I think-..."

"... what is it you think?"

I think that's when I fell in love with you.

"I think you're gallant."

11. Bleak

Amell let the words go. He’d said them once, despite his better judgment, and he didn’t trust himself to say them again. For all he said them often enough to his friends, they lacked the weight they carried when he said them to the men who mattered most in his life. They lacked the heartache. Zevran had left. Anders had died. The words were a curse, a hex, an affliction he wouldn’t speak again without hearing them spoken to him first.

His recticience changed nothing. His feelings were all still there, unspoken, but his love felt less unrequited if he gave nothing to requite. It wasn’t. This time it wasn’t, but Zevran hadn’t said it first, and the thought that he might not say it back too bleak to bear, so it was better not to say at all.

12. You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet

You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Felsi understood that. Girl broke damn near a dozen trying to cook one. Kid understood it too, but with the Elf back it was like he forgot. Spent a whole week at the Palace flitting and farting around the heavy stuff - so scared to talk it out he figured he’d smoke it out instead. Kid was fucking it up, and Oghren could tell, and that was saying something.

Oghren couldn’t tell whim from wham on the best of days, but that was what the Kid was doing. Whim-whamming it up. Elf wasn’t gonna put up with that shit. Elf barely put up with the Kid’s shit the first time around. Add in the smoke, and the drink, and the dust, and the Elf was out. Oghren could smell it. That sovereign was as good as got, but Oghren didn’t really want it. He had enough coin. Kid took care of him, even if the Kid never took care of himself.

Oghren thought the Kid’s kid would snap him out of it, and he had. Kid had gotten better for a bit, but soon as the Elf showed up, he went sliding right back. Elf hadn’t even left him yet, but it was like the Kid could tell he was gonna and was just trying to speed it up. Oghren didn’t know what to do about it. Kid was the one who’d helped him get back with Felsi, but Oghren didn’t know how to help the Kid get back with the Elf when it seemed like he’d rather get back with the drugs, ‘cept to take the drugs away.

“Alright Kid,” Oghren snatched the roll from the Kid’s fingers one evening, and tossed the burning lotus into his drink. Kid shouldn’t have been mixing lotus and aquae lucidius anyway. “You gotta stop.”

“... Did you just throw my smoke in my drink?” Amell asked.

“Aye, and don’t you go drinking it anyway. Sick of seeing you in this longue. Why don’t you go fuck around with the elf?”

“I told you - I can’t fuck him.”

“So don’t fuck him. Shouldn’t be fucking yourself instead.”

“It was just one smoke, Oghren, and that drink costs a sovereign”

“And I’m good as gold for it. Fixing to make one off you anyway you keep this shit up.”

“I’m not keeping anything up.”

“Yeah, I got that that’s the problem. Why don’t you go fix it?”

“I can’t.”

“Not in here you can’t.”

“Oghren-...” Kid went hunting for his drink, and Oghren slid it out of reach. Took damn near everything in him not to slide it right into his mouth, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d lost too many days to drink, but the Kid had almost lost them all, and Oghren hadn’t noticed.

He’d dragged the Kid out of the Deep Roads and called it a day. Went back to drinking like it was nothing. Watched the Kid go back to blood magic like it was nothing. Knew - sodding knew in his rotting guts - that the Kid wasn’t alright, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Why would he? The Kid was never alright, and Oghren wasn’t all that right either, but he was a damn shade better than the Kid.

Took finding him in the bath to finally figure it out, and Oghren wasn’t gonna find him there again.

“Go to your room, Kid,” Oghren said.

“Give me my drink.”

“Go to your room.”

“Give me my drink and I will.”

“You ain’t getting it unless you magic it out of my hands, and we both know how that went down last time.”

“I missed last time.”

“Don’t care if you miss or not, you still ain’t getting it. You don’t want it bad enough.”

“You have no idea how badly I want it.”

“Fuck you, Kid, I’m the only one who knows how bad you want it, and I’m the only one who can keep you from getting it. You know damn well why your magic doesn’t work on me.”

“Just give me the drink, Oghren.”

“Go to bed, Kid. Take the Elf with you, why don’t you?”

Kid didn’t call it. Slammed his chair back and stormed outta the lounge without another word. Oghren stayed and stared at the drink. Aquae Lucidius was ambrosial quality booze. One whiff was enough to burn the hair back into his nose. It was liquid gold - and it was going to waste - and that was fine with him.

One sovereign down. One more to lose.

#prompt list #writing exercise #zevran ariani #zevran #amell #amell/zevran #apples and apostates #dark content #tw: drugs #tw: suicide mention #tw: rape mention #WIP #No happy ending

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kat-hawke · 4 years

Text

Returning Home

(Following [The Not-So-Dead] & [Strangers and Old Habits])

The walk from Stormwind to the cabin on the far side of Elwynn was a bittersweet feeling of familiar. The light-hearted conversation passed the time as Kat occasionally glanced at the dagger Riley carried, careful not to be obvious with her wandering eyes. Odell, as always, napped in the treeline at the end of the clearing. The fox lifted his head to inspect the pair as they approached the front porch, huffing as he curled up again. Kat paused as she began to open the door, staring at the handle in her hand with a nervous breath before forcing it open. The home was still in disarray. The level of dust had grown since Riley's last visit. Slowly Kat stepped into the main room, her eyes sweeping over the mess in silence.

"Can I get you that drink?" Riley offered from the doorway as she unshouldered her bag.

"More like a bottle," Kat muttered as she kicked an empty glass on the floor with her boot. With another anxious breath, she pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. "Wot a fuckin' mess..."

Riley retrieved two bottles from her bag with a small grin, holding each by the neck in either hand. "I've got ya covered there," she mused, stowing one of the bottles in the crook of her opposite arm so she could deal a reassuring squeeze to Kat's shoulder with the free hand. "And it's nothing that can't be fixed, yeah?"

Kat mirrored the smile, weak as it was, as she glanced over at Riley before eying the bottles. "Ya've never disappointed, luv'."

She leans down to pluck an empty bottle from the floor to deposit into a waste bin on her way into the kitchen, the resulting 'clunk' seeming to echo through the otherwise quiet home.

Moving into the center of the room, Kat watched Riley make her way towards the kitchen in the far corner, an empty bottle plucked from the floor along the way, and dropped into the waste bin, resulting in a 'clank' which echoed in the cabin.

"It's no' about that, it's just—" Kat let out another heavy exhale, nudging and empty bottle on the floor with her boot. "—yeah, the place can be fixed. But can I? I hardly remember any of this. It's all flashes like a skipping record. What I remember most was the feeling of being empty, and how intoxicating it was as I drowned m'self in whiskey and azerite."

"I think," Riley paused, uncorking one of the bottles, "after everything you've been through, the fact that you're even standing there, to begin with, is proof enough that you've got what it takes to get there - where ever 'there' is." A gentle shrug was offered, but not in any dismissive way - her tone was genuine, as was the sentiment behind it. "I can't imagine what that must have been like." She shook her head gently, taking a cloth to the two cleanest glasses she could find. "And I'm not gonna try. But I gotta wonder what it was that led you there, to begin with..." The question is gently probing but understandably pointed.

"An Old God," Kat answered in a monotone, "by the time I knew it was too late. I took lives, traded pieces of m'self for power. It's funny because the subtly and level of manipulation makes me feel... Envious?" Kat dropped into the seat, pushing several depleted azerite crystals and shards from the couch to the floor. Thinking, only for a brief moment, if she too could achieve such a subtle level of manipulation. "I can't undo some of th' things I've done, the people I've hurt."

"Ah. Right." Riley nodded, knocking back the contents of her glass before refilling it immediately. She takes the other glass by hooking a finger into the rim to carry in-hand with the bottle, pausing to drop the glass off on the coffee table. "I could sit here and feed you the whole 'It gets easier with time' bullshit, but you and I both know that's all the line is." She offers this as a gentle tease, though there's some obvious truth in the statement. "What I can say is if there's anyone that can find a way to navigate that path, it's you. Never known you to back down from a challenge, doubt that'll change anytime soon." She adds the last bit with a hint of a familiar smirk, helping herself to a healthy pull from her glass.

"Too stubborn for m'own good sometimes," Kat added with a faint smirk of her own. "Challenge is wot started the who mess, but I appreciate the sentiment all th'same." Scooping up the glass, she quickly knocked back the contents, holding out the empty vessel for a refill. Pulling her eyes from the mess littering the floor, Kat looked to Riley.

"And you?" She gently probed. "I sat on the roof across from your shop every Wednesday, watching the dust collect on the windows."

After refilling Kat's glass Riley slumped onto the couch, ignoring the dust that flew into a plume around her, focusing instead on her drink. "I thought about that," she murmured, huffing a sigh as the weight of Kat's words settled onto her shoulders. "About the fact that you had no way of knowing what happened, and I had no way of telling you." With another large swig from the glass, Riley paused, setting her gaze on the amber contents as the drink was gently swirled.

"I know I told you my family was all dead - that I'd lost them all before I came to live in Stormwind. That's not true. I've got a brother. The kind of brother you grow up never talking about - not even with those closest to you." Riley sat forward in her seat, pursing her lips to the side for a moment as she looked up to meet Kat's gaze. "I've got something he wants, as it turns out. And while the 'what' and the 'why' of it all is lost on me, it took him a long time to figure out that I wasn't lying every time I said I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about."

She rolled her shoulders in a shrug, a pained attempt at a smile taking residence on her features. "I'm sorry I put you through that. I really am."

"I could have helped..." Kat spoke above a whisper, leaning forward and placing a hand on Riley's arm. "I didn't know where t'look or where t'start, but I wanted anything and everything to help." Exhaling out a sigh of her own, Kat took a generous swig from the glass and sank back against the cushion.

"And I'm sorry I put you through the same. As we agreed, though, never again." Her foot nudged Riley's leg, and the faintest of smirks touched her lips. "Where is he now? Will he be a problem again? Is there anything I can do?"

"We didn't exactly part on good terms," Riley paused for a split second. "I imagine he'll reach out again at some point, but I doubt he'll go about it in the same way. I can give you enough information for one of your files, that way you'll know where to start if it turns out he is foolish enough to pull that shit again." She met Kat's gaze then, reclining back into her seat with as relaxed a sigh as she could manage. "I should have told you about him a long time ago. Just one of those things I thought I could bury and forget about until it simply... faded into obscurity, y'know?" A chuckle rumbled within her throat at the thought.

"Anything is better than nothin'. The file can wait until another time. But if he dares touch ya' again, I'll bury my blade in him. Personally." The signature tone of a threat hung in Kat's voice as she looked towards the cold hearth. Killing the last of her whiskey and shaking her head as she promptly refilled the glass. "I know th' feelin', of ignorin' and tryin' to forget about something. Pushin' it deep and hopin' it becomes obscure and lost t'time. Take from me, luv', that shit just doesn' work." In a blink, her eyes shifted back to Riley.

"I'm sorry ya' had t'see all this." A finger lifted from the glass to indicate the cabin which sat in disarray. "This is where ya' found—" Kat nearly choked on her words in the abrupt pause. "—her?"

"I've been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to start this conversation, so I'm glad you're the one to bring it up," Riley paused to empty her drink down the back of her throat. Setting the glass aside before her hand fell to the hilt of the dagger, Kat had been eyeing all evening and removed its encasing sheath from her hip.

"Ya' know me. Right t'the point." Kat tried to joke, the fake smile faltering in a pained expression as Riley removed the dagger.

The backs of Riley's wrists rested against her knees, the sheathed dagger draped across open palms, brow furrowed with inner conflict she didn't even try to hide as she looked down at the dagger and then back up to Kat, who eyed the blade with apparent anxiety and shifted in her seat. The nail of her forefinger dug into the side of her thumb, hard enough to draw a drop of blood. The lower lip was tugged inward by teeth, and breath hitched as a lump in Kat's throat. Water welled in the eyes, and she had to look away.

"She's still alive, then?"

Riley's dark brows pulled a little tighter together, and her voice was hesitant in tone when she finally did speak up a moment later. "Do you... remember what happened?" Her uncertainty appears honest, as does her desire to tread carefully. "Any of it..?"

Kat winced. Face scrunching as lips were curled inward, shifting in anxiously again in her seat, one arm wrapping tightly around her core, still looking away towards the bedroom door. "Wot—" Kat's voice broke, she cleared her throat and tried again. "—Do ya' know? Wot did she say?" With a trembling lower lip, she hesitantly looked towards Riley again, locking their eyes together. The pain and guilt ran deep into Kat's core, and she couldn't hide it.

"Enough to understand why you're looking at me like that..." it was meant to be a gentle jab - an attempt at levity -, but there was no denying the seriousness of what they were about to get into. "I may have coaxed more information out of her than she wanted to give, but you know what they say about old habits. Whatever you're still holding onto that's making you anxious about what I'm thinking - you can go right ahead and let go of it. I'm not here to judge." Riley shook her head. "And whatever happened between the two of you - despite what happened between you - you should know that she's been desperate to find you this whole time. I couldn't have done it without her help - she's been my guide through all of it, really."

Kat's nervous twitches continued as Riley spoke, her thumbnail now raking across the fingertips, pausing at each one to pick at the skin. "It wasn't me...not completely." She finally breathes out in a shaky voice. "Towards the end, memories become patchy. I've been worried, afraid she didn't survive." Reaching for the bottle, she inhaled a gulp of whiskey from the container directly. "I know that regardless of wot I say, I can't make it right."

"No one's asking you to," Riley offers gently, pausing her thought with a sigh. "Least, not either of us - I can only speak honestly about the things I know, and I imagine that's just a drop in the bucket with all you've dealt with, but you've still got folks in your corner. You don't have to go through it alone." Reaching out across the space between them, Riley places her hand atop Kat's.

"I know..." Kat whispers between gulps of whiskey. Her hand stopped the nervous twitch. Instead, her fingers were gently gliding across Riley's. "Thank you..."

A moment of heavy silence hung between them before Riley gently spoke. "Do... do you want to talk to her?"

Kat looked anxiously towards the dagger, unsure what to expect. A fight, empty apologies, bitterness, acceptance. The overwhelming pressure was enough to warrant another massive gulp of whiskey.

"Do ya' think I should?"

"I do," Riley affirms, offering a nod. With that, Riley takes hold of the blade within its sheath, breaking contact with the hilt after a small hesitation to hand it out for Kat to take. "I know she's desperate to hear your voice again..."

An amused huff broke the guilty expression as Kat shook her head, biting her lip again as she glanced down at the dagger. With a deep breath to calm the nerves, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around the handle of the blade.

Immediately the familiar sensation of connection pummeled into Kat's consciousness. The ability to feel the lifeforce, the soul, bound within the dagger, left her dazed and twisted with emotions. Riley sank into the couch with a quiet sigh of relief, content to sit, and carefully monitor the situation at hand for the time being.

"Hey..." Alyssa's voice broke the awkward silence, echoing within Kat's skull and threatening to bring tears to her eyes again.

With another slow exhale, Kat cracked her necked and responded in an equally lackluster, "hey."

"Think I'll win some kinda magical award or something for figuring out how to put a dormant soul back together?"

"I'll put something together for you, but I never had my doubts you'd figure it out." The anxiety and guilt Kat harbored was nearly palpable as she covered up the lie. There was no plan when she ejected Alyssa through the scroll of recall; the only concern was removing her from inevitable destruction. "I was worried you didn't survive."

"I'm glad we both survived," Alyssa's replied, her overwhelming emotional state is pure relief at the moment. "It's good to hear your voice again. Really good. I...don't know if I would have, without Riley. You pick good friends."

"She's..." Kat trailed off a bit as her eyes shifted from the dagger in her lap to Riley at the end of the couch, who was finishing off another glass of whiskey. "...yeah. Glad she ain't dead, and that she's the one who found you."

Kat drew the dagger from the sheath and spun it over in her hand. A thumb running over the edge of the blade as she sat in silence, inspecting the dagger and the glowing engraving. "It looks like she's taken great care of the blade. You two playing nice?"

"I think so. She's been... We both needed someone to lean on during this. I owe her dinner when—" Alyssa paused abruptly "—If." She leaves the rest of that unsaid, but Kat knew where the thought was going "We've been worried. She's probably said everything I'd want to say. We thought you were gone."

"She's said a lot. But we all know there aren't enough words to describe how we feel."

Kat's eyes narrowed skeptically, looking to Riley again as she inquired. "She ask ya' t'kill anyone?"

"Oh yeah," Riley responds, nodding a few times before standing and making her way over towards the kitchen. "Couple of times." There's an air of acceptance to her words, even while offered up in mild jest - she seems neither disturbed by the admittance nor surprised by the inquiry.

Kat's tongue pocketed in the corner of a cheek as a low hum rolled in her throat, skeptically concerned about that answer as she focused on Alyssa again.

"I'm sorry. For everything."

"I can't say I understand why things went the way they did." Alyssa responded with a mix of emotions, "I think you know after everything we went through, though, that I don't hold it against you. Thank you for saying it."

There was another pause as Kat's emotions churned again with guilt and grief, tying knots in her stomach and threatening to send the whiskey back up. "I don' know wot I know anymore. I hardly remember things towards the end."

"A lot of things got said. I remember it all, but I don't know what was real and what wasn't. It was in both our minds by then. It's over now. We both came out on the other side."

"Did we?" There was a pain in Kat's words. "The things I did, there's no going back from that. For months my actions weren't my own. Even now, I feel as if I'm waiting for a veil to be lifted, and this all to be another trick of the mind."

Alyssa was taken aback, and a long pause followed before she replied. "Months... I never knew how long— This is real though, Riley and me, we won't let it not be. Maybe you can't come back from all of it, but we're here."

"It was there, in my mind, whispering and goading me on when I—" Kat choked and couldn't finish the sentence. Her legs curled up on the cushion, and her head dipped, forehead resting on the dagger's pommel held tightly in a fist at the top of her knees. "Some of us are more here than others, and that's the problem. I don't know how to fix my biggest mistake."

It wasn't until Kat curled up that Riley stepped away from the cutting board in the kitchen and moved to stand beside Kat's seat, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. "I know this is probably a stupid question, but are you alright?"

"I've missed her," Kat whispers in the curled-up state.

"We'll figure it out," Alyssa attempts to reassure, "hell, I'm an expert in soul magic and near as I can tell, even without it's influence you seem to be too. If anyone can—"

"And if it does more damage? Or worse..." Kat interrupted

"What's worse?" Alyssa challenged. "...nothing worth doing was ever easy, right?"

Kat sucked in another uneasy breath, looking out to the cold hearth as Riley's hand squeezed her shoulder. "If I can find a way, what does it mean for us?"

Alyssa hesitated in her response. "What do you want it to mean for us? Can we rebuild that we had?"

"I'm asking you."

Kat's teeth clenched before she glanced over her shoulder towards Riley and painfully whispered again. "I don't understand."

"That seems perfectly understandable to me..." Riley's uncertainty is palpable in her tone, though she offers another reassuring squeeze to Kat's shoulder all the same.

"You might not remember the last moments. I said, I love you, and I meant it." Alyssa's tone ached. "We can rebuild."

Kat paused there, wetting her lips and looking to the floor. "I said it too, and I meant it..."

"Then we'll try. If we figure this out. I'll get clean, and we'll go from there." Alyssa spoke in faint relief.

"Yeah... Yeah, maybe..." Kat's attention pulled back into reality as Alyssa echoed back the same response, sounding unhappy with the way Kat had said it.

To Kat, it didn't make sense, with how easily Alyssa seemed to let it go. It played on her paranoia, and her mind raced with a dozen scenarios of freeing the woman from the dagger. Some tragic while others were wholesome, but Kat's returning thoughts of abandonment plagued each projected outcome, even the fear of becoming the dagger's next inhabitant out of spite.

"It started right there," Kat pointed the dagger at the empty hearth, addressing Riley again. "Our voices raised, I shoved her against the stones. Then it ended over there," the dagger pointed towards the dining table next. "That's where I plunged this blade into her gut, after beating her with a candelabra." Kat's voice cracked and broke as she relived the scene, tears beginning to fall, all while maintaining a simple conversation with Alyssa in her head. "And she just...forgives me? I don't understand."

Riley followed the narrative; her gaze was tracing each location the dagger highlighted. "I know this doesn't need to be pointed out - least of all by me - but she loves you. Regardless of... how things progressed, she knows it wasn't all you there. At the end." Pausing, Riley gave herself a moment to breathe a sigh. "I wish I knew what else to say... but she never gave up on you."

"She tell ya' why I did it?" Kat's watery gaze shifted towards Riley again, lips pursing in a mix of self-loathing and sorrow.

"She didn't talk about it a lot. What happened, anyway," Riley reached up with her free hand to deal an idle rub to the back of her neck. "From what she did say, though, it seems like you did it to save her. That's how she explained it in a roundabout way."

"Yeah," Kat stated coldly as she wiped away a tear. She was making the conscious decision to change the narrative in hopes of clearing her guilt.

"The fel was gettin' the better of her. Got to th' point where it would have been her or me." Pushing up to her feet, Kat paced slowly across the rug, eyeing the hearth. "Said before she'd get clean, but didn't. Told me about someone she loved and killed, how else was I supposed to react when the fel comes out in an argument?" Arms lifted with the rhetorical question.

"If I put her back into a body, she'll walk out on me and go right back into hurtin' people. Tryin' to play us..." The pacing stopped, and Kat chewed on her lip again before firing a loaded question. "Let me guess; she told ya' to kill someone so she could regain strength? To repurpose th' soul?"

"I mean, yeah... but it was all with helping you in mind," Riley interjects, brow furrowed. "She was there with me when I found you in Uldum. She took what we were able to collect and did... whatever it is you do with soul energy... to see if we could bring you back. Somehow."

Kat shook her head a bit, to make it more apparent how crazy it sounded even if she knew the truth.

"I felt what she felt, Kat..." Riley motioned faintly towards the dagger. "She probably could have made me do whatever she wanted once that link was established. She didn't. She left it up to me."

"That's the thing about manipulation. Feels like yer choice, until it isn't." Kat pointed the dagger at the table, the spot of the murder, again. "Felt like my choice at the time, but in reality, I was watching as it happened, helplessly through m'own eyes. Until I was finally left with my thoughts as I held her body."

Nesting the weapon in two hands, Kat looked down upon the glowing engravings of the dagger. "But I still love her..."

"I know you do..." Riley responded gently.

Pacing again, Kat scooped up the whiskey bottle in one hand, tipping the bottom skyward in a deep chug. Her emotions and expressions were scattered, fingers pressing to the side of her head as the dagger hung upside-down and ran parallel to her wrist.

"I've missed you."

"I missed you too. I love you, Kat."

"I love you." Kat echoes back with emotional strain. "I don't know what'd I'd have done if you didn't make it."

"Tell me I'm just paranoid." Kat's voice broke again as she looked back to Riley, sounding more like a plea as she choked on the final syllable. She was tearing herself apart from the inside out, slipping right into her self-destructive nature.

"Hey..." Riley stepped forward, gently coaxing the bottle from Kat's grasp and setting it aside. Taking Kat's face into both her hands to meet and hold her gaze with a sense of gentle purpose, she spoke softly. "I can't tell you what I don't know. You could be right - I obviously don't know Alyssa as well as you do, but I know I trust my gut, and it led me to trust her." She paused, exhaling a small sigh.

"She never even mentioned returning to her former... self, until I brought it up - she only ever seemed keen on finding you." Riley let her hands slip from Kat's face, falling then to her shoulders. "You've been through the fucking ringer, Kat. There's a lot to unpack here, just give yourself a break."

Kat's eyes clamped shut as she listened to Riley with several nods, pulling in her lips, which dragged slowly over the teeth until pursed again. "Yer right, luv'. Yer right. And I trust ya' more than anyone else these days, so..." Dropping her arm, Kat tossed the dagger onto the hearth's mantle beside them, looking at the blade for a second longer before returning her attention to Riley again.

"I need a break, yeah. We both know I'm bad about that, and we both need one." Glancing down at the whiskey bottle only inches away, Kat plucked it up by the neck without too much movement, waving the alcohol in the space between them as a smirk touched the corner of her lips. "So. Let's get drunk together so I can kiss ya' and then blame it on the whiskey."

[ @blue-eyedraven, @alyssa-ward ]

( [Chapter I] [Chapter II] [Chapter III] [Chapter IV] ) ( [pt.I] [pt.II] [pt.III] [pt.IV] [pt.V] )

#ic #plotlines #redemption #pt.VI #Leather & Whiskey #AlyKat

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real-jaune-isms · 4 years

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RWBY Volume 8 Chapter 4 Review/Remix

A pretty good episode this time, and only 30% pain and despair so things are looking up! But when it goes mean it goes real strong with the mean. Lots to think about here, and boy oh boy do I wonder what we’ll see next week!

For a nice touch of levity, we open on Robyn telling a funny story about a time Joanna lost a fight to try and pass the time. Maybe she’s trying to cheer Qrow up too, but as someone who gets very bored at work pretty often I get the appeal of talking just to keep sane. She sees Qrow is too lost in his brooding about Clover’s pin to listen to the story, and Jacques is too busy fussing over a fly buzzing around his head (the Pence jokes write themselves). Tough crowd indeed, though her joke about Ironwood needing to pay for cell block entertainment does get a smile and a chuckle from the sad old bird. She takes this chance to apologize, possibly again and we’re just seeing this conversation now, for what happened with Clover. Many would argue it is really her fault for getting trigger happy back in the airship when Qrow was the one under arrest, but that’s an argument not worth having because the blame soup was being stirred by way too many cooks to make a clear verdict. Qrow, however, blames himself for deciding to team up with Tyrian, which was certainly a bad move. It was a heat of the moment thing, and he makes it clear he really would have preferred working with Clover to re-detain Tyrian again, but Clover just wouldn’t let up on his arrest orders. The real pain though, he admits, is that he had really started to let his guard down around this guy and thought her could actually make a partnership work again without his Semblance tossing 1,000 monkey wrenches into the mix. Feels like a fairy tale dream, vanishing like a rose petal on the wind, like every other friend. I of course added the part about rose petals, because you know he meant Summer and the unity of STRQ she probably represents in his mind. Robyn knows a thing or two about having a Semblance that impairs your relationships. Not many people like being around someone they can’t keep anything private from, and she can call out and mistruthing with a touch of the hand. Qrow has to admit he hadn’t considered someone else having that kind of personal trouble like he does, but their conversation is ended by Harriet coming in to toss Watts back in his cell. She’s pissy at Qrow and says he shouldn’t have Clover’s pin, but he retorts he has no reason not to have it since he’s not Clover’s killer. She still has a hard time believing that since Harbinger was the murder weapon, but Robyn finally raises a very good point. Miss Hill is a literal walking polygraph and all they would need to do to prove Qrow’s innocence is let her out of her cell and take her hand. But they won’t do that because they don’t want to prove what’s really true here, they want to cling to a convenient story so they don’t have to admit what really happened. Cuz if they put those glasses back on and face the facts, that means reevaluating what side their on if Clover died because he refused to help detain a serial killer before arresting a former colleague and that’s the real problem. Hare had already threatened that if she was gonna open the cell she wouldn’t use her hands for a friendly shake, and the dig at her allegiances and her ignorance towards Ironwood’s sins almost riles her up to the point of taking Robyn’s bait. But Marrow calls her back down to sensibility and she leaves in a huff. Robyn lays back and sighs at how there was almost something exciting happening.

Cutting to an actually exciting scene, Yang Jaune and Ren are outside the city chasing the Hound through a mountainous canyon on their bikes. It can fly while they have to navigate the rocks, and their bikes aren’t handling the cold terribly well. Yang laments that none of them can fly, but that inspires Jaune to pull out his shield and get closer to Ren. He’s gonna get his teammate up there, and Ren immediately understands how. Leaping off his bike and onto Jaune’s shield, he’s launched through the air by the burst of Gravity Dust in the crest and uses his grapple line blade to wrap around the Hound’s leg... and get dragged through the air like Curious George at the end of a bunch of balloons. Still, he’s weighing it down some and can climb up the line to get in close... when he’s not getting swung around against the cliffside. To further slow it down, he shoots his other line around a big rock that gets dragged behind them for about 5 seconds before the Hound flies higher up and the line comes loose. Ren gets knocked around even more while Yang finds an inclined path that gives her enough height to start shooting at the Grimm. It handles this fairly well, by dropping Oscar from its mouth into its hands and flying ahead of her with a loud roar. Apparently one of its Grimm for all Seasons abilities is to call for backup, because dozens of Centinels suddenly burrow up out of the rocks and ground around them and several Teryx swoop in above. Navigating becomes that much more difficult for the blondes, especially when one Centinel spits acid and hits the thruster of Jaune’s bike. He thinks fast and leaps off his bike to launch off another Grimm in front of him and flip onto a rocky overpass where he almost loses his balance and falls back down. Luckily Yang instead zooms by and pulls him onto her bike where they continue their pursuit. She does a great job of bobbing and weaving around the insects, but a Teryx lands in their path. Jaune tosses his shield grenade in front of a large rock and they drive onto it to tilt it into a ramp, launching over the avian foe into a spin between two more big bugs. They bump on a rock, but the Grimm cannot touch them with Yang’s driving. Unfortunately, they have a far more dangerous problem: They’re heading towards the edge of a massive cliff. Yang tries to make a quick turn but instead flips the bike over and launches both of them off to go tumbling off the precipice. Jaune tries to plant his sword in the ground as an anchor, but he doesn’t keep hold of it with their momentum and they both fall with a very believable scream. Big props to Miles and Barbara for this and the dramatic performances soon to come. Ren comes swooping in for a massive save and grapples Jaune’s sword with one weapon and the poor guy’s leg with the other. Jaune grabbed Yang by the hand so she’s fine too, but an incoming Teryx might soon negate it all. Luckily, Ren instead negates all their emotions with his Semblance and the Teryx passes them by. Less lucky, Ren being here means he’s not hanging from the Hound. He let it get away with Oscar to save his friends, and you know he’s kicking himself for it.

Shifting scenes from that tense gloom, we see Weiss decided the safest place to take Nora for the time being is her own damn mansion. Whitley answers the door and is about to try and berate Weiss for this but she is having none of it. She holds him at swordpoint and insists that they are coming inside. Whitley is very against the idea of harboring fugitives after the hit the Schnee family’s reputation has taken in the wake of its patriarch’s arrest for war crimes, and Blake is quite frustrated that this is what he chooses to complain about. The staff is all gone, Willow has retreated to her room and assumable to the bottle, you gotta admit Whitley probably feels more alone now than ever and is... coping in less than ideal ways. Weiss still seemingly carries a chip on her shoulder of wanting to prove that she is doing something actually important and she made the right move by leaving home to be a Huntress, so she insists that Whitley has no right to nag them because they are saving the Kingdom here. At least, that’s what my 2 semesters of psychology classes would tell me. Ruby plays intermediary between the Schneeblings and lays down their very minimal terms. Let them stay here a little while so Nora can rest and recover, and then they will leave him to his sulking and riches. Whitley begrudgingly accepts and asks what he has to do, and Weiss seems to relish this chance to tell him to go to his room. Finally flexing her big sister authority without Papa around to veto her in favor of his adoring son. But like Willow said last Volume, Whitley has been stuck in this house just like Weiss and Winter, and they could certainly try to treat him with a bit more fairness and sympathy. I’m sure it hurt him a little inside to have yet another authority figure bossing him around without a care for his desires. Still, he’s not giving much reason to make us sympathize so I say wait a little bit to see if he’s got any softer moments to come. Weiss directs May on where to carry Nora, and Blake checks on Ruby while they have this quieter moment. Possibly because she wants the chance to talk to her too, Blake suggests Ruby should try calling Yang to make sure things are okay, both between the sisters and in general. But that’s just it. She did it 35 minutes ago. Okay not really, but I wanted to toss a Watchmen joke in. Still, as much as Ruby worries how that half of the team is doing, she’s already trying to call them and it’s not going through.

We fade back to our three battered teens as Yang collects what scattered pieces she can from her bike, the only one they still have. But like I said, it crashed into a rock after they tumbled off and it’s in no condition to run anymore. So Jaune is trying to call for help and transport back to Mantle, but either Ironwood shut down all communication in the lower districts or they’re just so far out in the tundra that a signal just won’t reach. The latter would make sense, and explain why Ruby couldn’t reach Yang. Giving up on the call, the three instead trudge through the snow in the light of the setting sun back more or less the way they came. Jaune is dragging the bike along while Ren leads the way to an outpost he saw while getting dragged by the Hound. Yang notes how low their auras have been drained due to protecting them from the cold this long, and like a kid on a car trip asks how much longer it will be. Ren has no immediate answer so she asks again and he gives a snippy “I don’t know”. She can tell there’s something more bugging him and tries to coax it out of him after sensing the hostility in his explanation that he only got a glimpse of their intended destination before he had to abandon Oscar in favor of saving them. He refuses to discuss his deeper feelings because he thinks it’ll just waste time. This riles Yang up and she demands to know what his deal is, to which he insists she not worry about it. The argument keeps escalating from there. Things aren’t going smoothly enough for Ren? No, they’re not going smoothly at all, but boohoo Ren, that’s part of the job as a Huntsman. He doesn’t think it’s a job they should have at all, they weren’t ready for it or to make the incredibly damming decisions they’ve had to since taking that position. Sure, they had a few lucky breaks and near miss successes, but then they entered this losing streak that they can’t seem to recover from because the losses are too drastic and every choice they’ve made has been the wrong one. Yang refuses to accept such pessimism and insists that even if they haven’t done everything perfectly they still had to do something because inaction would have made things worse. But how could they be worse than they are now, Ren demands to know as they freeze to death out here. Salem has the Lamp and Oscar, and they have nothing but the cold winds. They may not have an army but they have the Maiden, Yang tries to counter, but because they haven’t let her to open the vault for Ironwood all of Atlas is just a buffet waiting to be chowed down on and it will all be their fault when that happens. Yang rightfully asks him if he seriously thinks letting Ironwood try and float Atlas away to safety will work out for him or for the people of Mantle he’s abandoning, but he argues that they shouldn’t even be the ones asked to make that call. He’s trying to spit the hard truths no one else wanted to face, but this is way too harsh and mean, especially for Ren. What are these hard truths, you ask? That Ruby is still too young to be a leader, that he himself is an orphan from a town that doesn’t exist anymore (which I guess shows how unimportant he is for someone thrust into this decision making role), and that Jaune, who by the way has been trying in vain to get the two to cut the shit and quiet down this whole time, cheated his way into Beacon. A damn low blow there, bro. Bringing back the deep wound from Volume 1. And you can tell he regrets it immediately, but to say that would mean backing down from his point. Jaune doesn’t even address the personal callout and just says alright, you don’t think we should have the job, good for you. I’m still gonna keep walking and get out of the cold because like it or not we were given a goddamn job to do. Maybe not in those words, but the meaning was there. Ren and Yang silently let him take the lead, probably feeling the hot wash of shame distracting them from the arctic chill. Yang still takes one last dig at Ren though by asking if it’s his goal to push everyone away, implying he’s being an asshole and not even Nora is sticking by him. Well... in so many words anyway.

We get another change of scenery with a dramatic violin stroke like something out of a murder mystery movie. Oscar is regaining consciousness, and he hears Ozpin try to reassure him to stay calm and that it’s gonna be okay. When he looks up, however, he sees Salem leaning in a shadowy doorframe staring at a smoky apparition in her hand and welcoming back her long lost Ozma. Judging by the childlike laughter and general shape of her smoke display, I think she was manifesting a memory of her and Oz’s dead daughters to try and reminisce about the days when they were still lovers. Oscar realizes he’s being held in the air from the Hound’s mouth and tries to struggle free as Salem notes how young and weak this new vessel is. She’s not even acknowledging Oscar, just talking through him to Ozma. It’s been what may have truly been centuries or even a millennium since they’ve last met, and dear Oz has nothing to say to his wife? Oscar does his best Ozpin impression to try and fake it till he makes it, but Salem knows her man better than anyone and sees through it to grab him by the face and call his bluff. But he really is still a separate person from Oz, so maybe he can be more cooperative to her requests than that old wizard. She still wants to know where the Relic of Choice is, since Oz clearly must have used an extra layer of deception to hide it opposed to the others, and she wants Oscar to reveal the trick. But that’s not a memory he has access to, and he tells her plainly that he doesn’t know. She believes him, knows Oz would hold that one close to the chest longest of all, so she asks an easier question. How does she go about asking the Lamp questions? She gets the standard coverup answer, the Lamp is out of questions so it’s futile to even try, but she refuses to believe that one. Instead she blasts the poor kid with an evil magic rainbow laser and lets him scream himself hoarse for a bit. His chest has scorch marks, or at least his clothes do, and he fearfully tries to pull away from her “loving” touch. Lying so easily about these things, he truly was reincarnated into a like-minded soul... but sooner or later one of the two in this battered body will break and Salem will learn what she wishes to know. He tries to insist he won’t tell her anything, but that’s why she has backup. Hazel comes in to literally gut punch this 14 year old until he coughs up his guts or the truth, whichever comes first. And he justifies it all by saying this is revenge for his defeat at Haven and from the still unforgiven death of his sister.

Salem doesn’t stay to watch the savage beating, instead walking the halls of Monstra with her lovely new pet. Cinder has been waiting in this hallway for a chance to speak with her Mistress, but is distracted by her immediate discomfort in the face of the Hound. Salem claims it is an experiment that she is quite happy with the results of thus far, and wants Cinder to get on with whatever point she had so she can get out of the way. Cinder wants to search for Penny, she thinks she can make up for the past blunder and claim the Winter powers for herself. But Salem just laughs at this. “She thinks, she wants!” It’s like hearing a cockroach tell you about its hopes and dreams. Mommy Salami does not give a fuck what Cinder wants to do, she has done nothing to earn Salem caring about that. Cinder, to her credit, does not take this dismissal lying down and tries to argue that they are doing nothing to further their plans when Cinder could be achieving a great victory for her Mistress by securing their way into the Atlas vault. Salem does not slow her pace, and says when it is time to act she will tell Miss Fall what she needs her to do. Cinder tries to argue, and is met by the snarling maw of the Hound turning on its heels to send her shrinking back. Salem has been pretty damn patient with this bratty girl, but she will not repeat herself again. You are not going the the ball, Cinderella, you are staying here and doing what your godmother tells you to because if you don’t you will learn just how easily you can be replaced and forgotten. Cinder gives up her case and assumes the position of submission, which is to say taking a knee and repeating her self-depreciating mantra that without Salem she is nothing. This satisfies Salem and she walks away with her dog in tow, leaving Neo to glare at Cinder as if wondering who is really the domesticated little pet in this place.

Cut to Cinder immediately rebelling against her given orders and heading for the airship insisting she just wants to go check on something and then they’ll come right back before anyone knows they left. Neo just floats along behind her because like hell she’s staying in the Satan whale when it’s this bitch’s fault she’s here at all. We get the last unseen shot from the trailer as Cinder looks out over Atlas and rationalizes that Salem doesn’t know Team RWBY like she does, she wouldn’t understand how determined they would be to try and save the world, and so it falls to her to check out Amity Colosseum again and see if they’re up to something. Neo seems annoyed and disinterested at Cinder’s petty little scheme, but they’re both caught off guard by Emerald arriving behind them and offering to tag along to help. She’s been getting better with her Semblance and asserts that she would be very useful. Poor misguided lass, searching so desperately for acknowledgement and praise you’re never gonna get... Cinder seems pissed that she was eavesdropping, but she’s not gonna turn down the assist. Time for an evil girls’ night out~

Back on the ground, night has fallen as JRY have found the outpost at last. Jaune hits a heater to get it running and prevent their freezing to death as Ren broods out the window and Yang is outside working on her bike. The leader takes this time to address the tension with his teammate. Yes, he did make a bad decision and cheat his way into the Academy. But when he found himself in that bad situation he realized he needed help and he asked for it. He turned his situation around and got better, became the strong person he is now. Holding onto this ideal that being strong means doing everything on your own? That was literally the issue Jaune faced in his mini character arc back in Volume 1, and he came out of it humbled and ready to accept support from his team. From Pyrrha. But she’s not here anymore, and Jaune is. Nora is, team RWBY is here for Ren. So Ren needs to understand that he can let them in, because the more he hides from how he feels the worse it’s gonna feel and hurt him inside. Ren goes outside to sulk under a streetlight, but Yang has come inside now to say that she’s found the part she needs to fix the bike so with a little more tinkering they can get it working and ride back into the city once they’ve got some R&R. Yang does take the time to say she’s sorry Ren said what he did because of her argument with him, but Jaune dismisses it for the time being as all three of them being under a hellish amount of stress. He’s been where Ren was before, he knows how much it hurts. Yang turns back to the tool bench to work on the thruster, but she’s got some inner turmoil of her own to vent about. She wants to know if Jaune thinks “She” thinks less of Yang for making the choice she did and staying to help Mantle instead of going to help fix Amity. Playing the pronoun game like this can be tricky, and Jaune fairly assumes she means Ruby since the two of them did have the verbal disagreement before splitting off, and Yang did question her leader’s decision making and leadership. He assures Yang that her sister will always love and believe in her even if they have squabbles like this. But it would seem Vomit Boy lost the pronoun game, and Yang was not actually asking about Ruby. Judging by the purple cannister she’s wrenching into the battered thruster, she was asking if Blake would think less of her because of these recent actions.

A lot of people seem rather torn about this choice in priorities for Yang, but allow me to explain why I think it’s not that bad of a writing decision. If there is one thing that has been consistent in this Volume it has been the confidence of other characters that Yang and Ruby will endure this clash of ideals and remain loving sisters. Usually these sentiments have been given by characters who are siblings themselves and know the strength of that bond, like Weiss and now Jaune. We’ve never actually heard either sister personally express any anguish or regrets over that argument, but we can assume they’re both still a little sour about it. But they have been there for each other to a depth that few siblings have, as evident by Yang’s story in Volume 2 about how she had to step up in raising Ruby in a lot of ways after Tai went into grieving for Summer. They’ve been each other’s best friend and closest confidant for so long, I truly believe their bond is clad in iron and they know it too. Meanwhile, a lot of Yang’s recovery arc in Volumes 4 and 5 was dealing with being abandoned by Blake in a time of need and it continued into 6 as learning to accept her back into her life and find a way to make their partnership work again. Shipping or not, they do have a strong bond that has been renewed by dealing with their combined trauma and killing Adam. And when that happened they both promised they would stick together and back each other up, but now Yang has been the one to decide she wants to split paths and do something else. She has good reason to worry this might have upset Blake, and we the audience know Blake is worried about how she’s doing. So, when faced with a color that reminds her of her partner, it makes some sense that Yang would try and get an outside perspective of if she’s fractured their bond. And if you ship them, that more magnifies the interpersonal concerns than really changes the problems.

Regardless, Jaune realizes this is a problem he’s not quite equipped to deal with and decides he’s going to get some rest in one of the beds in the outpost. He gets the strong feeling he’s gonna need it cuz it feels like things will only get worse before they get any better. As we pan out past Ren, whom Yang promises she won’t let brood himself to death out in the snow, we see cracks start to form out on the ice. That can only bode poorly for these poor kids. Many folks think this is a frozen over lake with some scary aquatic Grimm waiting in the depths like a megalodon Grimm shark or the sulfur fish Grimm that apparently were the winners of a fan design contest this past year. Personally, I’m taking a note from the opening and saying it might be a cloister of Apathy since their gross grabby hands wrapped around Team RWBY when they fell through the ice at the end of the intro. But we will have to wait and see. Thanks for reading, hope to see you and your notes soon!~

Edit: this came out a week late and we did indeed see what it really was. Boy were we not ready for the truth...

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precuredaily · 4 years

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Precure Day 195

Episode: Yes! Precure 5 46 - “Kawarino’s Heartless Scheme!” Date watched: 14 June 2020 Original air date: 6 January 2008 Screenshots: https://imgur.com/a/gXuIssO Transformation Gallery: https://imgur.com/a/6k6SzS0 Project info and master list of posts: http://tinyurl.com/PCDabout

It’s glowing so it must be important!

Christmas has come and gone, all latent feelings have been addressed, so it’s time to hunker down and find that last Pinky so the girls can help Coco, Nuts, and MIlk restore their home! But surely it can’t be that easy.... can it? Let’s dig in!

The Plot

The girls and their fairy friends all go to make their New Year’s shrine visit, where they wish for luck finding the last Pinky and restoring the Palmier Kingdom, although there’s some light squabbling between Nozomi and Milk about what they really wished for. Rin starts to discuss her own goals with Karen, but Nozomi and Milk’s fight interrupts them, while Komachi, Urara, and Nuts just look on in bemusement.

Notice how Milk immediately turns to Karen for help

Over in Nightmare, Bunbee is lamenting the defeat of all of his former colleagues to the board, and he contemplates turning in his letter of resignation. However, Kawarino appears and tears the letter up, before chasing Bunbee to the roof. With his back to the wall, Bunbee finally opens up about his concerns about Nightmare’s treatment of its employees, and Kawarino’s callousness and disregard for anyone. Kawarino retorts that he is only acting in Despariah’s wishes and then he blasts Bunbee off the roof, where he plummets to his (presumed) demise.

Die Hard (1988)

Later, at the park, Nozomi and the gang have gathered to try to find the final Pinky! They know it won’t be easy, but they put their hands together and promise to try their best! So naturally, the Pinky is sitting on Nozomi’s head.

it’s that easy

They quickly capture it, but their victory is short-lived as Bloody reveals he’s been watching on, and he turns the park into a mass of Kowaina arms, so the girls quickly transform. Dream is particularly intent on protecting the Pinky in her Pinky Catch, and the other girls surround her in order to defend her, but ultimately Bloody manages to capture her and attempts to barricade her off from the rest of the team. Undeterred, Rouge, Lemonade, Mint, and Aqua all manage to overcome his obstacles and free their leader. Bloody finally transforms into his monster form, not willing to give up yet, and he renews his assault on the team, especially Dream, and he tries to subdue her with his sonic attacks. He’s caught off guard by a black Kowaina mask in his possession, but he refuses to use it, instead choosing to combine all the Kowaina arms into one colossal arm.

“Talk to the hand” indeed

Bloody demands they hand over the Dream Collet and the final Pinky, but Dream stands up and declares they won’t give him either, because this is the culmination of all their hard work and desires. They’re going to make their dream come true, and they won’t let him get in the way of that. Milk agrees with this, and jumps onto Dream’s arm so the team can perform Five Explosion. It destroys the Kowaina but Bloody manages to escape before it can get him, and the park returns to normal.

Back at Nightmare HQ, Bloody stumbles in, grumbling about how he’ll get the girls next time. Unfortunately, he won’t get a next time. He gets into an argument with Kawarino about his methods and the direction that Nightmare has been taken in, and lets slip that the girls now have the final Pinky. Hearing this, Kawarino tells Bloody that his services are no longer required, paralyzing him and placing a black mask on him as he sinks slowly into a literal pit of despair. Bloody uses his final breath to curse Kawarino.

Meanwhile, in Natts House, everyone is gathered around to watch the final Pinky transfer. Milk waxes poetic and Coco and Nuts are very eager. Rin, Urara, Komachi, and Karen watch intently when suddenly the door to the store opens. Coco goes to check it out and gets ambushed by Kawarino. “Coco” walks back inside, acting a bit strange, and demanding to see the last Pinky. Nozomi goes ahead and transfers it into the Dream Collet (gotta plug that toy one last time, even though the Rose Pact is only weeks away). It glows to signify its completion, and “Coco” asks to see the completed Dream Collet. Despite some hesitancy from everyone else, Milk snatches it and hands it to him. He begins to smirk and Nuts demands to know who he really is. “Coco” reveals himself to be Kawarino, and thanks them all for being gullible enough to be tricked so many times before disappearing with the completed Dream Collet. Coco is shown outside in his fairy form, beaten up, and the girls stare on in shock while they try to process what’s just happened. The final shot is Milk, looking very anguished over the consequence of her actions.

The Analysis

This is a nearly perfect episode. It expertly pivots from the somber mood of the previous episode into a false sense of security, and then turns it right back into upheaval for the final run. It shows at last, in no uncertain terms, how far Nightmare has fallen from their supposed former greatness, how little they value their employees, how sadistic Kawarino is, and even how truly powerful Bloody is, even if ultimately it’s not enough to save him. There’s a bit of levity during the New Year’s wishes and the scene at the park, but it’s short-lived to make way for the pressing drama of the episode.

The character moments really sell this one for me. At the start, you have Rin and Karen starting to discuss their newly formed plans, and Nozomi and Milk’s squabble in the background. Milk immediately turns to Karen for support while Nozomi turns to Rin, which is reflective on all of their relationships with each other. We knew Rin and Nozomi were besties going in but it’s been enjoyable to watch Karen and Milk grow closer over the course of the show. Then there’s the scene in the park when they’re looking for the final Pinky. They have this moment where they’re hyping themselves up, and as they get ready to go, there’s the pinky just sitting on Nozomi’s head. The other girls can’t even believe it, they deny it for a minute, walk away, and do a double take. It’s not the absolute peak of comedy but it is just a really funny moment, and I’m here for it. It’s an important final bit of levity before things get serious and don’t stop being serious for the rest of the show.

just look at these goofs

The fight with Bloody is absolutely fantastic and it just keeps ramping up. He uses his usual tactic of trying to demotivate his opponent with his words, but he’s also bombarding them with the Kowaina arms. I have always loved how he creatively uses these, and I wish other generals were half as innovative with their monsters, but as far as I can recall, he’s the only character in the entire franchise that uses monsters like this, instead of conjuring up a single object. It’s just really creative: he captures Dream in a ball, builds a wall, has the arms attack from every direction. Eventually, when he’s overpowered, he transforms and starts flying around himself and using his sonic attack and continues to try to talk Dream into handing over the Pinky. He wards off attacks from three of the girls simultaneously and makes it look effortless, before Dream swoops in and kicks him in the back. It’s a really intense and impressive fight and I love seeing him give it his all.

There’s also a fun moment in the middle when Lemonade knocks his hat off accidentally, and decides to try it on. It turns out, Bloody is bald! It’s not exactly a normal vampire look but somehow, he reminds me of Nosferatu.

Call her Zatanna Zatara

The only thing I wish had been done better was Bloody’s defeat. When the kowaina arms convalesced into a giant hand, it never actually did anything before the girls defeated it. I wanted a display of the power Bloody was boasting about, and we didn’t get that. This was essentially his last stand, his substitute for turning into a giant himself, but we were denied the full depth of his plan. Was it just going to squash the girls? Was it supposed to be his shield while he launched more sonic attacks? It really just serves as a convenient large opponent for the team to perform Five Explosion on in lieu of a colossal, monstrous Bloody, and I wish they had come up with a more elegant solution for this. Maybe they could have performed Five Explosion directly on Bloody, and at the last minute he summons all the arms to protect himself or something. It’s an anticlimactic way to finish off an otherwise great threat in a fight that, to this point, had been steadily escalating.

Possibly the most satisfying thing about this episode is seeing Bunbee finally speak out against Kawarino’s practices. At this point, he really doesn’t have anything left to lose, and it’s not like he’s changing anybody’s minds, but just seeing him stand up for himself is refreshing. He’s always shown a bit more concern for his employees than anyone else at the company, trying hard to give Girinma multiple chances, and always uncomfortable when Kawarino steps in with the black masks (except the first one, it seems he didn’t know what they actually did at that point). I’m not saying he’s boss of the year, but he at least had some compassion, which is more than can be said for his superior, and he lets Kawarino know exactly how he feels. So good on him for finally standing up for himself and his now deceased employees.

Bloody also does not hold his tongue. He’s been more openly disdainful of Kawarino’s methods for a while, and now he really unloads by expressing how far Nightmare has fallen. He chews out the boss and says he doesn’t think Despariah would approve of his sacrificial methods, and absolutely refuses to sully his honor by wearing the black mask.

Of course, it doesn’t amount to anything, since neither Bunbee nor Bloody were able to change Kawarino’s mind, but it does cement this picture of Kawarino as someone who is willing to sacrifice anything and everything for Despariah, and that’s something to keep in mind as we enter the final arc.

The conclusion to the episode is absolutely chilling. Kawarino sucks Bloody into despair, and quickly takes the girls’ highest moment and turns it against them by disguising himself as Coco and convincing Milk to give him the Dream Collet. No, he doesn’t even just run in and steal it, he lets them hand it over to him, because he knows that will make them despair even more. It’s haunting and sadistic and shows the depths of Kawarino’s callousness and evil. What a fantastic, terrible cliffhanger to end on!

Next time, the girls travel to the world of Nightmare once again to try to reclaim the Dream Collet from Kawarino and Despariah before they use it for their own selfish gain, in the first part of the three-part finale. Look forward to it!

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 1 kettei!

#Precure #Pretty Cure #Yes! PreCure 5 #YPC546 #PCD195

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evien-stark · 4 years

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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 161

Somewhere in the middle of your third cup of extra large coffee, fourteen boxes were delivered to the lab space that was now being used like an office. As it had turned out, coffees and pastries did not fix the problem. You tried to divvy up the boxes evenly among your team so as to ease the burden on everyone.

Though Steve did have a very good question. “What is it we’re looking for?”

Right. You’d had old SHIELD files pulled- because Ultron had deleted the virtual ones on Strucker and List. He had to have had a reason for doing so… what was it, exactly? What did those two know that would help you find him? Or better yet, help you ascertain what the hell he was doing with all the materials he was gathering.

Natasha seemed to be your wingwoman on this operation, as she gathered her thoughts and got an answer out ahead of you. “These guys had a wide net. It’s unlikely they were just scientists in a dark basement their whole careers.”

The lightbulb went off, and you found yourself nodding. “Ultron likely questioned them in their cells. He’s collecting something- he must be looking for something else. Something they knew about.”

Tony pulled the lid off one of the boxes and dumped his files in a heap on his corner of the table. “First we gotta figure out what box is which. Who was in charge of filing over there? Because if we have them on staff, I want them gone.” It was hard to tell if he was joking.

Steve was showing a little bit of his agitation as he threw a very purposeful look Tony’s way. “So what box are we looking for?”

It was weird that you, Natasha, and Tony all spoke at the same time. “Contacts.”

But that trio-chorus seemed to put some quiet into him and he put his head down and started sifting through files. The quiet in the space was a little much to deal with, but it really wasn’t the right time to be playing music or chatting. So you just had to deal with it. And stranger still the headache that came with it.

There was a race to see who would pull the right file. Maybe that’s what was making everyone so anxious and uncomfortable. ...no, it was probably the looming threat of war via a muderbot that also had murder-twins now accompanying him. Yeah. That was probably it. But whatever it was, everyone was bogging you down. Unintentionally and unknowingly. You just weren’t clear enough to deal with the waves being sent out from every direction.

At the very least, Tony seemed to have pulled himself together enough to throw a strong mask up and banish his spiraling somewhere deep, deep down. It really wasn’t a good solution and it was probably going to bite the both of you later. But that would be later. Right now you had to focus… focus and read- read paragraphs of text and titles that you had to then reread five more times because you weren’t processing anything you were looking at. No help. Useless-

“Known associates-” Steve called out, maybe about an hour after the sorting had started. So he was the lucky winner. Everyone took a handful of files out of his box. “Well. Strucker had a lot of friends.”

Bruce nudged his glasses up, flipping quickly over a few documents. “Well these people are all horrible.” Said in such a casual way.

It was to be expected. Hydra were terrible people themselves. It should have been no surprise the company they kept was just as abhorrent. Maybe that was an extra bad thing though, as Tony waved a hand and pointed. “Wait- we know that guy.” Bruce took the papers Tony was impatiently and silently demanding through gestures and handed them over. You shifted over in your seat when he tilted them a little closer your way. “From way back in the day. Operates off the African coast. Ringing any bells?”

“Ugh.” Yes, you remembered the mug looking out at you from a SHIELD blacklist file. Big bulky man. South African accent encrusted with slime every time he opened his mouth. “Klaue.” You had had a few awful interactions with him. Everyone he came into contact probably did. He thought he was so much more of a hotshot than he actually was-

“Didn’t you threaten to rip his arm off- more than once?” There was a brief and almost sweetly fond twitch of a smile on Tony’s lips as he looked at you.

“Didn’t understand the meaning of no.” The worst type of handsy. The two of you stopped your stroll down memory lane and you looked up at the group. “Ulysses Klaue. Black market arms.”

The wholly judgmental glare from Steve sent an uneasy ripple of exasperation through you. He was really going to have to get over himself at some point because this was really not working out right now. Tony gave one back, though, with a harsher set of steel. “There are conventions, alright. You meet people.”

Feeling the need to continue defending the both of you, “We never sold him anything.” While you didn’t say it, the thought was broadcast loudly- so you better stop looking at us like that.

Tony pulled the folder back his way, fingers trailing down some of the lines of text. Datadumps that SHIELD had collected on him. His tone was a little wistful, “Last time I saw him he was talking about finding something new. A game changer. It was all very Ahab.”

“If he was even telling the truth.” While, even that long ago, you hadn’t picked up deceit from him, Klaue was a man that liked to talk big and make even bigger promises that he never lived up to. “He kind of fell off the map after that.”

Thor reached over, tapping something on the file. “What is this?”

Tony narrowed his eyes in a small squint. “Uh- it’s a tattoo- I don’t think he- did he have this last we saw him?” Turning it around to you.

You scrutinized the image carefully as Bruce turned away from the group to start typing at his computer. The mark you were being asked to look at was… just that. A mark. An almost angry looking red burn in his skin on the side of his neck. The answer came seconds later, “No. Definitely not.” You’d have remembered something like that.

Shifting his finger down, Thor outlined one of the black tribal tattoos on the top of Klaue’s chest. “No. These are tattoos. This is a brand.”

Easily you found yourself nodding. “Makes sense. He probably pissed off someone he shouldn’t have.”

A chirp came from Bruce’s computer and he tapped at his screen. “Oh, yeah. It’s a word in an African dialect meaning thief. ...uh, in a much less friendly way.”

Putting your hands up flat, “What did I say?” There were so few victories to seize right now. You could have this one.

Steve came around to stand behind the both of you. “What dialect?”

Bruce sat forward a little more, trying to read off his screen. “Wakanada? Err- Wa- Wa… Wakanda?”

Sitting back you shared a look with both Tony and Steve. This was… this had just gone from very bad to absolutely terrible. The air in the room went cold. Tony put his hand on the back of your chair. “If Klaue got out of Wakanda with some of their trade goods…”

You agreed easily with him, “Ultron wants a word with him. Definitely.” After saying this you nearly called out- mouth open- and then closing. Shoulders falling. Stopping yourself from calling JARVIS just in time. Only lucky there wasn’t enough time to feel that deep well of sadness over it. Instead you turned to your own laptop to start a trace.

Steve was shaking his head, though. “I thought your father said he got the last of it?”

Behind you you felt Tony shrug, and felt even more the bitterness that came with his easy dismissal. “Dad said a lot of things.”

There was no room right now for any levity, yet Natasha tried anyway. “Look who’s talking.”

Tony huffed out a little laugh with a drop of his head. Since he took it so well, you decided to follow up. “One of his finest traits.”

Bruce took off his glasses just as soon as you got a hit, looking up at them. “Wait- I’m behind- I don’t follow. What comes out of Wakanda?”

Steve shifted back, giving an almost longing glance at his shield, which was resting against one of the cabinets. But it was Tony who answered, “The strongest metal on earth.”

Resignation buried you deep where hope was quickly dying. “Vibranium. And if Ultron gets his hands on it, we’re gonna have more problems than we know what to do with.” Something got stuck in the back of your throat and you found yourself swallowing hard. “We have- there’s a hit. I have his last known location. He’s operating out of a giant scrapyard near Johannesburg.”

Clint, who had been sitting suspiciously quiet through all of this, got up from his spot on a nearby table. “I’ll fire up the quinjet. Everyone good to go?”

Bruce sighed. “Like we have a choice?”

---

It was too soon to be suiting up and heading back into battle, but Bruce was right. What choice did you have? If you had had any shred of optimism left, you would have been looking forward to this being the end of it. You could go to the scrapyard, find Ultron there, and put a stop to him. But… there was the possibility he wouldn’t even be there. That you’d miss him and he’d have made up with a thousand tons of vibranium. Or… maybe he would be there. And this would all go south.

Your mind was so much of a mess that too long after takeoff, flying side by side with Tony, you realized- “Hey- are you borrowing LUNA?” His suit no longer had AI assistance. It took every last ounce of strength you had to keep your feelings to yourself so as to not damage him further.

“Flying solo. For now.” His tone was eerily quiet. His face on your chat window on the HUD was also pretty impassive.

But you knew better than that. There was just no time for it right now. Which was probably only making it worse. “The suits can do that?”

“Well. They don’t pilot themselves.” You weren’t sure how you’d gotten a grin out of him, but if he wanted to use his ego as a backing board to hold himself up, that was fine.

“Oh. So what you’re saying is I couldn’t do it.”

“Absolutely not. No offense.”

“None taken. Not all of us are geniuses.” Stroking said ego wasn’t going to hurt, either.

“You’d be bored of me by now, if everyone was.” It registered, as he was quick to respond, what he was doing-

It was probably very quiet in his suit. Maybe in general. Tony talked to JARVIS constantly. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it half the time. So until touchdown… you resolved to fill the silence for him. “Bored of you? Impossible. Speaking of… your birthday is coming up soon.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Too late. Would you like to do something boring? Or something fun?”

His eyes focused up a little on your screen, and his smile was soft. There was a gentle touch of realization. He knew what you were doing. Chatting. The reason why… “We making plans right now?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Well. In that case…”

Thank you. His gratitude was like a loving touch on your heart. Able to focus on something else for the first time since it had all happened. If only for a little while.

---

As the team edged up on the warehouse and LUNA alerted everyone on the main comms that Ultron was certainly inside, a plan was quickly formed. The heavy hitters were going to meet him head on. You didn’t exactly consider yourself in that subgroup, but that was where Tony was headed- and you… you wanted to face Ultron again. In the hopes that this time would go much differently. Nat and Clint were stationed to creep up on the edges and scout. And Bruce was remanded to the jet. Waiting on a code green everyone prayed wouldn’t. Especially him.

Once the jet landed, you, Thor, Steve, and Tony worked your way up the back of the compound. Ascending up the closest set of stairs up to the balcony that Ultron was on- a shriek pierced the air. He was already doing damage- probably taking the Vibranium by force. But as the four of you got closer, you weren’t quite expecting what you heard him saying-

“Don’t compare me with Stark! He’s a sickness!”

That seemed to almost literally pull Tony out as the leader of the group, standing just a little bit in front of the rest of you. “Ah, junior. You’re gonna break your old man’s heart.”

You weren’t really sure how you felt about this. About… just sort of giving in to being his creator. Was this the legacy you wanted? ...not that you had a say in it, at this point. Ultron turned, and you got a little closer to Tony’s side, spying the twins standing not too far away. Ultron set his sights on the both of you. He was… a lot different than that little broken suit in the Tower. Now sporting a big, almost beefy (if it could be called that) metal frame. “If I have to.” But no less menacing.

“You’ve changed. Who built that for you?” Unable to help but ask. You already sort of knew the answer-

“I built myself.” He put a hand up to his chest in an almost overly dramatic flourish. “Aren’t you proud of me? Do you like it?” You were glad that you had your helmet up.

The face you made was not flattering. And probably would have upset him. Tony lifted his arm. “Come quietly. And we won’t have to break that, too.”

Thor spoke up behind the two of you. “There’s no need to break anything.”

Ultron scoffed. “Clearly you’ve never made an omelet.”

You watched as realization- almost ...something close to impressed- dawned on Tony’s screen. “He beat me by one second.”

One of the twins- the tall boy, Pietro- stepped a little closer out from behind the protection that was Ultron’s massive frame. “This is funny, Mr. Stark? It’s what…” Gesturing down below to a stockpile of missiles, “-it’s comfortable for you? Like old times?”

Immediately Tony glowered, even though they couldn’t see it. But you could. “This was never my life.”

Steve flanked Tony’s side. “You two can still walk away from this.”

The girl, Wanda, tilted her head with a very thin smirk. “Oh we will.”

Steve put his hand out, almost like he was reaching towards her. “I know you’ve suffered-”

“Ugh.” You were… actually sort of glad that Ultron gave such a groan of dismissal. Now was not the time for what you assumed was playing more of the blame game. Ultron shook his head. “Captain America. God’s righteous man. Pretending you could live without a war.” He looked like he might be smiling. “I can’t physically throw up in my mouth, but-”

Thor threw his voice forward. “If you believe in peace then let us keep it.”

Ultron rolled those glowing red eyes of his. “I think you’re confusing peace with quiet.”

Trying for what little sense was left- he was clearly deranged- “We can have both. Let’s talk about this.”

Setting his sights on you, Ultron stilled, head shifting to the side, gaze piercing as he smirked. “I’d like that.”

Tony interrupted the sudden staring. “What’s the Vibranium for?”

Half turning, Ultron’s tone dried up. “I’m so glad you asked that, because I wanted to take this time to explain my evil plan.”

There was barely any time to react- almost like a replay of what had happened at the Tower. A few repurposed Iron Legion suits blew by Ultron, aimed at the four of you, and you put your hands up to block one flying right into you, forcing you back into the nearest wall. Chaos erupted. This time you at least had an edge. Putting your hands up you fired off a dual repulsor blast, firing right through the suit. To make sure it would stay down, you put your hands inside the hole and then pulled it apart with one clean jerk.

Looking up, you saw Tony going hand to hand with Ultron- no way to tell who would end up the victor. Which was good. It meant Ultron hadn’t outclassed the rest of you yet. But as you jumped into flight to try and assist him- to try and give him an edge- something pulled you back down.

Warnings started sliding up on the HUD and LUNA’s voice was not far behind, “Ma’am, the pressure on the suit is increasing!”

“Pressure? From where?” As you asked you felt an unseen force clamping your arms and legs together- dragging you down. And as soon as you were there-

Something else smacked directly into you and as much as three blinks of your eyes went by- and the scenery changed with each one. First the warehouse- then outside somewhere green- then somewhere much further- and before you could even react to being shunted away so fast, that same blur

Pietro you knew- Pushed you down and wrapped heavy chains around your entire body, locking you up. So tight it hurt. Even through the suit. Just the angle he was forcing your arms into. Your team was still fighting- they were yelling- Wanda was in play- she was hurting them-

But your attention was split. Once you were completely at his disposal, he stopped moving at that speed, crouching down with a smug satisfaction about him. Stupider still, just as you were about to pull your arms out with the strength of the suit, he reached for the Heart Reactor and locked his hand over it.

The jolt that ran through him was immediate. A protocol not that long ago enacted. Your brain was a sudden whirl. You couldn’t remember if he would- all you knew was that he was being electrocuted-

You had no idea if he would die-

“LUNA disable the suit!” You didn’t have to ask twice. The nanotech peeled away, and the power shut off enough to allow him to fall back, twitching. It was almost counterproductive, because the next open of your mouth, you were going to ask her to reactivate-

But another hand was on your chest from behind. Sharp and metal. Pointed talons poking your skin through your shirt before he twisted the Reactor off your chest and tossed it just a few feet away from you. Just as Ultron rounded your position and moved to crouch in front of you, Pietro rolled up onto his hands and knees, breathing hard, “You bitch-”

Ultron sharply turned his head. “You made a careless mistake. That’s hardly her fault.” The two of them looked at each other and then he issued his next order. “Go get the other one.”

There was a small rebuff of resentment from Pietro, but he got to his feet and blur-red off without another word. Your mouth opened to say something- anything- this was your chance to pretend you could plea to a sense of decency he probably didn’t have- but Tony was in your ear on the comm. “Natasha we could really use a lullaby.”

Oh. Oh no. Clint’s response was quick. Ultron was watching you listen and process all of this. “That’s not gonna happen. Not for a while.”

The next logical step was made. Tony called out for you- “Honey? I need assistance. Immediately.” The implication was or else. Or else there were going to be a lot of casualties. You understood now. Wanda had probably unleashed the Hulk. A city was very close by.

...this was worse than you ever could have imagined.

Though your mouth opened, Ultron reached out to tilt your chin up and close it for you. “LUNA, why don’t you take a nap?”

She answered him. “Powering down.”

Ultron smiled. “Good. Now we can be alone.”

There was no way out of this but to sit here and… try and talk to him. ...that was what you wanted anyway, right? “I thought you weren’t going to talk about your evil plan?” Trying not to give away how terrified you were. How useless. Powerless.

That cold hand reached back to push some hair away from your eyes. Tuck it behind your ear. And then he cupped the back of your head with a painful scratch at your scalp, forcing your head up higher to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I’m evil? Who’s fault would that be, I wonder? Now-” He held a finger up. “Let that sit for a minute. I want you to really think about it. Then we can chat.”

He was so… so human. And still so very angry.

As he stood, he started waving his arms around and his tone became somewhat bored. “Sorry I have to put you in timeout. Circumstances being what they are… I’m sure you understand.” He was so… so very strange.

But as you were left sitting there, a little bit helpless- by design- you really couldn’t help but wonder- How were you going to fix this one?

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter One Hundred Sixty One

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kenzieam · 4 years

Text

The Tutor - Chapter Four

Pairing: AU Bucky X Levi

Rating: M (my usual, lovelies)

Warnings: language, drama, angst, mentions of abuse

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@iammarylastar @captstefanbrandt @jewels2876 @moonbeambucky @badassbaker @everythingisoverrated @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123 @oliviastan17 @igothroughphasesalot @sashli @lorilane33 @pinknerdpanda

I KNOW I’M MISSING TAGS, PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT IN

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Levi the jock needs help in high school and her twin brother, Steve, volunteers his newest friend, Bucky. Seemingly just to piss her off, Bucky accepts but soon realizes there’s more to the Levi than she lets the average spectator see.

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I’m STILL an attention whore with cabin fever, I’d love to hear what you all think about my newest story, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE leave a review, my Lovelies!

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“It’s real to me.”

Steve gazed at him wordlessly and Bucky stared directly back, letting the newly acknowledged truth shine in his eyes, after a beat, he looked away, turning his head back to Levi and pressing a kiss to her soft hair. He held his lips there, breathing in her scent and indulging in the new freedom his confession had given him.

“Levi?” He murmured after a pause. “Wake up, baby.” The baby slipped out without Bucky thinking about it and, while he would have rather kept his secret pet name for her secret for a bit longer, it sounded right all the same.

Steve stood gracefully, winking at Bucky before stomping back downstairs. That noise, coupled with Bucky’s gentle voice, roused Levi and she inhaled sharply, stretching against Bucky and nuzzling her face in his neck for a moment before pulling away, blinking blearily. She startled slightly as it dawned on her where she’d slept and what she’d just done, and maybe even Bucky’s tender words, and her gaze flicked to his before dropping again.

“It’s okay. Sleep well?” Bucky whispered.

Levi nodded, her fingers pulling and curling at Bucky’s shirt, as if she was holding herself back from something she really wanted to do. “Thank you for staying.”

“Of course.”

Levi looked around at the nest of blankets then glanced up at Bucky impishly. “We had a sleepover.”

Bucky laughed out loud, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah, we did.”

He fell silent as Levi continued to stare at him, tilting his head as he tried to puzzle out her expression. Her eyes dropped to his lips before flicking back up to his and she bit her bottom lip as she curled her fingers again in his shirt; then, without a word, she pulled him down towards her as she tilted her head up to meet him and their lips connected. Bucky sighed, parting his lips with a small moan as surprised pleasure coursed through his body, as memories of their first kiss flooded him; he’d ached to touch her this way ever since then.

Levi whimpered, so low that if Bucky wasn’t so close and wrapped around her, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. Her lips moved on his, guiding the kiss, then her tongue grazed his, pushing tentatively into his mouth and he couldn’t stop a groan, reaching up to cradle her face. Levi’s hand trailed up his back to knot in the hair at the back of his head, grazing the baby-soft strands at his nape and then she pulled away, Bucky leaning forwards to follow her for a second before the spell broke and he opened his eyes, searching her face as he struggled to control his breathing.

Memories and sensations coursed through his blood and his hands itched to grab Levi and pull her close for more and it must have shown on his face because Levi quirked a grin, touching his cheek with tickling fingertips.

“It wasn’t a dream.” She mused, fingers becoming gentle feathers across his jaw.

“What wasn’t?” Bucky asked, still caught up in desire, her meaning reaching him only belatedly.

“Halloween,” Levi replied quietly. “I thought it had been a dream, me kissing you… but it wasn’t. It felt just as good as this did.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, I told myself that it was just my own desperate dream; and when you didn’t mention it after I was too chicken to bring it up.”

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t a dream and it was the best thing I’ve ever felt.” Bucky confessed, a harsh whisper. “I wanted to do it again every single day, but I didn’t want to wreck… us.”

“Me neither,” Levi replied quietly. “There were so many days this last month,” she chuckled weakly. “Christ Bucky, I would have climbed you like a tree.”

Bucky choked on a laugh, not able to stop the stupid grin on his face and he allowed himself to lower his head, burrow his face against hers, following instincts he’d never felt before.

I’ve never done this before.

“You haven’t?” Levi whispered, surprised and Bucky realized he’d said it out loud, his cheeks heating at the confession, his heart speeding up even more. “What, been with anyone?” She clarified, her voice hesitant.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dropping his eyes as if it was a shameful thing to say. “Between taking care of my sisters and trying to help my mom, it just never… was something I could do… and the few times I did try, weren’t that great.”

“You’ve never kissed a girl before?”

“I have…. But it never felt like this, it was all sloppy and gross-”

Levi snorted softly and Bucky raised his head to stare at her, sure she was about to laugh at him, call him a loser or a noob, push him away in disgust but instead a huge but shy smile was lighting up her face.

“What?” He mumbled.

“It’s my turn.” Levi giggled, pulling him down for a quick peck before leaning away to meet his eyes, tracing the cleft in his chin with soft fingers. “I get to be the tutor now.”

Bucky laughed out loud, partially in relief and Levi joined him, giggling as Bucky pulled her into a hug, buried his face in the crook of her neck and she wrapped her arms tight around him in return, nuzzling her nose just behind his ear and sending shivers up his spine.

“Lev?!” Steve called from downstairs. “Mom’s awake!”

Levi startled in Bucky’s arms, the reason for her and Bucky being tangled up together in her family room like this crashing back over her like black bilge water. “Oh, yeah.” She murmured, the levity in her voice disappearing. She pushed gently but insistently at Bucky’s arms around her. “I have to go.” She stumbled off the cushions then stopped, seeming to collect her thoughts, running her hands through her hair. “You’re going to school?” It was half-statement, half-question.

It wasn’t really proper to stay here, he’d never even met Levi’s mom, he certainly didn’t need to be any more of a witness to the poor woman’s heartbreak. “Yeah.” A new thought hit him, making his heart sink slightly. “And I have to watch my sisters tonight… can I call you later?”

A small but warm smile pulled at Levi’s lips. “Yes, please… I gotta stay here, obviously but… give your sisters big hugs for me, okay?” She turned to leave then stopped again and pointed over Bucky’s shoulder. “Use the shower if you want, there’s towels and everything in there. Sorry, I won’t be able to walk you out-”

“Levi!” Steve’s bellow was more insistent, and Levi jumped guiltily.

“It’s okay, I’ll let myself out. Go help.” Bucky urged, a new smile breaking out on his face when Levi dove back onto the cushions and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, then stared hard into his eyes, conveying more than words before scrambling away and thundering down the stairs.

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The next days were somewhat quiet. After her initial breakdown, the twin’s mother collected herself quite well, saving her children from having to handle most of the arrangements for Brock’s funeral but they stuck close to home anyway, not for any type of mourning but as a quiet support for their mother, who had had a genuine relationship with the man, despite any animosity he’d held for her children. The funeral was predictably large and Bucky was indescribably proud of the twins for their composure throughout it, where dozens upon dozens of clueless well-wishers reminded them again and again of what a good man their step-father had been and how lucky they’d been to have him in their lives; the assertion that the twins should consider themselves lucky that Brock had troubled himself with another man’s children hinted at by some of the more uncouth members of Brock’s side.

After the service, where both Levi and Steve had flanked their mother as she’d softly cried, Levi holding her hand and Steve with his arm around his mom’s shaking shoulders; Levi had then glued herself to Bucky’s side, clinging to him with a hint of desperation and she’d finally broken down and let herself cry against his shoulder as he held her close, although the tears were certainly a release of stress and tension rather than from sorrow at the loss of her stepfather. He’d pulled her to a quiet corner of the building, away from prying eyes, and murmured soothingly (words he’d wished someone had been around to murmur to him at his own father’s funeral) until her tears had dried and she’d gazed up at him, indescribable gratitude shining in her violet eyes.

Bucky had needed to watch his sisters that night, but he’d stayed with Levi as long as he could once they’d returned to her house; seated on the couch while Levi curled against him, head on his shoulder and fingers twined with his, burrowed under a blanket and not really watching what was flashing across the television; until he’d needed to pry himself away, pressing a regretful kiss to Levi’s forehead and murmuring an apology. Asleep, she’d hummed in response but not wakened and a strangely strong regret crushed his chest as he’d forced himself to leave, trying not to remember just how perfect it had felt to have Levi beside him.

Over a week after being cancelled, Bucky and Lev finally got a chance to go out Christmas shopping and made plans to meet after school again, where they’d climb into Bucky’s old truck and head off into the city. They hadn’t been alone together since right after the funeral; Levi hadn’t been able to come over for ‘study sessions’ and Bucky hadn’t felt entirely comfortable “intruding’ as he put it, any more than he already had on the private family issues going on in Levi’s house. He knew firsthand what it was like for a family after the father’s death, and while Levi and Steve had not cared for or been close to their stepfather in any way, shape or form, certainly nothing like the love Bucky had had for his father, there was still their mother’s emotions to keep in mind.

A rare ray of warm sunshine warmed Bucky’s face as he waited and he turned his head up, closing his eyes, relishing the heat it brought, chasing the chill of December away, even for a few seconds.

“Hey!” He heard Levi cry excitedly, managing to open his eyes and curl in enough on himself to partially shield from Levi’s tackle. She laughed as she attacked, wrapping her arms around Bucky and spider-monkeying him, fingers burrowing to tickle him through his coat and he yelled in mingled surprise and amusement, working his arms around her to reverse the spider-monkey hold, crushing her in a bear hug and laughing even as he tried to growl. He lost his balance, tipping to the side like a giant Sequoia, taking Levi with him as he fell into the snow, a white cloud of flakes exploding around them and Levi gasped as the snow hit the bare skin of her face; it turning into a shriek as Bucky grabbed a handful and stuffed it into her collar, laughing uproariously as she screeched and thrashed, fighting like a wild cat.

Mock fury blazed in her eyes as Levi struggled, wrestling to roll Bucky beneath her and then she was the one with the handful of snow, laughing as Bucky howled, squirming underneath her trying to evade the same fate.

Dimly he registered other students glancing at their spectacle as they passed, some amused, some rolling their eyes and it only made him laugh harder. He’d not been this carefree and happy in a long time, able to just embrace life and laugh, holding someone that he truly cared about close and not have to worry about anything else.

“Okay! Okay, Uncle!” He howled, trying to fend off the extra set of hands Levi had mysteriously sprouted, bypassing all his attempts to guard his tender skin and pressing snow mercilessly down his shirt. “Levi! Please baby, you win!”

Levi’s attack stopped and she leaned back, still straddling him in the snow, grinning victoriously above him. Raising her arms, she flexed her muscles and Bucky saw his chance, grabbing her by the waist while she was distracted and rolling, coming to rest on top of her again, pinning her to the ground with his body. He raised a handful of snow threateningly, grinning when Levi started screeching again.

“Okay, okay!” She begged. “I’m done, I’m done. Let me up.”

Bucky dropped the handful, his fingers reaching up to brush against her flushed cheekbone. “Maybe I like you this way,” he rumbled. Dropping his head, he captured her mouth in a heated kiss, growling when she parted her lips for him, one hand moving to grip her waist while the other cupped her jaw. Breathing hard, he broke the connection, resting his forehead to hers and struggling to regain his breathing. They had shit to do, they couldn’t be necking in the snow-

“Okay, get up!” A new voice bellowed, startling the winded lovers and both craned their heads to look, grins sprouting as they saw the speaker; Steve, standing above them with arms crossed over his chest and father-like disapproval on his face.

Reaching down, Steve grabbed Bucky by the collar and half-helped, half-yanked him to his feet before letting go and reaching down to pull Levi up too, purposefully setting her a few feet away from Bucky and throwing a mock-glower at both of them, but his grin broke through and he ended up just laughing, shaking his head.

“Get outta here, Jesus!”

Still laughing, Bucky pulled Levi back to his side and started walking to his truck, their stride faltering and stumbling for a few seconds before they balanced, and Levi elbowed Bucky with a giggle.

“You don’t need any help with kissing.” She snickered.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, that was good.” She praised before ducking out from under his arm. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t practice.”

“Later,” the words hurt slightly but it was true. “We have stuff to do first.”

Levi rolled her eyes before turning skipping the rest of the way to Bucky’s truck. He jogged to catch up and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her to face him.

“Okay, one more.” He grinned, dropping his head to kiss her again.

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“How’s your mom doing?” Bucky asked a few minutes later. The truck hummed down the road, slowly warming up. Bucky kept one hand on the wheel as he reached over with the other, not letting his eyes drift from the road as he asked for her hand. Levi stretched, taking his hand and twining their fingers together before letting them rest on the seat between them.

Levi sighed, squeezing his fingers. “We had a talk last night, the three of us.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… all week Mom’s been after Steve and I, asking why we aren’t more upset about Brock’s death. Steve didn’t want to tell her, but last night… we finally had to.”

“And how did she take it?” Bucky asked gently. He knew that the twins had sheltered their mother from most of the Brock’s bullshit, dread forming low in his stomach.

“She was shocked.” Levi replied. “And then, I think she was ashamed. If it had been only me telling her she might have tried to brush it off, but Steve was saying the same things, so she had to believe us.”

“Was Brock just never angry with her or what? She honestly didn’t see that side of him?” That thought had bothered Bucky from the start, the twin’s mother’s apparent blindness towards her husband.

“Yes and no. She saw the typical stepfather, stepchildren head-butting and I guess you kind of expect that and… I think she just rationalized the rest, explained it away. I think she was so desperate to have someone in her life after Dad that she was willing to overlook a lot of shit. That and Steve and I hid a lot too.”

“Does she know Brock hit you?” Bucky gritted, burning over the thought; a part of him still wished he’d wrung the bastard’s neck over that, hang the consequences.

“She does now.”

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked softly, squeezing her hand.

Levi paused, thinking about it. “I’m getting there.”

Bucky pulled their linked hands up to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m here,” he murmured against her flesh. “Whenever you need me.”

Levi smiled at him, the warmth in her eyes melting the last icicles of anger around Bucky’s heart at the topic of Brock. Then she grinned and shook her head, as if something just occurred to her.

“What?” Bucky let their hands drop back to the seat, grinning.

“Just… would you have believed it? If someone had told you three months ago that we’d be here, now, like this?”

Bucky laughed. “Honestly? No. You were a brat.”

“And you were a nerd.”

Bucky just smirked, shaking his head. “Still a brat.” He teased.

“Still a nerd.” Levi replied fondly then, after a pause, continued. “How’s your mom doing?”

Bucky sighed, watching the road but flicking a quick glance her way. “Holidays are hard.” He confessed. “Christmas was like their special holiday together. Dad proposed to Mom on Christmas day; she opened up this little box and there was the ring and then Dad was on his knee-”

“Aww,” Levi hummed, smiling despite the faint sparkling of tears in her eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky commiserated. “The first year was bad, I could barely get her out of her room; I had to do the Christmas shopping for my sisters and cook and try to keep everything together because they were scared and upset by Mom’s behaviour, I couldn’t be crying around them too-”

“Oh, Bucky.” Levi’s voice cracked.

“It’s alright now.” Bucky plowed ahead before Levi’s tears dredged up his own. “Mom still misses Dad like crazy, but she keeps it together for Maddy and Sarah; she only cries sometimes now, when something triggers her.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah… was your mom like that, with your real dad?”

“I don’t really remember anymore; Steve and I were only six but yeah… I don’t remember seeing much of her for awhile, it’s a good thing I had Steve, we kept each other company. At night, if I had bad dreams, he’d let me get under the covers with him to go back to sleep. She found Brock pretty quick though, she didn’t like being alone or maybe, he found her again. He hated that he lost her to dad before.”

Bucky squeezed her hand before pulling reluctantly away to shift gears as they approached the shopping mall entrance and, after guiding the truck into a parking spot, reached over and squeezed her knee. The smile Levi gave him made the little butterflies in his chest start up again and he stared after her for a beat after she climbed out, marvelling again at the strange direction his life had taken. If you’d asked him at the beginning of the school year where he’d see himself by Christmas; dating someone like Levi wouldn’t have made a list of a thousand possibles.

Levi waited for him a few feet away, brow raising in concern when he stayed in the truck but then he jolted into action and scrambled out, wrapping his arm around Levi and pulling her along to the mall entrance.

Gifts for the girls were easy, although Bucky loved his sisters to death and was deeply involved in their lives, the language they spoke recently, especially since Disney + launched, was completely foreign to him and fortunately, Levi was there to translate.

His mom wanted nothing, so of course Bucky had to find her something and finally settled on a new pair of beautifully made slippers for her, her old pair that she would slide on after a long day at work having passed even the repairable stage eons ago.

Passing a jewelry store on his way to find Levi, who’d ducked ahead to the bookstore for some athlete’s autobiography that Steve wanted, Bucky found himself pausing and admiring. Levi had no fancy rings or necklaces and had firmly stated one night that she would never wear anything worth money, out of a near paralyzing fear of losing or breaking it, but, for a few minutes, Bucky indulged in the fantasy of presenting something both breathtakingly beautiful and expensive to her. It was simply a pipe dream right now, regardless of Levi’s preferences, because Bucky, especially after buying for his sisters and mom, was low on funds. Any extra he gave to his mom and, for a time, anything he’d earned in-between keeping their family together had been the only source of income for their family.

Although neither flaunted it, the twins were very well off, their father having passed on a large fortune to their mom on his death, and Brock being a successful businessman, despite his personal shortcomings. The twins were never flashy or in-your-face about it, but the fact that Bucky would not ever be able to begin to match the level of gift-giving they were capable of hit him now. Regardless, his eyes roamed over the cases, even as he scolded himself for foolishness, before freezing in wonder.

“Hey,” Levi chirped suddenly at his side, swinging a Barnes and Noble bag. Following Bucky’s gaze, she gave a low whistle of appreciation. “Wow… that watch would look great on you.”

Her words broke the spell, reminding Bucky that he would probably never be comfortable enough to spend that much on himself and he looked away as his cheeks warmed. The watch that had captured his attention was utilitarian chic, practical and beautiful, well-crafted and well out of his budget. During the height of his mother’s grief, he’d been forced to keep his family fed for months on that sum.

“It’s beautiful.” Levi continued and Bucky turned sharply away, shaking his head.

“It’s too much.” He said curtly, walking quickly away.

Levi caught up to him, her hand catching his elbow. She didn’t ask aloud, but her eyes spoke, and Bucky shook his head again.

“No, it’s too much. I could never match it for you-”

“You don’t need to get me anything-” Levi began.

“Yes, I do! I just… I can’t afford to get you nice things-”

“Hey.” Levi’s voice was suddenly hard as steel and she stepped in front of him, dropping her bags with a clunk to reach up and grab his face. Her eyes bored into his. “I don’t want ‘nice things’ and I don’t care whether you can afford them or not. Brock was able to buy ‘nice’ things and he was an asshole. I love you for you, Bucky, not for what you can buy me.”

Bucky froze, his hands wrapped around her wrists. Her words echoed in his head, reverberated and resounded throughout his body, warming him from the inside out. One word in particular hooked deep in his heart. “What did you say?”

Levi froze as she realized exactly what she had said, but there was no regret in her eyes as she whispered. ��You heard me.”

“You love me?” He whispered breathlessly.

Her eyes held her answer and Bucky lunged towards her, crushing his mouth to hers. Although words failed him at that moment, although it was far too soon and this could all be dismissed as simple puppy-love infatuation, Bucky knew deep in his heart that it wasn’t, had known since Halloween what he felt and he poured what he wanted to say into his kiss, wishing in that moment that they were almost anywhere but inside a busy mall so he could continue showing Levi the depths of his feelings, demonstrate just how deeply she’d worked her way under his skin but he pulled away with supreme effort instead, panting for breath as he pressed his forehead to hers, struggling to bring himself under control.

“Fuck,” he managed to wheeze. “I love you too.”

#au bucky #au bucky barnes #au bucky barnes fanfic #au bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x levi #bucky x lev #au bucky romance #au bucky angst #au bucky drama #bucky x oc #au bucky fanfic

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theladylikesfics · 5 years

Text

Rock and a Hard Place

Part II

You decided to make getting prepared for meeting Hyuk an event; you booked an entire spa day, manicure, pedicure, ninety-minute massage, facial; by the time your day was done your glow competed with the sun itself, you practically floated as you walked. You were feeling, light, fresh and absolutely beautiful. Arriving back home you looked at the time, you had an hour and a half before you were to meet Hyuk at Sky Bar, you were pondering taking a nap so that you could be totally refreshed and ready for the night when that familiar tone began to chime on your phone. You couldn’t help but sigh and roll your eyes as you answered the phone. “Hello Kwon.” “Damn Mama, why all the attitude especially after last night, I just knew I’d fucked all of it out of you.” Loco said with a deep chuckle. “What do you want Kwon?” “Damn G, what’s wrong, you left before I woke up, I’ve been calling you in between studio sessions you not responding, I finally get you on the phone and I’m getting attitude, you mad at me Boo? What I didn’t make you cum enough last night huh?” You let out a light laugh, realizing that you were in fact coming off a little stiff to Loco, after all it wasn’t his fault your mind was elsewhere. “Nothing, I’m sorry, I think I’m just a little sleepy, a little cranky is all.” “Ahh okay. So, what’s up with tonight, I’m at the studio now, but later I’ll take you out to dinner, we can go to that after hours spot you like for drinks then later back in my bed?” “Mm. As nice as all of that sounds I’ve actually got plans for tonight Kwon.” “Damn again. Well alright, you want me to meet you at home with after drinking snacks. You know how you are when you’ve been out, and you come home wanting to eat almost everything because you’ve been drinking?” “No, I think I’ll be okay, but thank you for offering Kwon.” “Yeah whatever G, well I gotta get back in this booth I’ll text you later.” “Bye Kwon.” After your nap you were suddenly unexplainably anxious. Okay G, no need to be nervous it’s just Hyuk… Bitch it’s Just HYUK! Get it together, it’s just drinks and conversation nothing more, he’s curious about me and I’m curious about him and all I’m doing tonight is answering some questions. You thought out loud as you finished applying your make-up. Dress on, you slipped on your heels and tied the straps up around your mid calf just as you heard the doorbell ringing. Pleased with your appearance you grabbed your clutched, check to make sure you had your keys and phone and left the room. Opening the door, you were surprised to see Hyuk himself standing on the other side, a small smile on his lips grew a bit bigger when he saw your face. “You are even more beautiful tonight than you were last night. These flowers are for you.” “Thank you, they are beautiful. Please come inside while I put these in water.” Prepping the flowers, you noticed he studied the pictures on your mantle, the framed artwork on your walls, the way you arranged the furniture in your home. “Ready to go?” You asked, almost afraid to interrupt his intense gazing. He smiled simply at you and nodded.

In the car on the way to Sky Bar you felt as though you spent the whole entire time talking about yourself; once settled in you private booth and drinks order, Hyuk settled in his seat and just stared at you. You couldn’t help feeling flushed and he just stared, it was almost unnerving it was so intense, you had to do something to break the silence. “You really are a man of few words, aren’t you?” You asked with a light laugh hoping to add some levity. “I do try to express everything I can through my music, but you have me curious. I love the aesthetic of your home, the use of color and personal touch as well as the artwork. The most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day however is you in this dress and these heels; but then, I look at your face, and between your eyes and your lips, I honestly don’t know which one has my attention more. Truth be told I dreamed about your face all night last night. I’m not even ashamed to say that they inspired lyrics for two songs.” You were instantly speechless. You became a muse over night. You blushed bashfully eyes dropping to study the water droplets on your glass, when he took his fingertip to lift your chin to meet his gaze. “Please don’t deprive me of the things I’ve been dreaming most of.” He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, sweet, tentative; as though he was testing it out; pulling away from you he smiled wide with a sigh at the end. “Well worth the wait.” You sat there stunned, mind whirling that Hyuk had just kissed you. The conversation was incredible, even though soft spoken and a man of few words, when he decided to open up the things, he had to talk about was incredible. You talked everything from art and pop culture to Black influences in Korean culture and Korea’s unexplained anti-blackness. The two of you closed down the bar. “You know G’Anna, I’ve been thinking of a new place for a home base in this part of the world and you make me want to have it here. This was the last stop on the tour and grateful that it was, getting to meet you has been such a pleasure. I’m thinking about sticking around here longer and I’d really like to spend that time with you.” Once again you were rendered speechless by this man. Escorting you out of the car and walking you to your doorstep, he tenderly took your face in his hands and kissed your lips; the tip of his tongue gliding across the seam of your lips begging for entrance, the edge of greed that you felt coming from him as his tongue rolled with yours. “G’ANNA!” your body tense as you recognized the sound of your name. You both turned to see an increasingly mad Loco standing on the sidewalk holding a bag of food.

#AMBW #AMBW Smut #AMBW Love #AMBW Kpop #AMBW Angst #KHipHop #KRock #Loco #AOMG Loco #HyukOh #KRock HyukOh #Black Woman Writer #Black Girls Kpop Too #Romance #Angst #Smut #Drama

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stressedasalways · 6 years

Text

Not Like The Movies (1/8)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 4.3K

Summary: Today was just a bad day. The simple mission had gone south. What started as an easy data extraction ended with you clutching your side trying not to bleed out. And who should come to your rescue but the reclusive Avenger himself.

Warning(s): swearing, mentions of blood. All the Fluff

A/N: just had an idea I couldn’t get out of my head. There is a possibility for more but I made sure it ends well regardless.

A/N 2 - so umm you guys are amazing and now more parts are coming

AO3 Link

Tumblr Links: Masterlist Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Fuck

That was the first thought that crossed your mind as the reality of the situation became clear. Firstly, movies and TV lied. Being shot wasn’t some dramatic touch your side, oh no I’m bleeding. Your entire side was on fire. It took all your willpower to just keep pressure on it with your left hand and not just crumple to the floor in the fetal position.

Your eyes raked over the room. The asshole that had surprised you was down, your gun still surprisingly unmoving in your right hand. You took steadying breaths as you quickly took the few steps to the door he entered from. A quick scan of either side cleared the hallway.

You hobbled backwards to the corner of the room, keeping your sights set on the door. When your back hit the wall you finally allowed yourself to slide down. A hiss pushed through your lips as you tried to keep the pressure on the wound that was quickly soaking your entire left side.

“Command come in.”

“Agent. What's your status?”

“I’ve been hit. “ As if on cue the next breath you take causes the pain to flare up more. “I don't want to be dramatic here, but I could use some help.”

You could hear the command team talking over each other, trying to figure out what the hell had happened as well as who was closest to your position.

Honestly, you were pretty curious about the what the hell happened part too. You knew how to take care if yourself. You were an Agent of Shield after all. But this was not in the mission parameters. Some of the Avengers came in before the secondary team. They cleared the whole building. Your team was just going through to gain any data that could be grabbed from any computers and servers. It’s a mission you had done more times than you could count. Usually these old Hydra holdouts were empty, and the few that had some stragglers were always taken out long before your team did their sweep. You should have paid more attention, but you weren’t even thinking you were in any danger.

“AGENT!” Someone screamed in your comms.

“Sorry. Sorry. Zoned out for a second there.”

“I need you stay with us, we have help on the way.”

“Yep. Yep. I’ll just be here. Bleeding out.”

You tried to keep the levity in your voice, but damn getting shot was just not part of your plan today. When you woke up this morning you were tired as hell, and had promised yourself you would go to bed early tonight to make up for it. And now? Now you were bleeding out. Clearly, even though before you had hurt like a bitch, the adrenaline was now wearing off and the pain was coming in harder waves.

You made out the sound of footsteps just as they were at the door. You cursed yourself for not paying better attention as you tried your best to keep your gun trained true to the entrance.

“Agent L/N?” The voice was familiar but you still kept your gun trained on the figure that was now coming through the doorway.

You saw him do a full sweep of the room, taking an extra few seconds to make sure the hydra goon on the floor was not breathing. You lowered your gun, but you know he noticed how bad your arm had been shaking.

“Well I’ll be damned, they sent an Avenger for me?” the shock clear in your voice. His lips gave a small twitch. Clearly unsure what to make of your attitude. He made it to you in a few large strides, crouching down to get to your level. “What the hell happened? The squints aren’t supposed to be in danger” you tried to ask casually. As if you had a paper cut rather than a gunshot wound.

“Squints?” he asked, the word sounding completely foreign through his lips.

“Us? You know the second entry team. The computer specialists. The neeeerds.”

“Nerds?” he said the word like an insult, “you took out a Hydra agent.”

“Since when does nerd mean I can’t handle a weapon?” His head quirked up at your response. Amusement flashed through his eyes.

“Speaking of weapons. How about we take the death grip off this one?” as his head nodded in the direction of your gun.

You looked down and saw the knuckles on your right hand ghostly white. A hardened grip on the weapon lowered to the ground beside it. His hand covered yours and felt like a furnace as he removed the gun from your grip, flicking on the safety and tucking it away.

“Shit doll your freezing.”

“Nah, I always run a little cold.” you tried to counter.

“Or it could be the massive blood loss?”

“Or it could be the massive blood loss.” you repeated.

He spoke quickly into his comms, probably letting them know your condition was a bit more dire then you let on.

When you noticed the quiet again you saw he had a large tensor bandage.

“I need you to push away from the wall. Just a little bit. And then we are going to remove your hand and I am going to wrap this around you a few times. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, and I’m really sorry.”

And his eyes truly were sorry. It's not like you hadn’t seen Bucky Barnes around the compound. In fact all of the Avengers were pretty common sightings. A few of them would be around during mission briefings and debriefings. You’d see them in the common areas and working out in the gym. They were all nice people. But it all felt very…. high school. They were the cool kids. They tried their best, but at the end of the day they were ‘The Avengers’ Their rooms were on a higher more restricted level of the compound. And you were sure they were much more impressive than the pretty nice room you yourself had at the compound.

For the most part they all kept to themselves. They would make efforts to seem approachable of course. Some way more than others. You were pretty sure Steve Rogers had memorized everyone's name who lived and worked at the compound. You remembered gossiping to your fellow co workers that he probably had F.R.I.D.A.Y test him. Sam Wilson was most likely to be found with the more normal workers. Laughing and joking as he joined in on drink nights and BBQ’s. You always got the feeling he felt torn between the two worlds.

Tony Stark was all flash. Although you knew it was never with any malice, it always felt like his appearances were more a checkbox on his to do list. But he was nothing if not pleasant the few times you had spoken to him.

Natasha Romanoff usually just gave a nod if you made eye contact with her as you passed her in the hall. Which given her reputation was probably a pretty big deal.

But Barnes? You couldn’t remember ever seeing him outside of work related tasks. Meetings, briefings, that was the only time he was seen. It seemed clear he chose to keep his distance. Rumours swirled that he only worked out at night when no one was awake, or that he stayed in the Avengers area with the smaller gym to not be seen. So to suddenly have the Winter Soldier on his knees tending to your gunshot wound felt odd to say the least.

You managed with his help and your right hand to scoot your butt away from the wall. Without the support behind your back to hold you up, you really felt how weak you were.

“Stay with me now.” He must have seen you falter as his voice was hard, a command.

You nodded your head as you looked down to your left side. Your hand was camouflaged with all the red it was tangled in. There was also a nice little puddle with a huge drag mark from your movement. Your fingers wiggle involuntarily and you could feel the stickiness.

“Shit. That’s a lot of blood.” you whispered. Your mouth went dry with the words. You could feel the dizziness start to envelop you.

His hands were on your face, fully wrapped in flesh and metal. His metal hand was warmer than you expected it to be.

“Stay with me .” his words were softer. No longer feeling like a military command, “I have seen worse.”

You chuckled. “Of course you’ve seen worse. You’re the Winter Soldier. I could be cut into 17 pieces and you could still say you’ve seen worse.”

At that his lips quirked into a small smile. “See? There's the strong nerd I came here to help.”

This time you actually laughed, but he could see your body sway again.

“Lean into me.”

And you did. Without question. Dropping your head to just below his shoulder. Feeling like all your weight was pushing through him.

“Now I’m going to count to three and you are going to move your hand. And I am going to wrap this as quickly and as tightly as I can. Looks like the bullet went right through. Which is good. But we gotta get this bleeding under control.”

You nodded into him. Trying to focus on the odd smell of leather and gun smoke and something else that was distinctly him hitting your nose.

“One” you took a deep breath.

“Two”, and another.

“Three.”

As soon as you moved your hand off you were hit with all the sensations. You could feel pain ten-fold at your wound, as well as the quick tightness that followed as Barnes quickly wrapped the cloth around your waist several times.

You tried to muffle your scream but there was no use as the tears started to fall.

“Okay. Okay. It’s done. Breathe. It may be harder with this so tight, but I tried to find a good balance. “ His hand was on your cheek, his thumb rubbing up and down.

He easily picked you up under your arms sliding you back against the wall. You blinked trying to clear your eyes back into focus.

His gorgeous? Wow were his eyes memorizing - were steely focused on you. And suddenly you wished you had had the chance to notice this before. And not on the floor of some dirty grungy Hydra warehouse, while you were bleeding out and feeling like you could die.

“Fuck, getting shot sucks.” you whined.

“Yeah, gotta say I agree with you there. But don’t worry help is on the way. They should be here any minute.”

“Barnes, I’m gonna need you to distract me. Cause I feel like I wanna sleep, and I’m assuming that's the thing I don’t want to be doing in this situation.” Some of your words slurred as you tried to get them out.

“Bucky. Call me Bucky. And no doll, you gotta keep those eyes open.”

“Okay. So distract away Bucky.” You could see his face go blank. No idea what to do or say, “How about I start. So had I not ruined your mission and got shot, and inevitably added hours of paperwork to your night when I die -”

“you are not dying -”

“the night is still young -”

“You are NOT dying” You rolled your eyes at him so he continued, “And besides, the paperwork is actually easier when someone dies. It’s when someone gets injured that you have to write in all the detail. Death,” He waves his hand. “I can do that paperwork quick. Hell I could do it in my sleep.” And he breaks into a smile that only grows wider as it mirrors your own.

“So your saying to really ruin your night I gotta pull through?” you ask with pure mockery.

“Nothing would ruin my night more than being stuck in debriefings and report hell detailing how I got the… squint? was it? injured.”

“Well I know we only just met officially, but I like the idea of being a pain in your ass.”

“Ha! I’m sure you do!” his whole face was lit up. And somewhere deep in your brain you realized you were flirting with the winter soldier.

“I like the idea of you hunched over paperwork instead of I dunno….taking a nice relaxing jacuzzi tub.” You meant it as a joke but saw his eye twitch in response. “Oh my god! The Avengers rooms have jacuzzis? I thought that was just a rumour.”

“Yeah. Not so much a rumour I guess. But admittedly I have never used it.”

“Bucky! You must! I mean. Geez. I’m not saying my suite isn’t nice. Much better than anything I could afford on the outside. But come on now. You can’t let the little people know you have all these amazing things that you aren’t even using.”

“Tell you what. When your all healed up I’ll bring you on up to take advantage.”

You couldn’t help the twitch of your lips at the suggestion of taking advantage of Bucky Barnes and his jacuzzi.

“So I get the joy of knowing you’re gonna be in paperwork hell and a relaxing jacuzzi night?”

“Well you did get shot.” He deadpanned, fully invested in your flirting distraction.

“True. I may need to bargain for more.” You said with a smirk.

Before he could even think about his response footsteps were racing to your position. Soon the room was filled with people and you felt yourself being placed on a stretcher. You tried to look for Bucky but soon felt the small stab and burning of an injection in the crook of your arm before the world blissfully turned to black.

-----------------***************************------------------------

Bucky Barnes had been right. The work involved after getting hurt was tedious. No sooner were you awake from surgery, you had superiors in your hospital room trying to get you to tell them what happened

“Do we really have to go over this again?” you were clearly annoyed as you played with your hand around the IV.

“We’re sorry but we have to make sure we have all the details while they are fresh.”

You signed loudly and dramatically before going through the whole event again.

You were in and out of it for a few days. Once you had been debriefed fully they seemed to up your pain meds and you became a sleeping blob.

A few coworkers and friends had stopped by. Giving well wishes and dropping off magazines and flowers. Even a few Avengers had popped their heads in. Which had been very...surprising?

Sam had been first. Doing his best to make you smile and joking how getting shot was a weird right of passage. Clint and Natasha also stopped by, they had been part of the first team and wanted to apologise for somehow missing the guy that got you. You told them not to worry, and couldn't help but feel you were part of the cool kids when Natasha returned later leaving a very nice and expensive bottle of Russian vodka with a wink.

But one Mr. Bucky Barnes never stopped by. You started to realize maybe his flirting was just his way to keep you distracted. But damn if it hadn't felt like there was something there.

Shield was nothing but 100% accommodating. You were on paid leave, and they offered to transport you anywhere offsite to recover. But honestly, you really didn’t have anywhere else to go. Your job had become your life, and at least at the compound you had a steady stream of friends to keep you busy. Besides, telling your mother you had been shot had been hard enough, you couldn't imagine being in her guest room while she panicked and thought what else could have happened.

So after a week in the medbay they were going to release you back to your room. Strict rest. And the nurses and doctor would still be checking in on you everyday.

Captain Rogers himself had visited you that day, thanking you for your brave service and apologising profusely for the mistake that allowed you to get shot. He was in full Captain America mode and it reminded you of the videos you had seen.

You had to bite your tongue at the snappy responses that wanted to leave your lips. Something told you Rogers wouldn't take it as well as Barnes had. So you thanked him for his concern and babbled something about being a team.

Once you were settled back in your own room you felt like you could finally breathe. The fridge was stocked with food and snacks, a huge gift basket was on your counter with a note from Tony Stark himself. It said that during your leave all groceries and incidentals would be paid for. All you had to to was let F.R.I.D.A.Y know and the AI would make sure anything you needed would be there ASAP. Well that felt like something you could and would abuse.

Just as you began to open the basket and discover all its goodies you heard a knock on your door.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y can you open the door.”

You continued to dig into the basket when you were interrupted.

“So I guess the ‘little people’ aren’t big on security? They just open their doors to anyone?” Bucky Barnes stood in your entryway. His smile the same flirty one you had convinced yourself was not real.

“Well maybe us ‘little people’ trust our friends and compound mates?”

“You’ve clearly never been pranked by Wilson.”

You broke into a huge smile, and his eyes lit up at your response.

“You know I was beginning to think I had hallucinated the whole being saved by you thing. I expected a visit when I was in the medbay.”

“I told you, the paperwork you made me have to do was intense. In fact I still haven't finished it yet.”

“Sorry Buck, but I did keep my word to be a pain in your ass.” and you winked at him.

He came over to you at the counter, “What are you doing up, can you at least not be on your feet.” he asked as he pulled out one of the chairs. You flopped down pretty ungraciously as you continued to pull things out.

“Well Stark sent me this very lovely basket and I was just going through it to see what getting shot gets you from Iron Man.”

He picked up the card and read it over, giving you a pointed look.

“I plan on pushing the limits on that.” you said proudly.

“I have no doubts about that doll. Stark never gets me anything when I get shot.”

“Well clearly I am just more liked than you. Plus I’m no Avenger-slash-super soldier. My wound is still here a week later.”

“Semantics.” Bucky waved his hand, “I’m going to be sure to bring this up at the next HR meeting.”

“Says the guy whose room is probably ten times the size of mine. Are you feeling claustrophobic in here? Should I open a window?”

Bucky began to scope your modest apartment out from his seat beside you. He purposely made a show of it. “I mean, if I just pretend I’m in my walk in closet I’ll be okay.”

Your mouth went agape and you playfully pushed his shoulder. He was nice enough to sway his body rather than easily stop the push without trying.

“I’m glad you’re doing better. I am also glad to see your kick butt attitude was not just due to thinking you were going to die.”

“Well to be fair I only thought I was going to die for...90% of the time we were together.”

“What about the other 10%?”

“I thought I must already be dead cause there was no way Bucky ‘The Winter Soldier’ Barnes was helping me.” You could sense he was about to give some witty remark back but you quickly cut him off. “But in all seriousness. Thank you. I know we are all one team, and you would have done it for anyone blah blah blah. But you really helped me down there. Not just in the physically helping me from not bleeding out, but you were great about keeping my mind off of it.”

It took everything in your power to not shift your hand over his in thanks. Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times. A bit thrown off from your usual banter to switch to such sincerity. But finally his thoughts seemed to catch up to his mouth.

“Of course, I was glad I could help….and if I am being serious I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the medbay. Me and hospitals….we don’t really mesh all that well. Bad history and all.”

“Oh, don’t even worry. You didn’t miss much other than hours and hours of debrief. Like you were not joking about that at all. Then there was the few days where I was high as a kite and sleeping. I’m sure I drooled and said some silly stuff, so maybe you should be a bit upset you missed out on that fine entertainment.”

He chuckled, “I think I may just be.”

“But you did miss some of the other cool kids coming down to visit me.”

He quickly caught on that you meant some of the Avengers and his face actually looked surprised.

“Who visited you?”

“Well Wilson was first. But he wasn't all that surprising. He’s a pretty normal face in the common areas. But then Clint and Natasha came down. Natasha even came back and brought me a bottle of vodka!” You looked around seeing it on the counter beside the fridge.

Bucky hummed. He seemed surprised by that as well but tried to keep his reactions minimal.

“And Captain America!” you beamed.

“Steve? Steve visited you?” Now his shock was harder for him to hide.

“Well he was most certainly in full Captain America mode when he visited me. He reminded me of the videos shown in schools.”

You could see in his face he was hiding something.

“What?”

“I think some of their visits may have been because of me.”

“Because of you?” your curiosity was peaked.

“I mean. God this is really embarrassing. I mean the group obviously heard I had been the one to go back to rescue the shot agent. And I had talked to Steve about how kick ass you were and brave and funny.”

You couldn't stop the huge grin that was taking over your whole face.

“And they knew I wasn't going to go to the medbay so I guess some of them took it upon themselves to go down.”

You were hit with the sudden realization that Bucky had been talking to the other Avengers about you. And that some of them wanted to see who you were.

“You've been talking about me?” you couldn't help but mock.

You could see him squirming in his seat. Usually you would relish in it. But the thought of making him feel uncomfortable around you was the last thing you wanted.

“Don't worry about it Bucky. I would have been telling people too but I know how gossipy everyone can be. Good to know that's the same even in the golden floors of the Avengers.”

“Should we get you something to eat?” Bucky asked clearly relieved to have an out from the awkwardness.

“Absolutely! Let's see if this Stark card gets us access to some pizza from Manhattan.”

45 min later you were both on your couch with the fresh pies that had been delivered by drone. The TV was playing the lasted Rock action movie. Still in theaters.

“I don't think Stark had this in mind for your incidental recovery fund.” Bucky snickered while grabbing a slice.

“Well Mr Stark is a businessman. He should know that these things should have contracts and stipulations. If not it's really easy for me to convince that anything is for me to get better. But if your feeling guilty you do not have to be my accomplice. I can take that slice back…”

You went to grab for it but he stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. Pulling away from your reaching arms.

As you reached over you automatically tried to follow his retreating form which caused you to overstretch your still healing side.

“Dammit!” you hissed grabbing at your wounds.

“Shit I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Did you open any stitches? “ Bucky's voice was laced with guilt.

You lifted up the side of your shirt. The bandages were all still bright white.

“No no. I'm good. Just forgot about the hole in my body.”

“What can I do?”

“If you could grab me a slice.” Bucky was on it before the words fully left your lips. In fact he put two slices on your plate. Then grabbed your drink and held it in his hand so he could give it to you whenever you needed it.

He was so remarkably sweet, and you couldn't believe there was a very large part of you that was happy you had been shot.

“Anything else?”

“For now I'm good. But we will just make sure to add this to our bargaining list for later.” you said smugly while taking a big bite and turning your attention back to the movie.

Had you seen his face you would have seen him glowing as he looked at you. Frozen staring at you for a good thirty seconds before an explosion on the TV caught his attention. He quickly grabbed another slice for himself with his other hand and tried his best to eat one handed.

PART 2

#Bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader fluff #mcu imagines #bucky barnes x you

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