#what if his brick patters were like beard?

[frisk-utfangirl-art]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In between the city walls of dying dreams

This if for @buckyownsmylife​​ 2k challenge. I chose the character Andy Barber and the AU ex-con.

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); somnophilia, drugging, breeding, oral, fingering.

This is dark! (ex-con) Andy Barber x shy!reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: One night, you’re saved by the last person you expect, but you don’t know that he’s only saving you for himself.

Note: So I woke up at like 4am and couldn’t sleep. My biggest mistake during my insomniac fits are scrolling tumblr and then I see a writing challenge and decide, hey I hate myself enough to write 6k+ words for a tatted up Andy Barber so here we are.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around and putting up with me and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The streets were shiny and slick as the rain pattered across the pavement and the eaves trickled loudly. The door of the convenience store chimed as you stepped out into the drizzle with a plastic bag hanging from your elbow. It was late and you were eager to be home after a ten-hour shift, your return delayed by your visit to the shop.

A man stood beneath the beaming ‘lotto’ sign and you kept your head low as you passed him. He kept his hood up but you recognized the grey sweater. You had waited behind him as he paid before you and offered only grumbles to the cashier. You weren’t too talkative yourself although the clerk recognized you from frequent visits. You only lived a block away and it was one of the only places open after your evening shifts.

Your boots splashed through shallow puddles as you passed by the alleyway you took in the daytime, keeping to the halo of the streetlights along the grimy stretch. You had no illusions about the neighbourhood and it often reminded you of its vices. If you kept quiet and faded into the background, it couldn’t eat you up. Living downtown meant that you had to learn to ignore the alarm bells in your head and just keep going. Be vigilant but don’t be bold.

As you cleared the mouth of the alley, you heard footsteps emerge behind you. You picked up your pace and gripped the strap of your purse slung across your torso. You pulled out your phone and angled it to see the shadow following you.

There was a shawarma shop on the next corner. You could hide out there until the creep got tired and left. It was your usual trick and the owner, Mo, was especially skilled at scaring away the rabble. 

The man got closer and you gulped. You would have to start running if he got any closer. You thought of swinging at him with your plastic bag, the bottle of vitamin water would give him a good knock. You walked faster and squeezed your phone as you brought up the dial pad. There was no one you could call who would get there fast enough.

You tripped and felt the hand on your arm. You were spun back against the wall and you threw your bag around to hit your accoster. It bounced to the ground as it was batted away and the plastic bag tore in half. The bottle of vitamin water rolled over the curb and your can of soup was dented on impact. The candy bar was tangled in the white plastic and you were trapped against the brick.

“Wallet.” The man’s knife slid from the handle with a threatening whisper. “Phone!”

He wrestled your cell from your grasp as the blade kept you from resisting. He cut the strap of your purse and yanked it free from your body. Shit. That can of soup would likely be your only meal for the rest of the week… if he didn’t stab you anyway.

You readied yourself for the worst but it never came. You were suddenly released as the man was shoved away from you and the blade clattered to the ground. The stranger in the grey hood kicked his ass so he sprawled across the pavement and bent to grab the blade. He retracted it and booted the mugger a second time.

“Stay down.” He warned as he knelt to pick up the can of chicken and rice and the dark chocolate. He fished the vitamin water from the gutter but the seal had broke and it was mostly gone.

The mugger groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees. The other man stood and pushed down on his back with his thick sole until the attacker was on his stomach.

“I’m gonna crush your ribs if you don’t get outta here. Now.” He jabbed the mugger’s side sharply. “Go!”

The man scrambled up to his feet and wheezed. He stumbled away and the other watched him until he disappeared. Finally, he turned to you and held out your goods. You took them shakily and shook your head at the vitamin water. He bent to grab your purse and your phone and held them out in turn.

“You okay?” He asked.

You nodded and took them shyly. You never said much to anyone but even if you tried, you expected your voice wouldn’t rise. You huffed at the broken strap of your bag and the scratch across the back of your phone. The screen protector was a spider web of cracks and you were thankful it wasn’t entirely fucked.

You clung to everything and warily sidestepped the man. You dropped the wet bottle in the stinking bin behind him and turned back. You looked at him and froze. He was taller and broader than the man who attacked you. He still held the knife and could do worse.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

“It’s fine.” He slid the knife into his pocket. “He didn’t cut you?”

You shook your head again. Even as his face was shrouded in shadows, you couldn’t look directly at the man. You never really looked anyone in the face, you often spoke to their shoes or the void above their heads.

“You live far?” He asked and again he received a negative gesture. “You want me to walk you? Or I can watch?”

Your eyes widened at the spatter of rain against the concrete.

“Miss,” he said with exasperation.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.” You whispered as if convincing yourself too.

You slipped past him quickly and he stepped back with a surprised stammer. Your soles slapped the pavement as you rushed away from him. You couldn’t be sure he wasn’t as bad as the other man. He might follow you home and try to get even further.

But he didn’t pursue you. You didn’t hear his footfalls behind you, only the steady fall of rain.

“Good night,” you heard quietly as you got to the corner. 

You didn’t look back and kept on around the bend. You sprinted all the way to your building at the end of the side street and fumbled for your keys at the door. You took a breath when you were inside at last. You were lucky but not many downtown were. That wouldn’t happen again.

🌆

After your close call, you didn’t return to the convenience store for several days and you only did so in the daylight. You had a rare day off and the spree of rain finally ceased. The sun beat down on the buildings and reflected hotly off the sidewalks. There wasn’t much to do, or much you could afford to do, so you didn’t do much in your free time.

You had to get out of your apartment, had to enjoy the nice day before you were once more trapped behind a desk. You walked up to the store and grabbed an ice cream bar from the freezer. You paid in change and claimed your treat with a tight-lipped smile.

As you approached the door, it swung outward and you retreated before you could collide with the other body. You muttered a sorry and stood aside as you waited for your path to clear.

“Hey,” the deep voice was familiar and sent a chill through you. “It’s you.”

You looked up at the man as the ice cream added to the cold flow through your veins. The same grey hoodie and broad shoulders. The man’s deep blue eyes shone beneath his tidy undercut and a thick beard trimmed his chiseled jaw. He was less sinister than the shadow you met days before.

Your eyes quickly flitted away as you remembered yourself and you looked at the door. You nodded as you cleared your throat. Speak, goddamnit.

“Thanks…again,” you croaked weakly. “S-sorry, I’m in your way.”

You tried to step around him but he was still firmly planted in front of the only exit.

“Wait,” he said gently, “Hey, I… don’t wanna seem weird but I was worried about you.”

“You don’t know me,” you said quietly to his shoes.

“Yeah, but that’s a scary thing to deal with.” His voice was firm but comforting, almost warm. Your eyes clung to the tattoo between his thumb and index finger.

“But…” you swallowed, your ice cream would start to melt soon. “You helped me. I’m okay now.”

“Well, good,” he said and finally moved. “I’m happy I could help.”

“Thanks.” You reached for the door but he beat you to it. He pushed it open and held it for you, forcing you to brush against him as you left.

“Be safe.” He called after you as the door chimed and you stumbled out onto the sidewalk, barely missing another pedestrian.

You crossed the street and stepped over the low hedges between the café and the pawn shop. The small park was oddly peaceful amid the chaos of the city and you didn’t mind sitting under the shade of the fragrant leaves. You sat at an empty picnic table and unwrapped the chocolate dipped bar.

You listened to the birds and watched the squirrels as you ate. You pulled out your phone but didn’t have enough data left to do much. You put it down as you licked clean the little wooden stick and shoved it back into the wrapper.

You flinched as a shadow blotted out the sun and you blinked up at the figure as it stopped before you.

“You again.” He smiled and your eyes fell back to the grass around his boots.

You crumpled the empty wrapper nervously and let out a nervous, “heh, yeah.”

“I’m not… following you.” He said and chuckled. “I know we kinda keep running into each other but I swear, I’m not some creep.”

You nodded and watched his fingers straighten. The ink on his knuckles made you nervous.

“Can I sit?” He asked.

You looked beside you as he pointed to the bench and you shrugged. “Could I stop you?” You uttered.

He turned and sat beside you. He took a breath and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pack of smokes. He opened it and offered you one. You shook your head and he closed the carton, tucking it away without taking one himself.

“I won’t smoke around ya then,” he said. “I’m Andy.”

He held out his hand and you eyed it. Your lashes fluttered nervously and you squeezed the garbage. He waited patiently. You felt the heat on your neck and you reached to shake his hand. He gripped yours firmly and his strength made your wits flurry. You gave him your name and looked down at your lap as he let go of you.

“I don’t blame you not wanting to talk to strangers. Especially around here.”

You stayed quiet and twisted the wrapper around the stick. Your leg jiggled and he ran his nails over his jeans.

“Maybe you’re just shy and that’s okay too. I just thought, well, there’s a lot of shady characters around here and it’s good to have someone lookin’ out for ya.” He scratched his beard and leaned back against the table. “I just wanted to say that if you see me around and you need someone to scare off the other hounds, I’m more than happy to give them a good bite.”

You pushed your tongue against your cheek and stilled your leg. You nodded.

“Alright,” he stood and the whole table shifted with his weight, “Now, I’ve said my peace. You take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” you wrung your hands around the bending popsicle stick entwined with the wrapped.

“Oh, and… I think I grabbed the right one.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and you noticed the awkward shape jammed into the pocket. He revealed the bottle and placed it on the table. “I’ll see you around.”

You stared at the label. It was the right flavour. You looked up and watched him head out along the path. He unzipped his sweater as he went on and pushed his hands into the pockets. You pinched your lip with your teeth and took the bottle of water. Maybe there were nice people in the city or maybe you were just that pathetic.

🌆

Back at your building, you were relieved to be out of the sun and the stifling humidity. It would be a rough summer and your box fan would do little to stave off the heat. 

After your run-in with your hero, you decided to take a walk and finished the entire bottle in your casual stroll around the paths and the little creek on the other side of the park. It was later than you thought when you got back and fought with the jammed key slot.

You opened up the inner door of the lobby at last and grunted with frustration. Not only did the slot threaten to bend your key but the door was heavier than you. You climbed the first short flight of stairs and grabbed the old banister to continue your trip up the winding case. 

You stopped as the platform above creaked and as another resident came down with a basket of clothes in hand. You stayed at the bottom to let them pass but as they descended, they stopped a step above you. Your name had your head up and your eyes, for the second time that day, met two stunning blue irises.

“I didn’t know you lived in this building,” Andy said as he cradled his laundry and turned to face you. “Small world.”

“I didn’t--” your words dwindled and you focused on the lip of the basket instead of his face. You didn’t talk to your neighbours, not since the old man had threatened to choke you in the lobby.

“I just moved in.” He said. “My first place since… well, the first place I’ve had to myself.”

“Oh,” you breathed and picked at your frilly shirt.

“Well, let me just get out of your way,” he angled away from the stairs. “I’ll probably see you around. Don’t hesitate to say hi.”

You nodded and gripped the railing as you continued up the stairs. As you reached the platform, you glanced back and he was still watching you. He smiled and finally turned away, heading towards the laundry room as he began to whistle. You climbed the next flight and took a breath.

Coincidences happened but you just couldn’t handle so many at once. Andy had been nothing but nice, he saved you from being robbed and he even replaced what he didn’t owe you. You just couldn’t believe it. 

People could be good, they could be kind, just not in the city.

🌆

Your run-ins with Andy continued. You passed him in the hall several times before you realised he lived on the same floor. Your suspicions were confirmed as you grabbed your take-out and saw him unlocking the door only a couple away from your own. You even managed to drop your fliers on his boots when you were grabbing your mails.

Each time, he was friendly and each time, you barely said a word. He was a curious man. His tattoos labelled him as dangerous but his demeanour was welcoming and compassionate. He was entirely off putting and you lived in the city long enough to be wary. And you were shy enough to be evasive.

You were tired after another late shift. The bus ride had you yawning by the time you reached your stop and your short walk to the building was less than enjoyable as the usual weirdos were out with the full moon. You shoved your key into the slot and swore under your breath as it refused to turn.

Finally, it pivoted and you yanked on the handle as the door behind you swished open and closed. A hand grabbed the side of the door and helped pull it back all the way. You peeked over your shoulder as Andy held it and you thanked him with a squeak before heading through.

He followed you a few steps back as you started up the stairs.

“You work late a lot.” He said from behind you.

“Yeah…” you said as you turned up the next flight.

“You work far?”

“Not very,” you replied as you turned again.

“Yeah, I used to be on nights and that was hell.” He humoured as you pressed on.

Your toe caught on the lip of the top step and you went hurtling forward. You tried to catch yourself and cried out as you landed on your wrist and felt an agonizing twinge. You hissed and turned over, holding your arm as it throbbed.

“Shit, are you okay?” He asked as he stooped to look you over. 

Your purse had landed in the corner of the platform and your flat had slipped off in your descent. Embarrassed, you lowered your arm and nodded. “I’m fine. Just… hopeless.”

“Here,” he took your shoe from the step and slid it onto your foot. “Hey, it happens. I almost did the same thing the other day.” 

He paused and you felt him staring. You looked him in the face nervously but his eyes weren’t on yours. You felt a tickle as he pulled your skirt back to your knee. You hadn’t realised how far up it had flown.

“Let me see your arm,” he said as you rested it on your leg.

“No, it’s fine, I--” You waved him away with your good arm and but he took your other gently and bent to look closer.

He tutted as he touched the flesh and you winced. 

“It’s swelling,” he felt firmly along your wrist, “I don’t feel a break but a sprain is a serious thing.”

“How do you--” you stopped yourself. “I’ll be okay.”

“You need to wrap it.” He let go of your arm and stood. 

He grabbed your other elbow and helped you to your feet. He stepped up onto the platform and scooped up your purse.

“You have something to wrap it? You’ll need the proper support.”

You shook your head. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is. You landed on it with all your weight. I’m surprised you didn’t break something.” He insisted. “I have something, I’ll wrap it for you.”

“Really, I can…” you voice fizzled as you tried to steady yourself. “I can do it myself.”

“But will you?” He kept his hand on your arm and guided you up the last steps to your floor. “Please, for my own peace of mind, let me help.”

You stared at the stained carpet as you stopped beside him. “Why?”

“Why are you so afraid of me?” He asked.

“I’m not-- I…” You frowned. “I just don’t know you. I-I-I’m just quiet.”

“I’ve tried to know you so why don’t you let me?”

You drew away from him and watched his hand drop. You stared at the tattoos and he curled his fingers.

“Oh, yeah, well, I guess I can start by being honest.” He sighed, “Yes, I’ve been to prison. I’ve been out for a year now, I’m finally off parole, I have a job, and I’m working to live a clean life. Is that it? You think I’m some goon?”

“No, I…” you looked at the floor again. “I don’t care about that. I’m just… I don’t know what to say to people so I don’t say very much.” You swayed nervously on your feet. “And no one ever really tried to hear me anyway.”

“Well, I can do the talking or we can both just say nothing, but please, you’re wrist, an untreated sprain can do a lot more damage.”

You tilted your head back and forth and another stab of pain went through your wrist. You nodded and looked to the wall. “O-Okay.”

“Alright,” he exhaled and nudged you lightly as he urged you down the hall. 

He stopped at his door and you waited for him to unlock it. You stared inside as he pushed it open. You didn’t really know him and what you did know wasn’t reassuring. He was a convict and you were about to be completely alone with him.

“Or I can grab the bandage and meet you at yours?” He offered.

“No, no, I’m… tired. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said.

You entered and he followed. He put your purse on the small square table beside the shoe rack and you stepped out of your flats. He bent to untie his boots and left them beside your shoes. He urged you on and you looked around at the surprisingly cozy apartment. It was tidier than yours and smelled like fresh linen.

“I’ll be right back,” he gestured you to the living room and went down the short hall to closet at the very end.

You ventured past the couch as you looked around. There was a degree hung on the wall and you went closer to read it. You heard him searching the closet as you raised your brows at the framed certificate.

“Got it,” he entered and you turned away. “Ah, yeah, they disbarred me when I was charged but ah, well, it’s something to work towards. The old me.”

You bit your cheek as you stepped away from the wall and he beckoned you to him. He had you sit on the couch with your arm up as he pulled a chair close. He unwounded the beige bandage and placed the end against your wrist. He began to wind it around your arm and hooked it between your thumb and index. You watched him work and it calmed you. He pinned the loose end and placed your hand atop the cushioned arm of the couch.

“There.” He said as he sat back. “How’s it feel now?”

“A little better,” you pulled your hand into your lap. “Thank you.”

You stood awkwardly and played with the pleat of your skirt. “I should probably go.”

“If you want to or… I have some wine. It might help with the pain.”

“Oh?” You weren’t much of a drinker but you didn’t want to be rude.

“It was a gift from my parole officer since I can legally drink now. He said it better last me the next year but I haven’t even opened it. Don’t really have a reason to but… so you want a glass or should we say good night?”

You scrunched your lips and thought. You felt as if you owed him; for the night he chased away the mugger and then the park and now this.

“Uh, sure, but just a little. I don’t drink much.”

“No problem,” he stood and you sat back down.

He went to the kitchen and you listened to the clink of dishes and click of the cabinets. You looked down at your wrist and moved your fingers. Your wrist hurt a lot but the bandage alleviated some of it.

“I realised I don’t have any wine glasses,” he said as he approached, “So, I hope you don’t mind wine in a mug.”

He handed you a cup and sat down with his own. Yours had flowers around the rim and his read ‘Best Dad Ever.’

“Got ‘em from the Good Will,” he chuckled, “I’ve been meaning to replace them but you know, work.”

“Yeah,” you raised the cup and tasted the bitter red. You wrinkled your nose and he gave a low snort.

“Yeah, I never really liked cabernet but it was a gift,” he said and took a drink himself. “So what kinda work do you do?”

“I’m just a temp.” You tried another mouthful and nearly choked.

“Like office work?”

“Yeah, a floating secretary. Nothing special.”

“Mmm, yeah, I got a job down at the factory. Another favour from my parole officer but it’s not bad work.”

Your lips slanted as you thought. You didn’t say much but your face was good at filling the silence.

“What? Go on, ask it.” He leaned forward with elbows on his knees as he took another gulp.

You mirrored him and swallowed the sour wine. You wiped your lips with your sleeve and crossed your legs. “You said you were a lawyer before, isn’t it kinda… I dunno.”

“It’s different but it’s better than prison.”

“Yeah, I guess it would be.”

You looked down as silence laced the air and you didn’t know what else to do but finish the wine. You could leave then. You drained the cup and set it on the round table next to the arm of the couch. You blinked as you felt the buzz of the alcohol already.

“It might just be me, but that was strong,” you said.

“No, it is,” he put his mug down too, “like thirteen percent or something. I think maybe he was trying to sabotage me.”

You tried to laugh but it came out an awkward sniffle. You tapped your foot as you tried to think of what to do or say. 

“Well, thank you but I think I should--” You stood so fast you got dizzy and nearly fell back as you held yourself up against the couch arm. “Whoo, okay, I’m going.”

“Yeah, alright,” he stood too. “It is late, I guess.”

“Mhmm,” you focused on your footsteps as you passed him and he followed you to the entryway. You took your purse and faced him. “Thank you.” You held up your wrist. “I owe you.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna say it myself but… you can repay me with one little thing.”

“Oh?” You pushed the strap of your purse up your shoulder as you slid your feet into your flats and swayed just a little.

“Finish the wine with me. I’m free on Saturday, we could order dinner and maybe watch a movie.”

You pouted in surprise and your eyebrows shot up. “Well, I…”

“Friends.” He said quickly, “That’s all. You pick the movie and I’ll bring the cabernet.”

You sucked in your lip and thought. He hadn’t done anything wrong to you. He had done more than he should have for you. And you were being stupid. He was older than you, certainly. The short greys poking out at his temples betrayed at least forty years and he was just another person trying to get by. 

“Okay, I can do Saturday. I work till five, just a half-shift.” You explained. “Should I meet you here or?”

“Yeah, we can do it here.” He touched your shoulder and his hand slowly slipped down your arm. He reached past you and turned the knob and pulled open the door. You moved closer to avoid it hitting you and smelled his woodsy cologne. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” you backed through the door clumsily, “thanks.”

“Saturday.” He pointed at you and then his temple, “Don’t forget.”

“I’ll… try.”

You left him and felt him watching you until you reached your door. You didn’t look back as you let yourself in and locked it behind you. You heard his own shut and let out a breath. What were you doing?

🌆

You couldn’t forget your promise to Andy. You never made plans. You were content to be alone and watch old reality tv shows and forget about your responsibilities. You hoped instead that he might forget and spare you another awkward encounter. You were never a social butterfly and conversation was like pulling teeth. It wasn’t that you didn’t long for companionship, it was that it was so impossibly difficult.

But he was waiting for you. As you passed his door at 5:46, he opened it and nearly had you jumping off your feet.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He said, “Just a friendly reminder.”

“Yeah, I just need to get changed,” you fidgeted, “fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Take your time,” he smiled, “any thoughts on a movie yet?”

“No,” you cringed, “sorry.”

“Go on. I’ll be waiting. You can let yourself in.” He closed the door and you went onward to your own.

You pulled out your most comfortable jeans and a shirt that wasn’t too formal or casual. You changed and fixed your hair a little and switched your socks for less sweaty ones. You slid on some shoes and reluctantly left your apartment. You went to his and knocked before you dared to enter.

“So, uh, I know I said take out,” he called from the kitchen as you inhaled the scent of garlic, “but I got a bit carried away.” “Andy,” you kicked your shoes onto the rack and crept down the hall. “You didn’t have to--”

“I haven’t cooked like this in ages. Oh, and,” he turned as you peered in from the doorway and turned back with two wine glasses poured to the brim, “I got real glasses.”

“Wow, uh…” You took the stem and carefully held it so as not to spill.

“So how was work?”

“Slow.” You answered honestly.

“Saturday’s usually are,” he turned back and stirred the frying pan. “I’m almost done so why don’t you go look for something to watch and I’ll be out with dinner.”

“Okay…” you voice trailed away nervously. He wore a tee that exposed the rest of the tats that stretched up his muscular arms. You couldn’t help but stare at the skull that seemed to look back at you.

You went to the couch and sat in the corner. You sipped the wine and it still burned your nostrils and tongue. You set the glass down carefully and turned on the television with the remote. 

You curled your legs up under you habitually and flipped through the titles. No rom coms, that’s awkward, and no horror movies or he’d pull that old high school trick. Maybe a war movie? Oh wait, that one’s about lawyers, that would be good. Or it might make him sad. Hmmm.

You settled on a superhero movie and waited with the intro paused. He appeared shortly with two plates and set them down on the coffee table as he sat beside you on the couch and pulled it closer.

“Nothing too special. I made my own spaghetti sauce though, so much better than the jarred stuff.” He combed his hair back as he set out your cutler with a napkin. “What are watching?”

“I’ve never seen this one,” you said as you hit play and the title flashed up, “Have you?”

“Oh, I don’t really watch that stuff but hey, never too old to start.” He picked up his fork and leaned forward. “Hope you enjoy. I might be a bit rusty. My-- People tell me I put too much garlic in everything.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” you pushed your legs over the edge of the couch and sat forward. You took your cutlery and carefully spun the noodles.

You were thankful for the loud crashes of the movie’s opening scene as it meant you could eat and not have to talk. The spaghetti was good and compared to your usual quick and easy meals in a box or can, it was gourmet. When you finished, you wiped your mouth and took a long gulp of the wine without thinking.

You sat back as you grew engrossed with the superheroes origin story and nearly forgot about Andy until he got up to clear the dishes. You offered to pause and he bid you to keep on. He was back in a moment and leaned back beside you. You squirmed and reached for your wine again. The taste was less stringent with each sip.

As the hero readied to face the villain, you emptied the glass and hugged yourself as a warmth glowed in your veins. You felt a hand on your leg as your eyelids drooped and you slumped into the couch. You could still feel the fingers as your fly was unzipped and you groaned as your limbs would not obey you.

The noise of the final battle faded and a heavy weight settled between your legs as tickles lined your neck and jaw, a final hungry kiss on your lips sealing your consciousness.

🌆

Andy’s POV

The wine was potent but Andy was sure to add a little extra kick. Her nerves kept her drinking the dark cabernet and she couldn’t taste the crushed pills through the acidity. He could taste the fermented grapes on her lips though and she moaned beneath him as he rolled her shirt up her torso.

He sat back to make sure she really was out. He snapped his fingers in front of her face and tapped her cheek. She mumbled but only lolled her head. He was done being patient with her. She was so shy it was enraging. He did everything he was supposed to do and she still wouldn’t even look at him. Oh, but she would feel him.

He ran his hands along her figure and basked in the warmth of her skin. How long had it been since he’d felt a woman beneath him? He didn’t like to think like that; didn’t like to remember the past and all he’d lost. He was trying to rebuild and this was the first step.

His hands settled on her stomach. It wasn’t flat and it was bit squishy, he liked that. He closed his eyes and pictured how it would grow. He would be a father again, and a husband. He would be the man he once was.

He shuddered and opened his eyes. He stripped her shirt off completely and bent to catch her nipple in his mouth as it spilled from her bra. He reached around her to unhook the bra entirely and yanked it from under her. She twitched but could not wake as he sucked at her tit and then the other.

He recalled that night on the street when he chased off that other man. It wasn’t the first time he saw her, in fact he had followed her to the store. She didn’t notice him slip in behind her or that he paid for a magazine he wouldn’t read. He remembered how he resisted that night. How he wanted to put her against that wall and finish it then and there.

Her pants slid down her legs easily as he backed off the couch. Her panties tasted like her as he pressed his mouth between her legs. He slung her knees over his shoulders and nuzzled her through the cotton until she soaked them entirely. He pulled them aside and continued to coax her. She came as a ripple flowed through her body and he drank up her unconscious excitement.

He tore her panties down her legs and looked down at her with heavy, hungry breaths. He read that women were more likely to conceive if they were aroused. He swiped his shirt over his head and undid his jeans impatiently. He was incredibly hard and he needed her around him.

He bent her legs, one leaned against the back of the couch as the other hung over the side. He dragged his fingers along her cunt and growled. He shoved his fingers into her and spread them. She was so tight it made him throb.

He pulled out and grabbed his dick. He pressed his tip against her clit and rubbed circles around it. She muttered again and turned her head but he wasn’t afraid of her waking. Even if she did, she couldn’t stop him.

He positioned himself against her entrance and pushed his tip just inside. He gasped and bit his tongue. He could’ve cum at that. He snapped his hips against her and her whole body jerked as he reached his limit. She gurgled and he thrust again.

She clenched around him, her walls hungry for him. He rocked his hips into her and watched her squirm, her eyes flitting back and forth behind her eyelids. He bent over her and pulled her arms above her, holding her hands together against the arm of the couch. He fucked her hard as the entire couch jolted beneath their bodies.

“You like that?” He whispered in her ear. “Huh, this is what you wanted. What you were so afraid of.”

He grunted and bucked even faster. Her body reacted to his and as she came, her juices added to the noise of his intrusion. His flesh slapped against hers loudly as the movie’s effect faded into the background. He grabbed her chin and watched her sleeping face as he pounded into her.

“You want it. You want me. You want me to fill you up.” He snarled. “You want my baby inside of you. You want to grow for me.” He sucked on his tongue as his body began to tense. “I’m going to fuck my baby into you, you bitch.”

He buried his head against her neck and bit into her flesh as he came. He shook on top of her as he emptied inside of her and slowed. He whimpered as he stopped his hip and lingered inside of her. He sighed and panted as he fell limp over her.

“Don’t worry, we’re not done.” He promised her deafened ears.

🌆

You were sore and stiff. You were trapped and suffocating. As you rose back to the surface, you felt the weight over you and began to panic. Your thighs were raw but numbed and your core felt hollow. You tried to remember more than the taste of wine but it was all a fog.

You opened your eyes and felt along the shoulder against your chin. The tattooed skin smelled of sweat and you could barely move beneath Andy. As you tried, you felt him inside of you and squeaked. Then the real panic began and you couldn’t breathe at all.

You beat on his shoulders and he grumbled. You felt him growing inside of you and you flailed against him.

“Please, please, get off.”

He shook his head and raised it slowly. He sat up but brought you with him as he kept you around his hardening dick. He held you in his lap and watched you struggle with his tired eyes.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked languidly.

“What did you--What are you doing?” You shoved against him and yelped as he tilted into you from below.

“What did I do? Oh, you don’t remember?”

“Don’t remember? Let me go! Please.” You whined. 

“Come on, don’t be like this. You asked for it, honey.”

“Wha--”

“Oh, you really are a lightweight,” he whistled, “you said you wanted me. You practically begged me to fuck you.”

“I didn’t-- I--”

“Well, what do you remember?” He purred as he subtly rocked into you. “Huh?”

“I don’t--I can’t remember.”

“You really going to do this to me? Act like you never wanted it? Like I didn’t try to resist you, honey, but you wanted it so bad.”

“No, I…” you stared at the tattoo across his chest.

“Look at me,” he gripped your jaw and your eyes flicked up to his. He thrust into you as far as he could and you yelped, “Tell me you don’t want this.”

He bit his lip as he continued to fuck you. Your thighs clenched around his but you couldn’t escape his grasp.

“You look at me when I fuck you, huh? Yeah, look at me.”

You covered your face and he pulled your hands away. He twisted your arms behind your back and sped up as he bound you against him.

“It’s alright, honey, I already filled you up nice and good,” he cooed, “This. Is. Just. For. Good. Measure.”

He spoke between shallow breaths and your own heartbeat picked up. Your eyes welled as you couldn’t resist the waves and you came with a pathetic mewl. He pulled you close and turned his face up to kiss you. He nibbled your lip and growled as he came inside of you. 

You closed your eyes and waited for him to stop. When he did, he wouldn’t let you go. You fell forward and hung your head beside his as a sob lodged in your throat.

“It’s alright. It’s what I want.” He caressed your lower back, “You’ll want it too. You just need time.”

[goodlucksnez]

a sky full of stars

Hello everyone so I wrote a er//aserm//ic fiction and it’s 5513 words I know right what the fuck I just kept writing and I didn’t want the story to end but it came to a lovely end

TW WARNING it deals with sui//cide depression,anxiety,panic attacks as well as medical surgery

TO NOTE In the story endeavor is not a hero and is a local tea maker and his wife is the surgeon which I just think it’s cute it comes together in the story it will make sense don’t worry

This is using my original AU with the Quirk flu

And lastly I hope you enjoy it I had a lot of fun riding and it has definitely improved since my last fic enjoy

you can read it on A03 or down below

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33360760

How Shouta got here was anyone's guess. Sitting on the edge of the roof of UA looking at the shifting colors as night began to fall around him. As the shades of reds mixed with the blues and yellows, how they washed over the buildings and trees with a gentle golden glow, Shouta closed his eyes and smiled. The tear-stained face of the Pro was hidden from view under foundation and tired eyes. With the still night air, he heard the roof entrance unlock and movement behind him.

“Hello, old friend,” Shouta said not even turning to look at him.

“What the hell are you thinking, step away from the edge now.” Mic's voice boomed over the concrete and echoed in the tranquil night air. “Please, people need you…. I need you.”

Shouta took a deep breath and stood to face his old friend. Mic’s face was panicked and he could see the crumpled note in his hand. Shouta was glad to see his friend one last time. He shook with adrenaline as he spoke in a quiet voice barely louder than a whisper. Years down the road Shouta in the confession of therapy would say he said it this way because whispers make people listen while shouting just falls upon deaf ears.

“All my life, I have been in love with the sky. Even when everything was falling apart around me, the sky was always there for me. I’m glad to see it hasn’t changed. Goodbye old friend.” And he stepped off the roof Mic’s voice echoed in the night sky as Shouta plummeted down and down until darkness.

---

That was five years ago. Shouta had been getting better about talking about his depression and the struggles but the one thing he could not do was hurt Mic again. Hizashi also died that day, his cheery disposition of the world changed, and he hasn’t been the same since. He had improved but Shouta still had guilt deep down but would never admit it. Hizashi's confidence was always so fragile, like a child’s, it took him years to return to radio and music. He once in a foggy drunken state told Shouta that music died the day he fell and all the sounds of the world that created such unique and beautiful different melodies, fused into one agonizing wave of sound that made Hizashi hate music and his Quirk. He had gotten better they both had recovered from that day but if they were both being honest, they were still those scared little Pros inside.

When winter came the vows of in sickness and in health were tested. Hizashi got sick first and Shouta played the role of nursemaid and helped him get better therefore it was no wonder Shouta got sick. When he was a child Shouta would hide under his bed to avoid being seen as sick, he had enough of name-calling at school he did not need it at home too. This continued into his adult life even after the accident 5 years ago.

The next time he had woken up he almost suffered acute heart failure from the number of stress hormones that were immediately pumped through his system as long-term best friend and husband Hizashi better known as Present Mic had busted through the bedroom door with a shout of “Shouta” with his remarkably deafening voice. “Wow were you sleeping?”

As if it would be a shock that he was. He has been up most of the night coughing and generally feeling ill. Shouta was having trouble getting out of bed today as a dull pain racked through his body pulsing through every limb. He merely grunted in response and the strawberry blonde-haired man sat down and rubbed his back.

“Shouta,” he asked his voice worried with concern and suddenly Shouta was back on that roof. He shut his eyes and winced at that memory and shook his head. The movement of his head caused the room to spin and he reached out to grab onto something stable the only thing near him being his husband.

The pressure in his cranium had built itself up to the point where he knew he had to get away to get checked out. Somehow, he had to take a trip to get medicine, the question was how would he succeed with such a mission when Hizashi worried about his every movement.

Mic continued to rub his husband's back. After receiving no answer, his usual jovial expression continued morphing into one of pure concern. “Hey, Shouta are you okay?”

The tired pro sighed but when he went to open his mouth the tickle which had been prominent in his sinuses flared to life and he quickly turned his head to the side gripping the side of the bed as the sneezes ripped through his body.

“Heh-R'SSHH! Hh-Hih-AET’SCHHH! ESCCH!”

Hizashi jumped in surprise. “Woah, many blesses,” he said. “I’m going to pick you up some meds, okay?”

Shouta grabbed his arm and said, “no you barely over being sick, I can get some.”

As he went to put on his shoes, he sniffed back the congestion that was threatening to flow. Hizashi watched him gathering his wallet and keys before hugging him tightly and whispered in his ear.

“I know how you get with these things; I call you in a few hours and you better pick up or you’re in trouble. I love you Sky.”

Shouta hugged him back and said, “I love you to songbird.” And he left the house with the sound of thunder in the sky boomed over him.

---

His feet hurt.

It was a stupid thing to focus on. Stupid because Shouta was still heavily limping his way through darkened alleyways and shuffling through crumpled up newspapers and puddles of...something. His breath came out in ragged gasps, the medicine still clutched close to the chest. Shouta had no idea where he was going. He just kept moving- one hand drifting along chipped brick walls and graffiti-stained cement, something to keep him steady. Focused. Home was the mission but it wasn’t the goal. The goal was-

Freedom from the pain.

His knees buckled and Shouta couldn’t stop himself from tumbling forward. He smacked into a dumpster; the weak thump of a body against rusted metal ringing in his ears. The stench of rotten food clawed its way into his nose; the pain now liquid fire in his veins. Get up Shouta told himself even as his eyes started to flutter close. You have to get up. His fingers twitched; they landed in a puddle of something gross. “Please,” Shouta whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please~” Thunder rolled off in the distance- a heavy, almost shuffling sound. Maybe- maybe he could get clean in the rain? Maybe-----

“Ah, your awake!”

Fuck! Shouta started, brain a sluggish mess. He- the last thing he remembered with solid clarity was collapsing against a dumpster. Rain pattered against the rooftop- a strange melody that did nothing to put the Pro at ease as he stared at the old man before him. He was heavyset, a long red beard neatly trimmed and a topknot giving him off an old school look. Shouta glanced around the room, just a little more awake now. He still felt like shit, wet from the clothes he had when-

“My shoes,” Shouta rasped, gaze falling to his feet. They were bare, his socks neatly placed on the floor with his shoes beside this...futon. A sad, threadbare thing on the floor. It took all he had not to run his hands over himself-no. No injuries. The only thing Shouta wasn’t wearing was his shoes. Shouta inhaled congestion thick and he wiped his nose on the back of his hand. An oven mitt was sitting on the floor between them, a teapot gently clutched in the old man’s hands. “You put band-aids on my heels?”

“I did,” came the quiet hum. “You’ve traveled quite a way. Those blisters are impressive.”

Shouta’s gaze flicked to the two clay cups- one by his feet, the other next to the old man’s knees. Steam started to curl out of the teapot; a fire Quirk perhaps? “...You’ve got a fire Quirk.”

The old man smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re very observant. Yes, I do. Would you like some tea? I have some delicious Herbal Spring at the moment it might help with that cold you got.”

Shouta eyed the teapot in question- the steam was barely more than a little trickle of a cloud. Could he have poisoned it while I was out? He shrugged, looking away.

“Ah good!” The old man leaned forward to pour tea- Shouta first, then himself. “Herbal Spring is a very fragile tea, you know. Raise the temperature too much and you’ll ruin it. Keep the water too cold, and it loses its flavor.”

Shouta didn’t reach for his cup. He heard the soft clink of China being set down on the oven mitt. He- he saw the near-empty room he was in. “Where am I?”

“My tea shop! Aaah well,” the old man smiled again as he reached for his cup. “Soon to be my tea shop. This is a storeroom of sorts.”

Shouta watched the old man drink first. A happy hum, a deep sip that made the Pro finally reach for his cup. He brought it to his lips, taking a tentative sniff. Even with his blocked nose, it smelled sweet. Shouta took the tiniest of sips; the warm liquid sliding down his parched throat with ease. It had a soft note to it; sweet and almost fruity, enough to make Shouta …breathe. “Who are you?”

“Just a simple tea maker.” Another calm sip, the old man closing his eyes for a moment. “Who are you?”

It...it lacked the same venom that Shouta’s question had. The same cautiousness, an almost feral edge to it. The old man’s question was simple. Calm and steady; Shouta bit the inside of his cheek before he took another tentative sip. “No one.”

“It is an honor to meet you, No One.” The teapot was held out like a porcelain olive branch. “More tea?”

Was this...a joke? Shouta bit the inside of his cheek before he held out his cup. There was still plenty of tea left in the small cup and it took all the Pro had not to wince at how hands were still shaking. Hot liquid sloshing about, threatening to go right over the dull rim. Yet...if the old man was going to say anything, he didn’t. He merely poured Shouta more tea, careful to keep the liquid from the rim.

Shouta brought it up to his lips, taking a bigger sip. “You’re,” this time he winced. His throat was still a raspy mess. “You’re not going to ask me why I was outside?”

“Mmm, you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

Shouta watched the teapot be set gently on the oven mitt, the old teamaker once more quietly enjoying his cup. The two sipped their drinks in relative silence- only broken by the steady drumming of the rain overheard and Shouta sniffling. An odd sort of silence, almost peaceful; Shouta wasn’t bombarded with questions. The old tea maker was content to drink his tea; he’d already downed three cups by the time Shouta had managed to finish one. He sneezed 3 harsh sneezes and drank more tea hoping to soothe the throat. The teapot seemed to rise without being asked; a second cup poured, a second cup that Shouta found himself willingly drinking. “Aizawa,” he whispered, staring down at the amber liquid. The Pro’s voice was painfully loud in the quiet. “My name is Aizawa Shouta.”

The old man gently smiled; callused hands curled around his cup. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Aizawa Shouta.”

“What-” Shouta shifted on his futon; the tremors had finally left his hands. “Who are you?”

“Just an old man with wisdom and regrets,” came the happy reply. “You can call me Enji if you wish.”

Enji? It was a familiar way to address someone he’d just met. Right. “...I’m not calling you Enji.”

“Fair enough,” the old man chuckled and there was something warm in his voice that begged the Pro to relax. Maybe he has another Quirk? Can someone have two Quirks?

Shouta glanced down at his cup, his thumbs brushing the rim. “Why are you doing this?”

“Sharing tea with a fascinating stranger is one of life’s true delights~”

That...was not what Shouta was expecting. He frowned; was it too late to make a run for it? He was pretty sure he had strength in his legs now, even if he still felt awful. “That’s some bullshit,” the dark hair huffed, settling on something solid. Something he could trust. He attempted to rise to his feet and he wobbled for a moment. Pain that rolled through Shouta, begging for him to plop his ass back down. “You’re crazy, old man.”

The old man didn’t move from his spot on the floor. He merely hummed, a red eyebrow rising at the uptick of rain against the roof. “You will need a proper raincoat then. You’ll be soaked if you leave now.”

“...You’re not going to stop me?”

“I cannot stop you from your long journey, Shouta. Just as we cannot stop the fire from burning the log or ice freezing a pond.” Shouta watched the old man set his cup down; empty. “But please,” he groaned as he lumbered to his feet and Shouta was pretty sure he heard joints pop. “Let me get you an umbrella at least.”

His chest hurt. Shouta’s throat was stupidly tight. Painfully tight as he stood there, watching Enji dig around in the storeroom for an umbrella. “...You,” Shouta tried to clear his throat. To stop himself from crying like the idiot he was. “You don’t have-”

He shouldn’t have wasted his breath.

The umbrella was pressed into his hands with care. It was an old thing that had seen better days- a raggedy blue thing with a few frayed strands and a scuffed handle. It was old and worn and the most precious thing Shouta had ever held in his life. “Thank you,” the Pro whispered, clutching it close to his chest.

“Of course,” Enji hummed, bowing in return. “Please stay dry.”

---

Shouta descended the step of the tea shop, his body aching with every step. The medicine still clutched to his chest. The words still echoed in his mind. “You tell me when you’re ready.” He found himself walking the feeling of cool water running down his wet body was quite unpleasant. The wind blustered and the rain pattered on the antique umbrella and the way home seemed twice as long as usual. His mind raced, how could a stranger see so clearly into his mind was it that transparent to everyone that he was broken. As his feet hit the sidewalk a single thought crossed his mind. Hizashi. His songbird. His love. He was probably worried sick. As he pulled out his phone, he saw the screen was broken and as the light lit up his face, he could see 54 unread messages. Fuck. He ran, he didn’t even notice the tightening of his chest and the pain in his limbs, as he rounded the corner almost slipping on the wet pavement. He saw the lightly tan building of his home; the outside light was still on. As he unbolted the door and took a step inside, his heartbeat deafening in his ears, a pair of arms wrapped around his torso and pulled him inside.

As Shouta panted, Hizashi's grip gets getting tighter and tighter. No words were said but the silence spoke volumes. Shouta felt tears spring to his eyes and choked back a sob as Hizashi guided him to the living room sofa and sat him down. Wordlessly Hizashi began to take Shouta's shoes off, gently searching his dark eyes for some kind of answer of where he was. Shouta could not meet his gaze, and just shook from the wet clothes and clutched the sofa tighter. Hizashi nodded and went off down the hall. He returned a moment later with fluffy towels and the first words were spoken.

“Out of those clothes.” Shouta blushed but did as he was told and as each soaked article of clothing was removed from his body it was replaced with a warm fluffy towel. However, it didn’t stop his shivering and Hizashi started rubbing the frozen skin of his lover. After a few minutes, Hizashi suddenly stopped and stood up, turning his back from Shouta.

Suddenly the blond jolted forward. “heh… ehh…. heh'ISSShooo!" and went into the kitchen to grab a box of tissues.

As he sheepishly returned and met the gaze of his husband, he muttered an apology. “Sorry.”

Shouta was at a loss for words. Why was he sorry? It was not his fault Shouta got sick, not his fault he was broken. He had done everything right, Shouta was wrong. He blinked in rapid succession before finding his voice. The voice of Enji filled his head ‘When you’re ready. He spoke with a voice broken and small.

“The day that the rain smelled like ice cream, my cat went to heaven in front of my eyes. The day that the copper pipes in the old building smelled like burnt food, my best friend... went to heaven in front of my eyes. I couldn't save them. It's sad. Neither one had the chance to become an adult. They should have become adults. They should have had children of their own and loved those children. And I want to make that possible for other people. So don’t be sorry. You saved me. I love you.”

He had never expressed that amount of raw emotion in his whole life, not even to his therapist but it felt right. The nerves he felt flowed out of him as his tears decorated his face. As he sat covered in the towel he sobbed, all the emotions he had been holding released like the steam from that teapot that brought him warmth not a few hours before.

Hizashi cradled him, as his body racked with sobs, gently like how a mother would cradle a baby, pausing to kiss him and repeat gentle nothings. As Shouta began to wind down, all the strength he had been pretending he had disappeared and he slumped against Mic and closed his eyes and soon unconsciousness took him.

--

Shouta slept for hours it seemed like. Each dream he had was confusing and odd as if he had two brains competing for the dream. His tired muscles ached and the dull pain between his eyes had increased to a dull migraine. Truth be told he felt awful. But soon his body had had enough and he felt the being of a sneeze. He tried to hold back for a while longer but found it futile. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling as the tickle reached its climax.

“Eschht, Eschht eh ugh sniff heh hhh AET’SCHHH!”

The last sneeze ripped through him with such force all the blankets and towel that had kept him warm fell off of him and he was left sniffling chest exposed to the room and his husband who look just as surprised as himself.

“Goodness bless you Sho, you have caught my cold.”

The tired man just groaned and said with a voice still raspy and strained “Not a cold, it's probably the flu, I should have told you sooner, I just- ugh sniff again heh hhh Hit'choo!! Hih-tschh!! Hihh…hih-tsCHEW!”

With the last sneeze, he felt his Quirk go haywire and soon his hair was floating above him and his eyes had turned a red hue. Luckily for him, no one was in the radius but he still felt awful. A hero could only depend on two things in this world, their Quirk and the one they loved. If Shouta could take one of those away without realizing it, it could mean trouble.

Mic had knelt in front of the laying down Pro and gently cupped a tissue around his husband's nose. “Bless your hon, come on blow for me.”

Shouta did a wet gurgling blow and groaned as the Quirk deactivated his dry eyes yearning for water. Mic dabbed at Shouta slowly being red nose and stood. He made his way over to the linen closet and grabbed the warmest winter sweater and returned to his sick husband.

“Arms up you know the drill.” As Mic helped the Pro get dressed, he called out to Siri.

“Hey, Siri, text Doctor Green we are coming in an hour.” As Shouta's head came through the sweater hole he simply frowned. This Doctor had treated him after the accident but was a close friend of theirs. As Siri confirmed the appointment Mic sensed Shouta's discomfort and replied to him. “I know sweetie you don’t like the doctor but you know he can help better than over-the-counter drugs. He continued and I will be there the whole time.”

Shouta shook his head. “Together,” he said in a small voice

Mic helped the sickly Pro stand and guided him to the mirror next to the door and kissed him on his flushed skin. “Forever Together.”

--

The train ride for the first leg of the journey was uneventful. The hum of the fluorescent lights and the moving subway train was distracting enough to distract other passengers from Shouta's constant sniffling. Mic was stood holding on to the overhead bar while Shouta was sitting with his head in his hands. Mic was constantly asking if Shouta needed anything even though he would not be able to provide much relief besides encouraging words. As the overhead speakers announced their stop Mic helped Shouta stand as the train came to a hard stop be cursed in English as Shouta stumbled forward again him.

The misty afternoon after the rainstorm was heavy in the air but still, Shouta shivered a clear sign of a fever and the couple picked up the pace to the doctors. As they rounded a corner a few blocks away they were met with the flashing blue and red of a line of police cars. As heroes, they knew a situation was happening. Mic half dragging Shouta went to them who seemed to be in charge of the crowd of citizens and asked what was happening. The short man with light brown hair replied with the normal answer for any citizen. “Nothing to worry about Sir heroes will handle it.” Mic frowned and dug in his pocket and grabbed his Hero license and flashed it at the man. Taken aback the man quickly responded. “Oh, um sorry, a Jewelry store has been taken hostage, he paused before continuing “my chief might need an extra few hand…he paused and looked at the struggling man Mic was holding up “is he also able to help.” Mic didn’t have time for this and he ducked below the police tape and began walking to the line of cop cars. Shouta followed but sluggishly. As he neared the chief of the police, he quickly scanned the street. He could see the jewelry store in question had a broken window and was heavily surrounded by local heroes as well as other members of the police task force. As Shouta caught up his eyes were half-closed and looked like he was going to pass out any second. Before Mic could attend to Shouta a round of gunshots filled the air and out of instinct he grabbed both of them and they hit the pavement hard. After a few moments, he helped Shouta lean against a cop car tire and checked over his body. ‘No wounds’ Mic thought ‘I don’t have time for this we need to get through this street.’

Mic looked at the task force and saw the numbers had decreased whoever was in the store had an amble firearm. As a local hero approached the car Mic asked what the status was and what they know. The local hero stating that the man inside the store had a bullet-type quirk and could shoot many rounds of ammo and was demanding everyone to leave and no one would get hurt.

Mic thought ‘a bullet type quirk, like Pro hero Edgeshot’ Mic continued to question. Did they have any other people with them? The local hero shook his head no they are alone. Mic could work with this. He waved over the chief, a man he had worked with a few other times.

If they could stop the man quirk do, they have enough to help the hostages and defeat the villain. The chief simply nodded his head and Mic set to work.

He gently shook the arm of Shouta who barely raised his head. “Hey love I know you are exhausted but we need you Quirk right now can you aim your Quirk over to the storefront.

Shouta tried Mic had to give him credit for that, but as soon his hair started to rise it quickly fell. Shouta mumbled a response thick with congestion. “I. Can’t…tired”

Mic rubbed his arms in understanding and replied “What about if we use your illness as an advantage, you can’t control when it happens right, what if we use that.”

Shouta turned to look at Mic. “What are you suggesting?”

Before he could reply another round of gunshot shot at them and he quickly covered Shouta's body with his. He immediately felt the sharp pain as a bullet entered him under his ribs, and he could feel the blood start to spill. With an adrenaline-filled body, he quickly pulled Shouta into a somewhat kneeling position and aimed his head toward the storefront. “I’m sorry about this love this isn’t going to be big on dignity.”

He grabbed the end of his ponytail and brought the split ends to the underside of Shouta's nose. The already irritated organ began to twitch as the strands of hair slowly twisted around.  

Shouta tried to ignore the incessant prodding of the frizzy hair against his sensitive nose, but with each swipe, the tiny hairs that shook loose were soon sucked up into his twitching and quivering nostrils.  He shuddered and froze in place a tear slowly trailed down from his eye to his cheek as his nose began scrunching and wriggling from the irritation.

“Come on Shouta you can do it,” Mic said. Shouta’s chest heaved and he couldn't help but give in to the itchy and tickly urge to expel those irritants from his nostrils.

“H...hhih...” The beginnings of a sneeze showed as his eyes began to droop. His chest expanded further “Haaahhh! Aaahhhh!”  His eyes fully closed, head tilting back and signaling the oncoming release.  Mic aimed his face toward the storefront and sent a silent prayer that this would work.

“Hit'choo!! Hih-tschh!! Hihh…hih-tsCHEW!”

As Shouta sneezed his hair lifted with ease and soon the storefront was temperately Quick free. Mic activated his Quirk and told the task force to go. Shouta was still panting from sneezing but his eyes were open however Mic didn’t know how long he could keep them open. As the task force ran in the subject found his Quirk would not activate and soon found himself being put in handcuffs and a medical device being placed that would stop his Quirk without the help of Erasure.

As Mic received the thumbs up, he spoke to his shaking husband who was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Bless your hon you did it, you can relax now.” As Shouta did all the energy slipped from him and he lost consciousness and slumped over on the wet pavement. Mic grabbed the fragile man and began to walk to the nearest ambulance, as he stepped into the back of the ambulance the medic and himself helped Shouta into the gurney, and soon the siren wailed and they were finally off to their destination.

--

As they entered the hospital fast lane and the medic was ready to receive both of the ProS, Mic was insistent to be placed near Shouta as he wasn’t comfortable around hospitals. The medic nodded and escorted them to their joined room. Shouta was seen to first. They took blood and gave him fluids; they also provide pain medicine and sadly they had to wait until he woke up.

Mic surgery was quickly scheduled. He met with the surgeon while sitting next to Shouta and rubbing his arm. The female was fairly tall and had blue tint to her eyes and white hair. She explained the surgery before Mic consented.

“Upon examination, we identified 1 cm diameter entry wound at the left lower abdominal wall, Sir. The images we took showed the bullet in the peritoneal cavity but no injured intraperitoneal and retroperitoneal viscera. We decided to remove the bullet laparoscopically.” Mic nodded. She noticed the band around his finger and smiled. “How long have you two been together?”

Mic smiled and replied “4-year next month, but I have known since we were 14 that this is what we both needed.” He paused before swallowing hard “We've been through a lot but I can’t imagine life without him. He is my whole life, my Sky. He bent down and kissed the sleeping man's hand.  The surgeon smiled and spoke “I see, well that must be hard with both of you rushing into battle all the time,” she looked down at her clipboard before continue “I have treated a lot of patients in my day but never have I seen a love quite like your, it’s very special.”  A monitor beeped and the surgeon motioned him to follow. “Well, shall we take care of the bullet Mr. Hizashi. Mic kissed Shouta’s hand before leaving the room.

--

Shouta was hot. It was too bright wherever he was. His mind was foggy. He groaned as he sat up, he immediately recognized the smell of a hospital. What happened. The last thing he remembers is the sound of gunshots and Hizashi…Shit Hizashi he jerked into a sit-up position and looked around. The nurse that had been changing his fluid jumped back. “Calm down you’re okay! Just relax.”

“Where is he…what happened?” He asked rage filling his croaky voice. The nurse replied, “Sir he is in surgery he will be out soon don’t worry he is okay.” She laid him back against the pillows before continuing “We need to make sure you’re okay Sir make sure you don’t have a concussion. He pulled out a light and shown it in his eye without much warning. The tickle flared to life and he turned his head.

“Issh’iIEWW!....hhh..heh… “TSCHTIEW” Thankfully his Quirk did not activate he wiped his nose on the back of his arm as the nurse apologized.

“Sorry Sir, but the good news is you don’t have a concussion so you will be out of here as soon as we can get some medicine and your husband is awake.”

Shouta relaxed slightly and closed his eyes and tried to keep the panic from getting too much to handle. Within the next 2 hours, Shouta tried to not be a bother to any of the staff but his flu had proven a little too much for him to handle.

As a nurse with a gravity-type quirk was walking down the hall with floating plates of dinner, he groaned as another tickle forced him to sneeze and he felt his quirk activate and he heard the crash as the dinner plates fell and crashed on the floor. Many of the nurses were understanding but he still felt awful. When his husband was wheeled into his room Shouta's eyes began to water and he had to fight back tears. The surgeon explained the surgery was a success and he would be discharged later today. She told Aizawa in a voice soft and comforting. “He loves you so much, you are a very lucky man.” She sat on the edge of his bed and looked into his eyes. “I know you feel broken but he is trying so hard to make sure you are taken care of. The world is a cruel place and I know you have suffered more than most. But know this, he loves you and has sworn to protect you. You might be a Hero to the public but he is your Hero, let him save you. She wiped a tear from her eye and turned to leave. Before leaving the room, she said “Oh and you have a gift make sure to grab it before leaving.” And placed a small box on the counter next to the door before leaving him.

When Hizashi woke and passed all the discharge tests and Shouta had his medicine they left the hospital holding each other’s hand and holding a box of tea that they would use for the rest of their life.

The end.

[enochianribs]

Chapter 2 of the Cabin AU is up now!

Read on Ao3 here, or under the cut. 

(Reblogs appreciated!)

The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered.  The roof had a leak. Dean woke up to a growing wet spot on the pillow next to his. He laid still, eyes crossing as he stared at the ceiling, watching the bead of water run across one of the unfinished boards, suspending itself for an entire minute until it plopped right next to his head. Slowly, his mind pulled itself out of his dream, though the haze lingered. 

 “Mmm...great.” Another item on his to-do list. 

 Dean was willing to bet there were more leaks in the living room. 

For a moment he debated allowing himself to be lulled back to sleep. It was all too easy to slip back to that dream again: blurry hands, soft mouths, quiet murmurs, everything he missed and everything he’d never had. Not really. 

 Rain gently pattered against the outside of the cabin, the storm grinding in from the East and then settling its haunches right over the hills to stay for the night. The sun was rising, and the pink sky cast shadows from the drops on the window pane, little spots phantom dripping down his sheets. 

 It was the first morning since he’d gotten to the cabin that he’d slept in past sunrise. Sluggishly, he sat up, diggin the heel of his hand into his eyes as a yawn fought its way out of his chest. He turned his head, and reached out with a hand to wake his companion, before reality caught up with him and his hand fell to the mattress, going through the ghost.

 That’s right , he thought. His mouth tasted like ash.

 If he laid there any longer his chest would become heavy, and his breaths ragged, so he tossed the covers off, and trudged over to the shower. The cold water bit through the fog better than anything else could, and he leaned his temple against the glass door waiting for it to heat up and fill the room with steam. 

 Normally, he’d air dry, but it was chilly and an urgency hung around him. He grabbed the bleach-spotted towel hanging sadly by the door towelled off quickly. 

He wandered idly, picking his daily morning tasks up and dropping them before he’d complete them. Something pulled him around the house. He was forgetting something.

Dean was midway through folding the quilt and draping it on the sofa arm when they caught his eye. 

Two large feathers sat in the middle of the massive dining table (he still wondered who had built and what they’d been thinking—  the thing could seat the knights of the round table if necessary). Tugging the fridge door with one hand he reached blindly for the pot of coffee he kept iced, and nudged it closed with his knee, never taking his eyes off them. 

They were captivating. He continued to stare as he poured himself a cup, spilling some of the coffee onto the counter. He’d forget to clean it up, and it would stain, but that was okay. If they asked, he was experimenting with wood staining.

Dean could examine them once he made himself some kind of breakfast. Those were the rules: remember to feed yourself, and then you can do whatever you want to with your day. Breakfast ended up being toast and jam, and he plopped it down at the end seat of the table, and reached for the feathers before he took a bite. 

The color on the first one was so dark it looked heavy, but it was as light in his hand as any feather should be. He held it up and squinted, twisting his wrist back and forth. It caught the light and reflected a shimmering oil slick back at him. The colors shifted, hues iridescent.

 At first glance it could be a raven’s, but it was at least four times bigger than that.

 The second one was more muted, the black towards the base of it dappled into a brown and white, and it was downy soft where the other was sharp and precise. Yesterday he’d thought it was grey but better light proved that it was a grey-brown.

He’d assumed that it was from the same bird—  creature , but now he wasn’t so sure. Dean didn’t know the first thing about birds. However, he knew several people who did. 

▵▿▵

“Hey, Bobby. Can I talk to Rufus?”

“He’s kinda in the middle of some’in’, Dean.” The roll of his eyes was audible, as someone yelped in the muffled background. “Can I call you back?”

“Please?” Dean asked, grinning cheekily even though he wasn’t there to warm Bobby over in person. 

Bobby made a disgruntled noise and paused, before sighing. “You’re doing the face aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. You never want to talk to me .” 

“You know that’s not true.”

“Hm.” Bobby replied. Out of spite, he kept the phone next to his face as he shouted for his attention. “Rufus! It’s Dean.” 

Ouch , Dean mouthed wincing at the volume, as he listened to the sound of two old men grumbling at each other before fabric shifted, and Rufus picked up the phone. 

“He lives.”

A smile burst its way through Dean’s concentration. “Hey Ruf, gotta question for you.”

“Coulda called us sooner. We were beginning to wonder if you’d sold the cabin and moved somewhere warmer with pink flamingos.”

The image made Dean snort. Him at the beach? Unlikely.

“Nope.” Dean quipped. “Still here and freezing my ass off. You guys ever think about installing a damn heater?”

“And pay that bill? Hell no. We added a fireplace, what more do you want from us.”

Good ol’ crabby Rufus. “What do you know about birds?” 

“A lot.” As per usual, he was being obtuse.

“Know of any big enough to leave behind two foot feathers?”

Rufus whistled. “Not in North America, unless you’ve got ostriches running around.”

“That’d be a negatory. So there’s nothing you can think of?”

“Nope. Did you find something, kid?”

“Holding one right now.”

“No shit.” He could hear the bewildered tone of his voice over the shitty connection. “Well, I guess keep an eye out. It’d be real hard for something that big to hide, and even harder for it to sit comfortable in those pine trees with the branches so dense. I’d say you’re about to make the biggest zoological discovery in North America in the past century. Keep us posted?” 

“Will do.” Dean said, and he heard Rufus handing the phone back over to Bobby. 

“Hope everything’s okay up there, Dean.”

“Everything’s peachy, honestly. Anyways—” He checked the clock on the stove. 8:30. The hardware store would be open in a half hour. “I’ve got some errands to run, so I’ll leave you to whatever it is a couple of old farts do in retirement.”

“Hey—” 

Dean grinned to himself. “See ya, Bobby.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

The line went silent, and Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, bobbing his head to the side in thought. Though he didn’t get a definitive answer, at least the call had eliminated the options of native fauna. 

▵▿▵

At nine in the morning, Dean was usually one of a small line of people waiting outside Lafitte’s Goods to needle Benny’s brain for fixes and tools of the trade. Pamela was waiting against the brick wall, hand shielding the summer morning sun from her eyes, reading a 99 cent paper back with interest. 

“Hey, Pamela.”

“Dean-o. Call me Pammy.”

“Really?”

“No, of course not. But Pam works. I’m not your mother.”

“You call your mom by her first name?”

“Fair point. What’re you here for?” She nodded her head and bounced off the wall, as Benny unlocked the doors. A couple of grizzled old men shuffled in ahead of them, beelining it for the plywood. 

Porch season. 

“Roof’s got a leak.”

“Leak season.”

“Apparently. This is the third one since I got here.”

She squinted at him, like he was omitting something important, and popped the bubble of gum in her mouth. Dean started to itch under her scrutiny. He hated being studied like a lab rat.

What was the woman? A witch? Why was she peeling back layers of his get-up without warning.

Dean coughed, and used Benny’s presence as an excuse to wiggle out from under her gaze. “Gotta—  yeah, see you.” Turning on his heel he fled towards the adhesives, face contorting with embarrassment. 

Holy fuck, somehow he’d gotten even more awkward. 

Dear god, help me. 

Benny never pried unless Dean seemed interested in offering up information, and for that Dean was actually incredibly grateful. Most days he didn’t want to talk about anything, certainly not his past, but Benny and his bushy beard and warm eyes had managed to wiggle through his walls, just a little. 

“Benny.”

Benny stared at him from behind the register, inquisitive expression considerably easier to cope with than Barnes' hungry expression. A friendly smile danced across his face as he assessed Dean’s no-doubt rosey cheeks. 

“She’s got her claws in you, huh.”

Dean ducked his head, glancing sideways at the brunette woman still looking at the different kinds of rope. A tramp stamp peeked out from under the bottom edge of her tank top. Dean tapped his fingers on the pock-marked wood counter and turned his attention back to his friend. “Is she always like that?”

“Sure is,” Benny drawled, ringing up everything Dean had haphazardly shoved onto the counter in his escape. “You just happen to be the newest, prettiest , plaything in Pringle.” The burly man winked.

 Pink crawled up Dean’s neck  from his collarbones and spread into his cheeks once again. Christ, there was no escape from these people. Still stammering, Dean practically ran back to the Impala. 

▵▿▵

 The phone vibrated in his back pocket. By the third ring, Dean had parked Baby in her usual spot, and he struggled to tug it out of his pocket, checking the Caller ID. 

California. 

He pumped the window down, the air getting warm inside the car, and he flipped the phone open, inhaling sharply. He should have called before now. Shouldn’t have let so much time pass. In the fall, he’d be too busy to take any of Dean’s calls anyways. 

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Sammy.”

Several seconds of too-long silence passed between them. 

“Where have you been?”

Dean swallowed, thick, guilt permeating the small space. 

“Sorry, I just—” He didn’t have an excuse. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You still could’ve picked up the phone. I tried to call you about six times. You don’t always need to have something to say, y’know…  It just would’ve been nice to know you’re still breathing.” His brother’s voice was basically a whisper at the end. 

“I know.” Dean closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing shakily. “I know.”

“I had to hear it from Bobby. Dean—” Sam’s voice pitched up to that octave it always did when he was upset. “Dad’s gone again.”

Fuck. 

“And that’s fine. It’s not like I’m ten and incapable of caring for myself but I thought—  I thought he’d be back by now. It’s been a couple of weeks.”

“Shit, Sammy.” 

“I think he’s fine. He sent a vague text a couple of days ago, it’s just with school starting in two months I get worried. Not even for him, just for us. I can’t pay for school myself, and I can’t afford to miss anything because of Dad. If my grades drop, I’m out.”

“I know.” God, Dean knew.

Sam was a late bloomer for college. The kid was brilliant, but he’d been dealt a bad hand, and it was a miracle Rufus and Bobby had invested in a saving fund for the two of them decades ago. At twenty-two, Dean knew that he’d already had trouble securing the scholarships. Stanford wanted the best and brightest, not the kid with seven schools on his high school transcript and an overabundance of unexcused absences. 

The guilt piled up and perched itself on his shoulders until he sagged into his seat under the heaviness. It was his job to keep John out of trouble, not Sammy’s. And instead he’d run away from that responsibility. 

The repair materials sat in the backseat, and his heart twisted in his chest. The meadow sat peacefully in the late afternoon sun, just across the short distance of woods, and it still kept its secret. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he’d had his fill of independence.

“Look,” He could kick himself for how his voice cracked. “If John doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, I’ll come back. I’ll help. Promise.”

For what it was worth, a facet of his brother’s relieved sigh sounded apologetic.“Thank you, Dean. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“Okay then.”

“Bye.”

“Talk to you soon, Sammy.” Dean’s jaw clenched involuntarily, as he flipped the phone closed and tossed it against the passenger door. His frustrated shout echoed between him and the trees, but he didn’t feel better.

Always this .

Historically, John would do something stupid and irresponsible and Dean would drop everythign to clean up the mess and no one would thank him. Not really. That was fine.

Family was supposed to break your heart. 

 ▵▿▵

 The leak proved to be an easy fix. 

Dean fought the attic door that led to the roof, following the small staircase up until he was on the balls of his feet, head sticking out as he pulled himself onto it. The shingles were rough, cracked and damaged from the winters, and he scrapped the length of his arm against it.

 The source of the leak took only a minute to find. Five or so shingles were missing, leaving nothing but the wood underneath, which did nothing but absorb any and all precipitation. The rubber sealant smelled terrible, and he gagged dramatically, almost dropping the metal can in the process. Done applying, he plopped his ass down, determined to see it dry properly before he went back inside.

Half assing things had always resulted in a stern talking to in the least, and it had been something he’d struggled with growing up, his mind yanking him a thousand directions until his head was spinning and John was disappointed. 

Dean grit his teeth, purposefully dragging the raw scrape against the rough roofing, the burn biting through the thought, bringing him back down from that far off place he so frequently wandered to. He didn’t even know how he got there, but he found himself lost, shrunk down, smaller than the hand-me-down leather jacket he tried to fill.

From the roof he could see almost everything. It turned out that Rufus and Bobby’s cabin foundation was built onto a gentle slope.

The rain clouds had dissipated, migrating to the flat plains further south, and it left a crisp atmosphere behind. The sun poked through the remaining gargantuan cumulonimbus clouds, sunbeams gently caressing the grass. Grey mist rose from where the creek beds greedily absorbed the heat. It reminded him of the paintings of cowboys, sitting on a stallion, bathed in golden light, their backs to the audience, all the edges illuminated and throwing everything else into stark purple shadows. 

 The burn of the scrape subsided as a sense of peace settled Dean, his body melting into the shingles. An hour passed before his stomach growled, and he climbed back down for lunch.

 ▵▿▵

 Tapping. 

Tapping at the window pane only inches from his face. 

Groggy and only slightly encrusted (gross) Dean opened his eyes and was met by dark blue ones, a tawny human hand pressed up against the glass. 

 Dean’s soul evaporated out of his body, back pressed to the headboard as he scrabbled for the small knife he kept under his pillow. Before he could look again, it was gone.He launched himself out of bed, so very entirely grateful that he’d had enough sense to go to sleep in his boxers and his worn-out threadbare Kansas shirt. 

Holy hell.  

Fingers trembling, he opened the window, leaning almost all the way out, hovering a few feet above the ground.A single feather slowly came to rest soundlessly on the pine-needle carpet. The view from the window remained unyieldingly motionless. 

Black-eyed susans had begun to sprout in the shade, despite themselves, and now they quivered where they grew between the pine-roots even though the morning wind had not pierced through the woods yet. 

Craning his neck, he glanced up, half expecting the last thing he’d ever see to be a terrifying bird man staring down at him like he was lunch. Nothing. 

Dean practically fell out of his room, chanting under his breath in a poor attempt to calm himself down as he stumbled down the short hall to the living room. 

It’s human.

“No,” Dean spoke to the picture frames on the walls. He had no idea what he was denying, but the situation begged to be denied. He paced back and forth in the living room, no doubt wearing the floor down despite the fact that he was wearing socks—  the ones with the holes in the heel. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Oh my God, it was so very not okay. 

Suddenly, the couch seemed like the perfect place to suffocate himself to unconsciousness. Someone else could deal with this. 

 No , he thought. You wanted this to happen, you dirty liar. Stop panicking and deal with it. 

Wings was human- or at least partially human. He looked like a man. Dean’s thin eyelids fluttered closed, and the image was painted on the backside of them with crystal clarity. Square jawline, arrow-straight nose, curiously arched eyebrows…  and the eyes . They were so blue. And they had been looking right at him. Watching him. 

It was entirely ridiculous that his eyes overshadowed the massive lurking darkness behind him, of what had to have been his wings. 

A human with wings. 

This was crazy. Everything was crazy.

The way he saw it, there were two directions this could go: he could pretend he hadn’t seen anything, and this would be tucked away into the delusion box that he kept under lock and key at the back of his mind and he could grow old being none the wiser of whatever breach of reality this was, or he could go find it. 

The first option was sounding real nice. Normal. Well adjusted. 

He was well adjusted. 

Besides, Dean wasn’t entirely convinced it wasn’t a dream.  this entire thing was a fever dream and he was in some hospital bed back in Lawrence, stuck in a coma. Dean pinched himself, viciously and stared at the white marks left on his forearm, helpless. 

Nope. 

“Okay.” He barked out a laugh. 

He should call Jo. 

After a few more minutes of pacing and hyperventilating, he decided against it. He would tell her—  of course he would! —but when it came up.

The Harvelle’s were good people and they’d shown him nothing but kindness. 

The situation had to be broached with care, or the small home he’d built in the life he wanted to live would topple in on itself, and the rubble and dust would drown him.

Trust issues were a problem of his, and he’d been aware of them since high school, when he’d had too many secrets to keep and any semblance of a support system was states away. 

God, he knew the way he clammed up was obvious, but sometimes he surprised even himself. If he was being honest, there was a lot more to it than a strong need for privacy. Didn’t matter though. In the end, after all the nit-picking and self beratement, it boiled down to fear. 

Jo could keep her mouth closed, but there was always a chance she’d accidentally tell someone, and there was a high chance it would be the wrong person. If he let it slip that this thing existed, who knew what would come packing. And he knew sooner or later, someone would bring the heat. Words got around easily in a small town like Pringle and he knew everyone would be at his door, wanting a chance to see the freak of the week. 

Which… was a thing that existed. A human with wings, that called the small clearing his home.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He felt protective over the man, almost ferociously so. 

The day’s hunting trip wasn’t happening— now Dean was paranoid.

What if he accidently shot him? Or scared him off permanently? 

His stomach churned, acid and bile climbing their way up his throat. The burn was familiar. Half his childhood had been spent subsiding panic attacks and anxiety, calming down Dad or Sam or both at the same time. 

▵▿▵

The tin echo of a gunshot managed to penetrate through the thick log walls of the cabin.In a heartbeat, he was scrambling for the ancient shotgun. The front door swung open, the little voice in his head told him to close it behind him, but his feet carried him quicker than his mind and so he left it swinging on its hinges at his back. 

An anguished scream gargled its way from somewhere deeper into the woods, due south of the cabin. Rocks dashed the soles of Dean’s feat and he swore out loud, having forgotten his boots at the door. 

Shit shit shit.  

Someone was nearby, and they were ballsy enough to fire a weapon despite the illegality of hunting on private property. His mind raced at the same speed he ran towards it, a limp skewing his gate every few steps. Stray branches caught the sleeves of his shirt, tearing through the fabric as he refused to slow down. 

It’s just a deer. 

He knew better. 

They’re just after a deer, or a bison that wandered away from the heard or an elk or something—  

Another blood curdling scream erupted from amongst the pine, this one loud enough to rattle the crows out of their nests. They cawed, the sound of dozens of pairs of wings taking flight muting the pained groans. 

He knew better. 

Please—  please. Not Wings.

He faltered over a boulder, panic overtaking muscle memory and skidded to a halt at the crest of a ledge. The scene below knocked the breath out of his chest, leaving a vacuum in its wake. 

Campbell, one of the more elderly hunters of the area was standing over another tawny body. Giant black wings sprawled out, twisting and twitching in the dirt and mud, feathers slightly splayed underneath his back. 

Campbell’s face distorted in pain, a tense moment passing before his wild eyes landed on Dean, the whites of his too visible, even from ten yards away. Blood pumped out from a wound on his neck, and he had a hand clamped down onto it, slick with red, he held a shotgun limply in his left hand, the butt of it dropped heavily to the ground. 

Semi-satisfied that Campbell didn’t seem interested in shooting again, Dean fixated every ounce of attention on Wings and his breath hitched. Smeared across his mouth and chin was a copious amount of blood. He’d bitten Campbell. Dean’s heart swelled with pride.

Good . 

His short encounter with Campbell prior had proved that the man was a bag of dicks, cocky and far too keen on the killing aspect of hunting. It skeeved Dean out then, and it certainly did now. Campbell was still looking at Wings like he was prey. Though no component of the scene begged to differ: the man was naked, teeth bared, but he was incapable of escaping, the gunshot wound in his abdomen bleeding him dry. 

Dean leveled the end of his shotgun at Campbell’s head. “Get the fuck away from him.”

Campbell backed away from Wings, the muscles in his right arm tensed, like he wanted to put it up defensively, but it was necessary he kept pressure on the wound. It looked like Wings had gone for the jugular. “It attacked me, Winchester.”

“And?” 

“You’re fucking crazy.”

Dean would put money on the fact that he looked the part, he could feel his chest heaving, something akin to dull rage pumping through his veins. He prayed the tremor in his hand didn’t betray his hesitation. “I said move .”

Obeying his orders, Campbell stepped back, never taking his eyes off of the strange man. Agony flashed across his face where he laid in the dirt.In his hands, he held a silver blade. Wings looked from Campbell to Dean, expression visibly softening.

“Give me your coat.” Dean didn’t have much time, glancing at Wings, he saw that a red gleam of blood was starting to trickle from the corner of his mouth and his eyes moved frantically. He slid down the slope and went to take off his jacket and remembered his was only in his boxers. “ NOW .” 

Campbell shirked it off and threw it at Dean, staying exactly where he was. Moving quickly, Dean pressed the thick fabric to the wound, moving his other hand to the back side to see where the bullet went. There was no opening there, and he was thankful that Wings was naked. He could skip the sometimes detrimental process of removing his clothes to assess the wound better.

 He tied the jacket around him and slid one arm under his legs and the other across his shoulder blades, lifting him up carefully. Dean had to get him back to his house immediately, before Wings lost too much blood.

One last time, he regarded Campbell. He felt the sneer tug his lip up, his voice like acid trying to eat through the other man’s bones until he was nothing. “Get the fuck off my property. And don’t tell anyone about this. He’ll be fine, not that you care. But you won’t be if I see you here again, or if I hear about this from anyone. Do I make myself clear?”  

Samuel’s eyes darkened clearly at war with Dean’s threat, but his skin was taking on a pallor akin to lethal blood loss. He nodded curtly, acknowledging the agreement, at least for the moment. 

Reasonably satisfied that Campbell wouldn’t shoot them in the back, Dean turned and left, the body draped over his shoulder too warm.Dean’s hand wrapped around, hand feathering over his taut side, avoiding the wound. He could feel his fingers wet with blood. 

Wings was whispering something feverishly, though Dean couldn’t catch a word of it, his eyes glazed over with pain, searching the sky for something with a fervor of a religious man with hell hounds on his heels. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dean murmured, straining to carry the both of them the distance to the cabin. “I’ve got you.” 

Wing’s head lolled to the side, and his body went slack. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, but Dean couldn’t afford to cry now. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get them inside safely. He swallowed the terror. He ducked and wove through the undergrowth, fearing that the drooping wings would catch on a branch or boulder. 

The time it took until he could lay Wings down on his dining room table felt like hell had manifested on Earth, keenly able to feel life slipping away in his arms.

Once Dean managed to put Wings on the table without his head smacking the wood, he tore the kitchen apart for salt and a bowl of water and some clean washcloths, and sprinted to the bathroom, yanking the drawers out and emptying their contents onto the counter and sink until his eyes landed on the tweezers and isopropyl alcohol.

It wasn’t a perfect med kit, but there was no other choice. It had to do. 

Dean approached the table cautiously, worried that too much movement would set him off. The dark wingspan spread out almost three feet on either side of the table and Dean swallowed a stone.

He had no idea what to do next, not really. The closest experience he’d had to being a doctor had been treating John’s stab wound when he was thirteen and John had come home more beaten than usual.  

He stared helplessly down at Wings.  

“He...help.” Wings voice was like a ghost’s, he barely heard it, and he was standing right next to him. He looked up at the cobwebbed chandelier lighting like it was something holy and mesmerizing and Dean realized he was losing him. 

“Shhh… it’s okay.” His forehead was sticky with sweat and drying blood, and Dean pushed some of the unruly black wisps from his eyes, humming low. “I’m gonna help you.” 

Wings hand shook, following the edge of the table, feverishly searching for something to hold onto. Tentatively, Dean slid his fingers between his, feeling his calloused palm against his own. “Wings. Wings, you gotta listen to me. Wings, please . You have to lay still.”

He had no idea if the man understood a single word he was saying, but it seemed to do the trick. Over the span of a terrible minute, his breathing slowed down, and his grip on Dean’s hand went from frail to almost bone crushingly alive. 

Wings’ blue eyes were on him, flickering a little in the low light. Dean waited, untrained, unable and unwilling to play operation on him while he was still conscious, eyes desperate to look at anything but the daunting task before him. 

Eventually, he passed out, his painful grimace replaced by a soft one, and Dean began to remove the shrapnel bullet, praying to anyone who was listening that it had not shredded his insides beyond repair. 

 ▵▿▵

 At some point in the night, Dean had gotten up to draw the curtains and lock the door, willing to sacrifice only a moment to seal them away from the rest of the world. 

 Now, sunlight pierced through the cracks, illuminating them both in thin lines of white light. He watched Wings toss and turn, his face gnarling into pain each time he moved.

 What if Dean had fucked it up? What if the next breath he drew was his last? His mind raced, punishing him for every moment’s hesitation that could very well lead to his death. 

 Dean caught himself following Wings jawline, examining the stark contours of his face like he would never see them again. Please, just please make it out alive.

 “Don’t die on me, Wings.” The words slipped out subconsciously. “Please, God, don’t die on me.”

 Dean had the decency to cover him up with the quilt. The two’s hands were still tightly entwined long after the heartbeat in Wing’s wrist lulled Dean into sleep, tumbling heart over head. 

[teacup-crow]

The Christmas Runner

On the 12th Christmas Eve after the world ended, Molly and Carena told someone the story of the Christmas Runner. Major end of S3 spoilers, very minor spoilers for early S5. 

I spent all day in bed and this happened? Will probably go on AO3 once I polish it (and when it’s actually close to Christmas). Promise it’s wholesome!

(In my headcanon here Carena is 15, Molly is 13 and Sara is 7)

“Sam’s givin’ you how much to watch her?” Carena Skeet spluttered, towering over the younger girl, leaning her hands over her head on the brick wall of the housing block. The moon was a sharpened, thin crescent, and lights winked in the guard towers. Over in the main barn, they could faintly hear the twanging of a slightly out-of-tune guitar and some tipsy singing, suggesting the grown-ups’ Christmas Eve party was already in full swing.

Everyone said that Molly Harrison was the prettiest girl in Abel, with blonde curly hair and eyes blue enough to knock out zoms, but right now she was shifting foot-to-foot, looking more irritated than anything else.

“A loaf of crusty bread and a pot of blackcurrant jam, and… you’re not having any of it, Caz.”

“Dr Cohen only promised me a bloody book!” Carena pouted, but avoided stomping her foot. She’d about grown out of that. Nobody would dare call her pretty, but she was too, in a fiercely intimidating way. It was two months until she turned sixteen and could finally start Runner training, and she’d already begun practicing first thing every morning, tearing around the training shed when the sun had barely risen. Where Molly was soft and homely, she was angled and muscular. “You can read it if you let me have a spoonful.”

“That’s a rubbish trade and you know it! I won’t always go along with everything you tell me to do, you know, it’s not fair-“

“Oh blah blah blah, quit whinin’, let’s just get the job done before they realise they double-booked.” She dropped her hands and stalked away. Her foster dad’s old fireman jacket was too big on her, but wearing the king’s clothing added to her swagger.

“You don’t like kids,” Molly pointed out, stumbling a little behind her as she strode off to the front door.

“Kids is fine. Kids is kids. I have, like, fifteen siblings. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yes, and you don’t like any of them. And they’re all the same age as you!”

“What can I say, I’m not good at sharing.” She turned and gazed pointedly at Molly, who shrugged it off. “It doesn’t take two people to babysit a seven year old.”

“Yeah, so go away, Caz. You don’t even want a book.”

“Gotta get on Dr Myers’ and Sam’s good side if I want to be recommended for Runner, don’t I? Janine respects their opinion more than anyone else except Runner Five.”

“So go and sit on guard duty with Runner Five and earn their approval.”

“You jokin’? Five’s batshit.”

“They’re also the only reason we’re not dead, so maybe you should be a bit more respectful.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to tell me what to do, Molly Harrison...” Carena’s tone was affronted, teetering on nasty. Then she stopped herself. “But yeah, you’re right. Five’s batshit bonkers, but they’re awesome.”

“And scary?” Molly added.

“Yeah, if you’re a wuss.”

They’d reached the green wooden door of Maxine and Paula’s apartment, a wreath on the outside, a menorah in the window. Sara had hung paper chains all down their part of the corridor. It made both the teenagers smile for a second or two.

Carena knocked, to no reply. She tried again. 

“That’s weird,” she muttered.

“Sara, you in there?” Molly tried, peeking through the window. 

“Sara, we brought chocolate!”

This caused a patter of feet to charge towards the door. Carena grinned. “First rule of kids is lie through your teeth.”

“MOLLY!” Sara sprang through the door in a bright blur of red sweater and green trousers, and jumped into Molly’s outstretched arms. “Did you bring Galileo too?”

Years before, when Archie Jensen had lost Mildred van der Graff to an explosion, Five had managed to get their own chicken back to Abel relatively unscathed. Molly, already interested in animals even as a small child, had adopted Galileo Figaro, a now-geriatric menace with a beak that had lasted longer than anyone expected. The hen had strong memories of her dinosaur roots, and, apart from Molly, Five and Sara, would attack almost anyone who dared enter the coop.

“Galileo’s an old hen, she’s resting.”

“She went cluck-cluck-cluck over the rainbow bridge to Ed Harrison’s stomach, you mean.”

“Caz! Dad would never!” Molly looked scandalised as Carena burst out laughing at her own joke. Thankfully, it went over Sara’s head as she dropped down from Molly’s arms and stared up at Carena’s jacket in awe. Caz ruffled her mop of springy hair affectionately. She liked this kid, at least. It was very difficult not to.

“Hello, baby Sara, how’s it goin’?”

“Good, Princess Caz! I’m making a jigsaw puzzle. It’s got a million trillion pieces!”

“Sounds like an absolute riot. Tell you what, Molly can finish it with you and I’ll heat up the rations.”

Molly nodded despite herself, taking the pudgy little hand in hers and stepping into the cosy apartment. “Okay, let’s go, hopefully we have all the pieces...”

“Daddy had to remake some of the missing ones but he said you can barely tell the difference, sort of! Anyway, you said you had chocolate?”

This was still one of the oldest housing blocks in Abel, but instead of enough bunks for eight people the two rooms comfortably housed the little family of three, bathroom splitting a bedroom on one side and a family room on the other with a table and a bookshelf and warm candle-lit lamps too high for Sara to knock over on the mantelpiece. Woollen throws covered the kind of battered armchairs you sank into and artwork lined the walls. There was even a tidy kitchen corner with a kettle and a camp stove and a stack of chipped plates and mugs. It was one of Carena’s favourite places: better even than sharing a room with some of the roller girls on a rare trip to see her foster dad in London; much better than her own springy bunk in the children’s dorms, the wall behind her chequered curtain plastered in pictures and photos and plans but still not private enough to block out the whining and crying of the little ones all night. It was nice to see a place where a real family lived. When she stood in the centre of the room, she could squeeze her eyes shut and almost picture the faces of her real parents, her actual bedroom, the kitchen they’d had with a white-tiled floor. Or was it sand-coloured tiles? She wasn’t quite sure, not that she’d admit it. Whenever anyone asked, she always said she remembered the pre-zombie world perfectly.

“Caz? Are you heating up the food or...?”

“I’m getting to it!” She stomped towards the stove, where Sara’s parents had already left a few crumbling Tupperware containers of pea soup from the kitchens, and Molly had brought a bowl of eggs to hard boil if they felt snacky. Not particularly inspiring, but then food had been limited for the last week as the kitchens saved all their supplies up for Christmas Day. And none of them knew how to be fussy: Sara and Molly did not remember a time when food was plentiful, and Carena’s last remnants of pickiness had been starved out of her when the Ministry occupied Abel. She’d been nine, and her stomach hadn’t stopped rumbling for that whole terrible ten months. It ached again a little just thinking about it. She wondered if that had left her weaker, permanently damaged her chance to become a Runner or a roller-girl. As if her asthma wasn’t enough of a handicap. Well, she’d do it anyway. Nothing was going to get in her way, least of all the legacy of those who had hurt her foster father. 

“Three bowls of green soup, coming up!” She added a lick of salt, and stirred the metal pot. The ruckus from the square was louder now, almost matched by the younger girls playing with the puzzle behind her.

“I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a man’s face or a rat.”

“Daddy’s not a very good draw-er.”

“I mean… he could use some practice, to be honest. Any clue on where this piece should fit, Caz?”

Carena doled out the bowls and spoons. “Looks like a squiggle with earmuffs to me. Sam’s crap at art.”

“Don’t swear in front of Sara!”

“She’ll be fiiiine,” Carena rolled her eyes. “Lighten up, Molly.”

“Yeah, lighten up, Molly!” Sara echoed jubilantly. “Crap, crap, crap.”

“Okay, you can cut it out now. Eat your dinner.”

Molly changed the subject, sensing another mischievous outburst of swearing on the horizon. “Are you excited for Christmas, Sara?”

“Yeah! Did you hear that we’re going to have a hog roast and potatoes?! And games! And, and, Ms Marsh knitted me a hat and mittens!”

“How do you know about that?” Molly admonished. Sara immediately looked caught in the act.

“I… maybe heard her and Mama talking about it.”

“Did you ‘maybe hear’ or were you spying on your Mama?”

“I wasn’t spying! People just think kids can’t hear stuff!”

“Hey, spyin’ is a great skill, don’t knock it, Mol. Don’t worry, we won’t tell.”

“I wasn’t spying!” Sara drank down the last of her soup, licked the bowl, and pouted adorably. It was hard for the babysitters not to laugh.

“You know, I think that piece might actually be a clockwork mouse. I think it goes down at the bottom…”

They finished the jigsaw with only four missing pieces. “It’s… a big man in a red coat with a white beard! With lots of toys. I’m going to call him Mr Bob.”

“Sara, that’s Santa. Do you not know about Santa?”

“Father Christmas?” Molly tried, although she wasn’t completely confident either. Sara looked blank.

“You know my father is called Sam Yao?”

“No, baby, Santa Claus is different. He brings things to good children at Christmas.” In the back of her mind was an image of Ed in a terribly cobbled together Santa suit, a tiny Molly on his shoulders. A good memory in a flock of bad ones. It twinged in her chest.

“He’s a Runner?”

Carena sighed. “Basically. Yeah. Santa Claus is just another name for the Christmas Runner. Every Christmas Eve, he goes from township to township, leaving gifts for all of the children.”

“How does he get through the gates?”

“Well, duh, he lets the township leaders know what time he’s going to come on Rofflenet first. And he’s really fast, so he doesn’t need to worry about Raiders or zoms. He’s got a big sled drawn by nine dogs for all the presents!”

Sara’s eyes sparkled. “What are the dogs called?”

“Well, the main one is Rudolf, and he’s an, an Irish red setter. Or he wears a red jumper, like you. Something to do with red. The other ones…” she looked to Molly for assistance, and realised the blonde girl was just as enraptured. “The other ones aren’t important.”

“Caz!”

“Fine! Dasher, Dancer, Prancer… Victor?” 

Her mind drew a complete blank. Somewhere in her subconscious, a woman’s voice read the words of Twas the Night Before Christmas, but she couldn’t quite make them out. “Um… Gold, Frankincense, Myrrh and Spam?”

Molly snorted in surprise, her face contorting and shoulders shaking as she tried to hold back a peal of laughter. At least Sara seemed satisfied. “Okay, so how come I don’t hear them all?”

“He sneaks in with magic and only when you’re extremely tired so it’s, like, impossible to stay up to hear. But if you leave a sock on the end of your bed he’s guaranteed to put sommat cool in it.”

“How will he know what I like?”

Molly looked thoughtful. “Maybe you should leave him a list? But you like a lot of things.”

“And my socks are quite small.” Sara looked pensive, kicking her feet in the air to check the size of them. “You two should write lists as well!”

“I’m too old to write one-“ Carena tried, but Sara was already insistently jabbing a pencil and an old receipt at her from a scrap paper drawer in the cabinet.

“These big long lists from the olden days are perfect, we can use the back.”

Carena’s eyes flitted over the receipt. Morrisons. Mango, papaya, hummus, avocadoes. All words she didn’t recognise, foods she would never get to try, and, suddenly intimidated, she laid it down on the table. She wasn’t the strongest reader or writer at the best of times - she’d learned too late, and it was difficult with so many new things in a row. Sara sounded out the letters on her own list as she wrote, her reading already confident.

“Dear Christmas Runner. Thank you for all your hard work, and for taking so many risks to deliver presents…”

Molly glanced over at Carena with a dash of awkward concern. They’d shared a schoolroom as children, and again for the last few years, and had some of the same frustrations, although Molly struggled more with maths and numbers and the purpose and point of algebra and geometry than writing and words. “Can I write both of ours, and you do the pictures? Your drawings are really good.”

Carena nodded, and got up abruptly to wash out the pot and make some tea. Outside, the town choir had drummed up enough numbers to give a few carols a go. She cracked open the window a little to let the sound filter up. 

“I would really like some bubblegum but I know it is hard to find and my mothers don’t like it so don’t worry if you can’t find any. I also like marbles and you can fit lots of them in a sock!”

“You’re already running out of space!”

“Okay. Lots of love from Sara Myers-Cohen-Yao, kiss kiss kiss! What are you going to ask for?”

“Nicer soap,” Molly said, quite serious. “And I need a new metal bucket for chicken feed and milking. Mine is close to holes.”

“A bucket won’t fit in a sock!” Sara scoffed with childish mirth. “That’s ridiculous!”

“I don’t know, she has really big feet.” This made Sara giggle even more, and slide off the chair to look at Molly’s feet more closely.

“Ha, ha, ha,” Molly gave Carena a mock-withering stare. “What do you want, Caz? I’m doing yours now.”

Carena thought as the water began to bubble. All she really wanted was to be a Runner. To explore. To get buckets and soap and marbles and gum and make faces back in the township light up. All she wanted was her lungs and airways to do as she commanded, her muscles and heart to work with her, to let her push past exhaustion. 

“Eh. Shoelaces would be nice.” She smirked at Molly. “Or some chicken fat.”

“Make one more threat to my chicken’s life, Carena Skeet and you won’t be getting anything from the Christmas Runner!” 

“I surrender, I surrender!” Carena laughed, and poured the tea. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be in bed by now, Sara? If we’re going to get this Runner to come at all.”

“But I’m not even tired,” the small girl yawned, still on the floor with her head on the chair and cuddling one of the throws her mothers had stacked on the sideboard. 

Molly grabbed the rest of them. “Come on, we’ll build a blanket den, have our tea in there, and Caz can tell you more about the Christmas Runner.”

“Startin’ to feel like Caz does all the work around here,” Carena added, stirring in milk and honey and using the puzzle box as a makeshift tea-tray. “Go on then, lead the way.”

Five minutes later, they’d constructed a large blanket fort and, huddled together inside it, Carena began to tell them everything she remembered from the world before, embellishing the odd detail or ten.

“You’re lying, there were no flying snowmen.”

“Well, I saw a film about them!”

Eventually, Sara curled up and fell asleep, thumb in her mouth, dreaming up a jumble of tinsel and angels and dancing snowmen and turkeys.

Molly smiled, sleepy herself. “You know, you’re actually really good with kids.”

“You’re actually good at lightenin’ up.”

“Yeah! This was fun. I had a really nice evening.”

“Molly…” Carena began, and stopped. She tucked Sara’s blankets around her a little tighter. She didn’t know how to say how safe she felt, maybe for the first time since she lost her brother, warm and wanted and hopeful, surrounded by the peace she wanted so badly to fight for. “I think tomorrow is gonna be a really good day.”

The bell in the square jangled once, twice, twelve times and for once they didn’t panic. It had been years since a horde went anywhere near the gates. This was midnight.

“Merry Christmas, Caz.”

“Merry Christmas.”

***

Carena awoke under a pile of blankets, her head on the end of Sara’s bed, the sound of Dr Cohen humming in the kitchen as she fried the eggs for breakfast, and caught three bulging stockings out of the corner of her eye. A lump came to her throat as she saw the book, as promised, bound in ribbon, that she recognised even without reading the words.

The Abel Runner’s Handbook, fourth ed.

She nearly knocked the wind out of the doctors in her rush to hug them.

[honeybeewriter]

Icarus

Chapter 1: The Rebel Princess

Au: Fantasy AU

Word count: 2.6k 

Pairing: Hawks x reader

Warning: Smoking, light cussing

Link to next part:

A/N: im super excited to be writing this story! its my first story ive written in a long time and im super happy to share the first chapter of Icarus with you guys! hope yall enjoy it as much i as i do!

Aesthetic:

This overbearing weight of being royalty and responsibilities of princess has hung on your shoulders like a horse stomping on a snake, it was awful to say the least. Along with this your father had now set up an arranged marriage to the kingdom next over to make peace: something you did not want. No, your heart soared for adventure and your senses longed to smell the sea and feel the cool breeze through your (h/c) locks. It’s a wish, a dream, something far from your grasp.  

The morning dew settled among the kingdom, golden warm rays flooded in through the window, caressing your face, rubbing against your eyes as they flutter open. The feeling of silk and cotton danced along your naked legs, you stir awake, outstretching your arms. A gentle knock echo’s out into the silent room, before the creaking of the door opening. “Ah,princess (l/n) you’re awake!” The maid known as Mina entered the room, with a bow. “You know m’lady you should get out for a while! I know about your little dreams” Mina laughs as your face flusters “Mina!” you exclaimed and held your hands to your face “I’ll cover for you, Please don’t bring home another fae!” you had jumped out of bed at the thought of adventure. “Mina! Tamaki is a nice fae!! Don’t be rude!” You both erupt in fits of laughter. What a start to the day. 

Adventure was in the air, as you snuck out of the castle. You dawn a fine silk gown that a fair maiden would wear, a pale lavender tone matched with a wine red hooded cloak: To hide your identity from the ones who would stitch to your father.  

Across the forest, in a cart with friends laughing and having fun. A winged man stood with a guitar singing a merry tune, a man with burn scars guiding a horse with a scowl, a woman with blonde hair in buns reading her daily tarots card. The winged man lowers his guitar and his singing fades as he begins to speak “Hey Toga, whats is my card today?” he asked, sitting in front of the witch, who then shuffles them a few times before drawing out. The wheel of fortune. “Oh! Change is coming! This can be exciting, this means something big is at work, but what goes up must come down. Therefore be careful when change comes!” Toga explained before putting away her cards her satchel. The man with scars turned around and glanced at the two “There is a kingdom coming up, and we need to resupply before heading onwards.” His voice husk from smoking as teen, he still does nonetheless. The song of the frogs and bird sang throughout the woods as the trots of the horse and that squeaky wheel join in the chorus.

The winged man looks to the sky and ponders,Hm change? I wonder what the winds will bring me? The clouds line the sun, like curtains with only peeks of yellows rays shining down. The cart comes to a stop, and the man with raven hair and scars stood up, while lighting a cigarette “Alright we are here, no trouble, gather supplies and come back to the cart before sunset” He inhales the tobacco and puffs out a cloud of smoke. “Got it, keigo?” 

Keigo looks back with a smirk “Me trouble, pssh, never. You’re the one that burnt that caravan, Dabi, oh powerful burnt bastard!” Dabi snarls, clenching his fist tightly “Get out of here you damn buzzard!” keigo waved him off as he slipped on a leather jacket that was inscribed with magical rune that hid his wings. “Meet here at sunset, got it crazy?” Dabi spoke to toga as keigo ventured off into the kingdom.

The town was lively and hardy, towns folk chatter and trade, while the echoes of laughter of children and barks from the stray dogs dance throughout the streets. The smell of fresh baked goods with the smell of blood from the meat market, not very pleasant to smell. You browsed the fruit stands, gliding your hand along the fresh picks, thinking within your thoughts of today's adventure; maybe a nice picnic in my secret garden, or maybe an adventure in the outside forest. Your mind was so deep in thought that you hadn't noticed that a certain knight was next to you. 

“Ahem!” the knight coughed, causing you to jump with fear, as your eyes followed the armor, you gulped.. Iida.. “What are you doing here Iida!” you barked as you gathered up some fruit that had caught your eye, paying the merchant. “I should be asking you that Princess.”  Iida was a stickler for the kings rules and so the king had appointed young iida as your bodyguard, since you liked to skip out and such. “Iida please let me have today off! Please!” you begged as you held the bag fruit to your chest, bouncing like a child begging for a sweet. 

Now usually rumors and gossip caught Keigo's attention but, overhearing the about the rebellious princess, now that caught his keen hearing. As he turns from the stand he sees a tall knight and a cloaked person unknowingly, it was the princess. He strolls on over and wraps an arm around your neck. “Look, knight, i'm sure you have some crown to guard, so do me and my friend here a favor and bug off would yah?” and without waiting for an answer keigo whisps you away into the crowded streets. 

“Geez what a killjoy!” keigo said as he leads you to a quieter part of town, “Ha, I'm sorry if that was weird or if i made you uncomfortable, but that knight seemed to be hard on yo-” Keigo was cut off as you whipped out your opal knife, “Look i don’t know you or where you came from, you take me back to my knight!” You snarled. Keigo just laughed and grabs gentle onto your wrist, lowering the knife “Ah so you are the rebellious princess i’ve heard about! Tell me, Do you really want to go back?” you look defeated and huffed, shaking your head no as you sheath your knife. 

“No not really i just want to go to my garden and eat.” You said as you lowered your cloaks hood. Keigo finally got a good look at your face, (h/l) beautiful (h/c) hair, along with a pair of radiant (E/c) orbs, that sparkled in the sun. You looked just like a princess, no.. a queen at best. His eyes lit up as he looked your body up and down. “Will you please stop oodling me, come on, i guess you will have to be my pretend bodyguard for now” You spoke, you knew when they found the both of you. The two of yall were in serious trouble, him more so, i mean kidnapping a princess that is very bad to the king. 

The streets grew into dirt roads, and the houses disappear as you walked further into the depth of the kingdom, humming a tune, singing as you go. Keigo follows of course, his curiosity growing about you, a runaway princess. 

 “Down in the depths, where the marble stairs cry, to left pink flowers hang their lives, make a right. Trot down the path into the pine, two stones of moss on the northside, listen to the whisper of the willow that lays upon the pond bank , that is where you will find. The sweet little spot of mine.”

Pure white marble stairs lay in bed against the hillside, a makeshift stream runs down the steps, carrying twigs and leaves, a sight to see. Such sad marble stairs longing to be cleaned and re-purposed. Keigo watched as you took off your shoes, the sound of splashing as you walk down the steps. He follows in suit taking his own shoes off, the pitter patter of wet feet echo throughout the silent forest-line.

You stop and look up, “Up there is where the pink flowers hang.” you loop your arm with his as you tell the story about a lonely prince who once lived in this ruin. How his family had gotten a witch to curse the boy, he was a sweet green haired prince who wanted adventure like yourself, but one day he had crossed a line into the dragon land, and he had fallen in love with the king. But once his family found out he was shunned, and casted out. One day his dragon king had found him and they were happy, but the curse of the witch:

Those be warned who want to find the lost, if you travel further than the pine you will find poison, outcast from his family, a lock against the seal, betrayed, outcasted its a weakened deal. The blood of royalty lay among the scales, heed my warning, your life frail. 

“Story of the green prince and the king.. So is this place cursed or something?” Keigo asked as you both walk into the pine forest “i believe it is cause i found the skeletons of the two” You said as your hand glides across the brush as you walk. “That must have been a sight to see.”  Your face fell as the memory plays in your head. The two skeletons embracing in against a tree seemly untouched by mother nature. “A pure sad sight” You tug the blonde male along the path. 

Two stones with moss on the northside, and the whispering willow. The two of you stop admiring the willows horror filled beauty. The willow had to be at least 100 years old, her branches twisting and growing in a way that makes your stomach get a sick feeling. A thick fog rolling over the lake, like a dress dancing over a marble floor. 

“So are we almost there?” Keigo asks his eyes fixed out onto the stilled water. Taking the male’s hand you pull him along into the ruin of clay and brick, a small grotto hides away this lostwonder of a place. Keigo's eyes widen, what a hidden away little base. “Wow, this must have been their home.” Keigo rubbed the back of his neck as he took a seat on the edge of the water basin, you sat next to the male and pulled out the fruit bag that you had bought earlier. 

“So what brings you to the kingdom of berbile?” you questioned With a small chuckle as he takes a pear, 

“I'm actually just passin by, me and a few friends are heading west towards the coast.” He takes a bite of the green fruit, the juice running down into his beard. Your ears perk up at the mention of the ocean.  ‘Wait you mean the ocean! That's like a 5 month cart drive! Give or take if weather and such.” your voice chirps, your eyes brighten at the thought of the salty breeze.

 You take a chomp out of your (F/F) as he explains the mission that his leader sent him on

. “Keigo, dabi and toga i need you three to go west and find recruits, send them back this way we are finally going to take down the two kingdoms along the way, When you get to the ocean that is when you will turn around and come back.”

 Keigo looks at you and ponders “you want adventure, do you not?” 

Keigo quirks his eyebrow at you. You frantically nod your head. “Yes yes!! More than anything! My father has set up an arranged marriage and to hell with keeping the peace to the kingdom” You jump up on the bricks of where you were sitting “I rather see the world!” You exclaimed, pumping your fist into the air. 

Keigo grins “Well why don't you get a maid to gather clothes and meet me by the castle walls near the stables, tonight after dark?”

--

Later on you both went separate ways to avoid getting caught by iida and the other guards, The night set among the land, the quarter moon in the sky guiding your path to the outskirts of the kingdoms edge. 

“Mina i have to go, this is my only chance to get adventure! I won't be coming back, please come with me, won't you!” You held your bag in your arms, dawning a black cloak, money clattered in the coin purse as you pull against minas arm. “(Y/n) as much as i know you want adventure you know, your father will be mad if he finds you gone!” She huffs and pulls you back towards your room. 

“Tell him I died or something I don't care! I'm leaving this kingdom, and you're not stopping me!”  you exclaimed with tears in your eyes, jerking your arms back to your side. Mina looks at you, her eyes soften and a damn broke through, her cheeks flooded and pink. 

“Go, Ill cover for you” You embrace each other in a tight hug before your crawled down the makeshift bed sheet ropes and disappeared into the darkness. 

Giving one last look to the home you grew up in. The hell that was raised, your mother would be proud of you for leaving this greed filled kingdom. 

Dabi tapped his foot impatiently, “You said this girl would be here by now, Where is she!?” he barked, flicking the ash from his cigarette, keigo huffed and  stretched his neck looking over nothing to see if anyone was there Where is she? He pondered. Out of the shadows a small hooded figure comes running, a 2 large bag on its back and a large purse in the other.

Toga grins, looking up from her spot in the cart “oh? You made friends with the Princess I see now~” toga giggled as keigo brushed her off, lighting a torch and holding it out “Two stones!” he called out, dabi and toga give him a weird look before hearing. “With moss on the northside!” a soft voice returns 

Keigo jumps off the old wooden cart, his boots met the mud as your flats met the end of the stone road. You flipped your hood down allowing your (h/c) locks to fall into place. “So it is the princess, damn hawks. Boss will be pleased.” Dabi takes a drag, blowing out a cloud of ashy smoke. “Alright princess, load up, it's gonna be a long journey.” 

You get into action, tossing your bags into the bed of the worn cart, Toga leaning against the edge, looking you over. “This is certainly some change, a princess joining 3 commoners. I'm sure once the king finds out your missing, people will be after us.” The blond female giggles and sits back down, “Call me (Y/n) (L/N). please. No need to be formal, its stupid.” 

Keigo helps you into the cart and then jumps up into the passenger seat next to dabi. “Well you know who i am, This burnt bastard is dabi, Just dabi, he refuses to tell us his real name, and that little crazy next to you is Toga!”

Dabi whips the reins, causing the horses that pull the cart to move on. The clatter of hooves against the ground, the old night owl, singing his hunting song. The voices of the howling wolves, echo throughout the forest. Keigo takes off his magical jacket,  and a pair of beautiful deep  crimson wings emerge. Your eyes in wonder, “Wait you didn't tell me that you had wings, keigo!!” 

“Makes him look like a buzzard if you ask me!” Dabi chims as toga laughs. “Hah, Yeah each of us has some kind power, i'm a witch, dabi up there is a warlock and keigo is just cursed!” Toga explained. 

You look over the three with a warm smile. Adventure was well among its way, and youll be there to greet it with open arms

[abitnotgoodiebag]

Ties that bind

Title: Ties that bind

Square filled: G1 - Wearing each other’s clothes

Warnings: language, light violence

Word count: 6,185

Summary: Sam keeps finding Bucky’s hair ties where they Should Not Be

Link to AO3

Ties that bind

1.

Sam wanted nothing more than to clean himself in solitude and sing loud (and terribly off-key) Motown hits.  It was a rare moment that Sam was able to luxuriate in the shower without having to worry about rationing the hot water.  Two grown men in one house shouldn’t use as much hot water as they do, but Bucky did not understand the concept of a short shower and had a tendency to make their water heater work overtime.

Sam didn’t have the heart to curtail Bucky’s extended showers, as he seemed to be so content afterwards, so when he had the chance to have his own quality time, he made sure to take it.  Bucky hadn’t come back the previous night, no doubt off on some strange SHIELD side quest so Sam had the whole house to himself.

Sam was determined to treat himself, so not only did he bring his bluetooth speaker with him into the shower, but he also dabbed some of his homemade beard mask onto his beard and after a bit of thought, added some to his face as well before he began to tinker with the water temperature.  As Sam waited the requisite 3 minutes, he grabbed a fresh washcloth from their linen closet and decided he was in a Toni Braxton mood.

He got in the shower, already crooning ‘You’re Making Me High.’  The steam from the scalding water filled the room, opening Sam’s pores and clearing his sinuses.  He washed the mask from his face and beard, settling for humming as he removed all traces of residue.  

“ And in my mind I feel, I think I might be obsessed.  The very thought of you makes me want to get undressed .”  Sam’s thoughts drifted towards his housemate as he sang, thinking of Bucky’s tendency to wear as few clothes as possible while in the house.  Sam’s got eyes and Bucky was built like a brick house especially to distract Sam Wilson from everything.

Sam had embraced the steam for long enough as the initial notes to ‘Un-Break My Heart’ trailed lazily through the bathroom.  He made to grab for the exfoliating gloves he kept on a hook suctioned to the tile of their small-ish shower stall and was baffled when only one came away in his hand.  He pulled at the second glove, frowning as he saw that it was attached to the hook with something small and dark. Closer inspection showed Sam that it was a hair tie. Sam did not sport enough hair to utilize hair ties and Figaro damn sure didn’t use them, seeing as he had no thumbs and didn’t take showers.  This left only one suspect.

“BARNES!”  Sam’s deeply annoyed shout completely erased the light mood of his shower and once he untangled the glove from it’s hair-tie captivity he quickly gave himself a good scrubbing, muttering angrily to himself about needing separate bathrooms and pondered (not for the first time) looking for a bigger place.

He finished his shower, dressed himself quickly and was making his way back to his room when he crashed into the (shirtless, as usual) glove-bander himself.  “What the fuck, Barnes?” Sam asked, irritated.

Bucky looked back in confusion.  “You ran into me, Tweety.”

“I mean why the fuck would you tie my glove to the hook?!”  Sam knew he probably looked a bit nuts. “Is a man’s bath glove not sacred?  What do we have in this world if not the sanctity of our toiletries?”

Bucky looked alarmed until Sam’s words sunk in and he began to snicker.  “I kept knocking them over, and I didn’t want them to get all over the floor so I secured them so I wouldn’t keep jostling them.”  Bucky looked down at Sam through his lashes in the most infuriating way. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”  

Sam stood there in the hallway and felt his irritation slip away despite his best efforts to hold onto it.  Bucky batted his eyes some more and Sam knew he was done for. “It’s all good, Barnes.” Sam sighed.

Bucky’s grin faded a bit at Sam’s resigned tone.  “I’m serious, Sam. I thought it’d be helpful.”

Figaro chose that very moment to wind himself between their legs meowing for his breakfast.

“Figs says ‘fur-give me, Pops, you know Bucky was trying to be a good guy.’”  Bucky said, imitating a cartoon cat voice.

Sam reached down to pat Figaro and rolled his eyes on his way back up.  “Sounded more like a ‘Why hasn’t that weird bum fed me instead of yapping it up in the hallway’ to me.”

They headed towards the kitchen, Figaro bounding ahead, yowling in impatience.

“What’s that?”  Sam said, pretending to translate the hungry meows. “‘Bum should cook?’”  Sam looked pensive for a moment as he opened a can of Fancy Feast and tipped it into Figaro’s dish.  “I think you’re onto something, Figs.”

Bucky just laughed and made his way to the fridge, pulling out the carton of eggs and some cheese.  Sam reached past him and grabbed the last of their spinach to Bucky’s amused brow.

“It’s like you don’t believe in green foods.”  Sam sighed, shaking the container of produce.

Bucky grabbed the spinach and was soon well on his way to making a couple of omelettes for the two of them.

Sam hummed in contentment as he watched Bucky and Figaro soon jumped in his lap and started purring in contentment.  Sam scratched behind his ears and inhaled the scent of their breakfast. Bucky soon slid the food onto plates and grabbed glasses and the last of their OJ as well while Sam observed, trapped under his purring cat.

“Your food, your majesty.”  Bucky said, bowing as he set Sam’s plate down in front of him.

Sam smirked and inclined his head while Figaro raised his head, sniffing at the omelette with interest.  “Thank you kindly.”

Bucky flopped onto the stool next to Sam and attacked his food like he was starving.  Sam couldn’t help but laugh at Bucky’s enthusiasm and Figaro, disliking Sam’s movement, vacated his lap in disgust.

Bucky smiled at the feline diva and his antics.  “I guess his majesty wasn’t impressed after all.”

Sam looked affronted that Bucky was referring to Figaro as royalty over himself and stuck his tongue out before taking a bite of his meal.  “I guess you’ll have to keep trying to gain the good Prince’s favor. How tragic.”

Bucky snorted and reached out to steal a bit of Sam’s food.  Not one to give Bucky an inch, Sam used his fork to block the attempt and flashed a victorious grin.  “Not today, Buckaroo. You gotta be quicker than that!”

“But I’m a growing boy!”  Bucky whined, still trying to get at Sam’s plate.  He pulled out the big guns when he pouted and batted his eyes.  Sam was forced to share the last bit of omelette in the face of such an effective offense.

“Geez, you baby.  Take it.” Sam said, chuckling.  “You know the puppy face gets me every time.”

By the time Bucky finished the last bite, Sam had forgotten all about his vexing shower.

2.

Sam was a tad hungover.  Never one to say no to drinks after the mandatory monthly Avenger’s meetings, Sam, Bucky, Thor and Luke Cage had gone back to his Hell’s Kitchen bar and promptly gotten wasted.  Well, Sam got wasted, everyone else was enhanced and probably just got pleasantly buzzed. No Sam absolutely does not have a chip on his shoulder about his tolerance, not even a little bit.

His head felt like it was full of rocks and dryer lint and he stumbled as he made his way into the bathroom to splash water on his face.  Staring at himself in the mirror, Sam grimaced. He looked terrible and unfortunately he felt as bad as he looked.

Shutting off the bathroom light, Sam shuffled down the hall toward the kitchen, needing to simultaneously eat and vomit.  He reached the kitchen, meeting Figaro on his way in (seems he wasn’t the only one looking for breakfast). Sam dutifully fed his spoiled cat and debated trying for anything more than water after almost gagging at Figaro’s breakfast.  Sam decided that cereal sounded like a safe bet and grabbed the first box on the top of their fridge (Count Chocula because apparently there weren’t any adults in their house) and the almost empty milk jug from inside of it.

A bowl and a spoon were the next order of business for the hungover hero and he gingerly moved as slowly as possible to stop the queasiness he was trying not to think about.  Armed with all the necessary things to force something into his protesting stomach, Sam gingerly sat down in the least wobbly of their barstools, leaning his elbows heavily on the island due to his persistent nausea.

After a rough 30 seconds, Sam’s stomach had settled enough for him to pick up the box of sugary goodness and pour himself a restrained amount.  That was the plan, at least. Instead it happened like this: Sam picked up the box of cereal, squeezing in a bit to pop open the cardboard flaps.  Sam held his bowl steady and waited for the pattering of his cereal to reach his ears. The sound that actually reached his ears was the entire bag hitting his bowl a little bit too hard.  The inner bag of cereal, closed haphazardly with a bright green hair tie that immediately sprang free, burst open and littered the entire counter with chocolate bits and tiny marshmallows.

Sam, who was not expecting this at all, could do nothing but watch as his meager breakfast scattered any and everywhere throughout the small kitchen.  Sam could do nothing but rest his head on his arms and wait for death to claim him. The cool tiles felt good so close to Sam’s sad forehead. He spread his arms so they weren’t overlapping and the coolness intensified.  He let out a small gasp of contentment, pleased when he didn’t immediately feel like vomiting.

Sam rested there in the kitchen for a moment.  Well, it was supposed to be a moment. Sam’s body had other plans and he fell asleep right at the counter and all was serene until the apartment’s tranquility was shattered with a shriek of “FIGS, YOU FAT FUCK!”

Sam jolted awake, causing him to almost hurl.  He closed his eyes and prayed for the spots in his vision to go away and take the lurching room with them.  His prayers were not answered and to insult to injury Figaro decided Sam’s lap looked like a good place to sit, jostling him even more.

“SAM!”  Bucky yelled from the hallway.  “YOUR FUCKING CAT IS AN ASSHOLE!”

Sam could only moan quietly to himself and stay still to quell the room’s spinning.  He heard Bucky enter the kitchen and made no move to look at him, he just let out another pitiful noise.

Figaro could sense that he had no friends in the room at the moment and abandoned Sam’s lap to scamper out of there, no doubt to take the warm spot left in Bucky’s bed.

“You ok, man?”  Bucky asked softly next to Sam’s ear.  “Did Figgy knock over your cereal?”

Sam had forgotten all about his aborted attempt at breakfast and replied in an even softer voice.  “Figs didn’t do shit, Barnes, this cereal mess is your fault.”

“How can this possibly be my fault?”  Bucky asked, indignant. Then he spotted it.  “Oh.” he said.

Sam snorted and then winced and then just groaned.  “Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

“Well it keeps the cereal fresher!”  Bucky tried to explain. “I know you have those clips but-”

Sam cuts him off with a raised hand.  “Nothing in this world matters to me right now except surviving.  Fuck this cereal. It probably would’ve come back up anyway.”

Bucky’s face softened at Sam’s misery and he spoke softly, “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ve got you.”

Minutes later, Sam was presented with a glass of cool water and a plate of banana slices and a single piece of bread before Bucky left the kitchen.  He sipped at the water, feeling the soothing glide of it down his throat. The bananas seemed too daunting so he instead started with the bread. He finished half the slice and felt marginally better.

Unfortunately falling asleep at the counter had done nothing for his generally achy and sore body.  Sam knew he wasn’t old by any stretch of the imagination, but he could not deny that his hangovers were getting worse with age.  He managed to finish the water and eat a few pieces of banana before admitting defeat.

“You ‘bout ready to move somewhere less bright?”  Bucky asked Sam lightly once he returned.

Sam nodded once and stood up slowly.  They made their way into the living room where Bucky had closed the curtains and Sam immediately sank down into the couch.  Bucky grabbed the fuzzy blue throw Sam had bought him for Christmas and tucked Sam in gently. He turned the TV on and set the volume at a level barely above silence and began Planet Earth II.  

He went to the bathroom to find some ibuprofen and returned with the pills and another glass of water.  Sam took it gratefully and let out a satisfied sigh when he drained half the glass. “I am never going out with you assholes again.”  He said ruefully.

Bucky snorted, knowing Sam would break his promise as he had the last six times he’d made it.  “I don’t know why you try to keep up with Thor and Luke. It’s not a competition.”

Sam scowled.  “Says the juiced up jock.”

Bucky straight up laughed at Sam’s petulance.  “Look, Dinky Duck, I know my own limits and don’t go past them.  As the grown man you insist that you are you should really try that.”

Sam just pouted and slumped down to watch the documentary playing before them.  “You’re not the boss of me, Barnes.”

Bucky shook his head in exasperation before settling in for what promised to be a lazy day of recovery for Sam.  Sam fidgeted a little until he was perfectly cocooned in his blanket, leaning slightly against Bucky. He was out cold in less than thirty minutes, smiling lightly and soaking up Bucky’s warmth.

3.

The day had been full of chores and housekeeping.  Two grown men sharing a space had a tendency to leave the housework until the last possible moment.  That morning Bucky had swept and mopped (wearing nothing but royal blue briefs and singing loudly along with Aretha, obviously trying to give Sam an ulcer) before taking out the trash on the way to a nearby SHIELD field office.  Sam had begun their laundry while he worked on dusting and cataloguing exactly what essentials they needed to restock (they were down to their last two rolls of toilet paper, Figaro would soon starve, and the toothpaste had been squeezed to within a millimeter of its life).

Sam had given up trying to separate their clothes anymore.  Once he woke up to Bucky rifling through his dresser looking for a t-shirt for the second time in as many days, Sam had forgone it utterly, keeping the shirts in his room, the pants in Bucky’s room and the coats and hats and things in the hall closet.  Clothes were for whoever got to them first in their house and so it took Sam a few weeks to notice the pattern.

Fall was making its way into winter and that meant that the four hoodies they had between the two of them were constantly in rotation, especially for their lazy-ass runs to the corner store.  Three of the hoodies originally belonged to Sam (before the whole of their wardrobe became communal), so he didn’t notice until he was unloading the dryer that he saw them all in the same place.  Three of the hoodies had new adornments. His navy blue HU hoodie, faded with age, was trimmed in bright red hair ties on the ends of the frayed strings, making Sam smile at the clear attempt in coordination.  He saw multicolored elastics on the pulls of his gray USAF hoodie and his red Avengers one. Bucky’s lone black hoodie with a red and green stripe across the chest that had been with him since leaving Wakanda had no embellishments, just ratty, uneven strings tied in large messy knots.  

Sam took a moment to note that strange fact before transferring the wet clothes from the washing machine to the dryer.  He grabbed the basket of clean clothes and brought it to the living room to fold while he caught a few episodes of his guilty pleasure (Law and Order:SVU, Olivia was the best), Figaro falling into step behind him.

Later that evening after Bucky came home from whatever debrief SHIELD had mandated without the groceries he was supposed to stop and get, the two decided they were too lazy to shop and cook dinner.  Bucky suggested they visit that new Thai place that opened up a few blocks away and Sam didn’t see a reason to object so they dressed up in their outerwear and headed out.  

Every time Sam saw Bucky in his Howard hoody, Sam couldn’t help but smile.  The fact that he walked around the streets of DC with the Bison proudly displayed on his front filled Sam with warmth (and he couldn’t deny, the confused glances that Bucky got from members of the public made Sam smirk a bit).  The red hair ties bounced on Bucky’s chest with every step he took and Sam was so distracted by them that he almost face planted after missing a curb.

Embarrassed, Sam kept his eyes straight ahead until they reached their destination.  Luckily for them the dreary weather was keeping most people indoors and there was no wait for them and they were quickly escorted to a table near the window.  Their server brought them both water and took their order with quick efficiency. Sam choked a bit when Bucky ordered nam tok but decided to enjoy the ensuing entertainment.

“I guess we’ll just get the stuff from the store when we leave?”  Sam asked as they waited on their food.

Bucky grunted with a half shrug.  “If we must.” “I know your previous residence was a hut with no plumbing and all, but I am very much used to wiping my ass with Charmin.”  Sam said with a grin.

“Well if it’ll keep princess Pigeon quiet, then I guess that’s what we’ll do.”  Bucky said magnanimously, as if accompanying Sam to the store was doing him a favor.

Sam crossed his arms in mock annoyance and saw their server approaching with their food.  Sam, unlike Bucky, did not just pick things at random off of the menu was entirely too excited to see how Bucky liked his choice.  The server arrived at the table and Sam slyly reached for his phone. He discreetly activated the camera while Bucky unrolled his silverware and set his napkin across his lap.  Bucky took a (rather too large, in Sam’s opinion) bite of his meal. First there was silence. As his eyes watered and cried, Bucky coughed hard and his face turned strawberry red.  Sam snapped a quick photo as he chuckled.

“You ok, Buckaroo?”  Sam asked, his face a picture of smiling innocence.

“Why would you let me do this?”  Bucky sputtered out a few minutes later after he

“Man, I didn’t let you do shit!”  Sam said through his laughter. “I told you picking things at random is a terrible idea, maybe now you’ll listen.”

Bucky just glared at him with red eyes and cheeks.

Sam took pity on him and switched their plates.  Sam was no stranger to spicy food and while nam tok wasn’t his favorite, he at least knew to eat it in smaller bites and he did sort of enjoy the burning of his tongue.  He dabbed a bit at his lightly running nose and winked at Bucky who seemed personally offended that Sam wasn’t a crying mess.

“Unlike you, I am used to my food with something other than three grains of salt.”  Sam couldn’t resist cracking.

Bucky huffed and finished Sam’s pad see ew in silence.

Sam sent the photo of Bucky’s red face to all of the Avengers the moment they left the restaurant.

4.

Sam was confused.  His car was in it’s normal place, but he could tell that someone had touched it.  He stood on their porch and cocked his head to the side. His brain was screaming that his vehicle had been messed with, but BeepBeep was exactly where Sam had left her after his trip to CostCo the previous afternoon.  The front wheels were just as crooked, the fallen pine needles didn’t give any indication that they’d been run over or disturbed in any way.

Sam had not gone with just any car once he took up the Captain America mantle.  Sam went with his Dream Car .  Sam purchased a beautifully restored, crimson and black (absolutely not Hot Rod red, he had some class) 1970 Plymouth RoadRunner.  The car was an absolute monster and Sam had been known to spend a good chunk of time detailing it and keeping it pretty.  Sam figured that after all of the shit he’d seen, that there was no reason to put off things that made him happy, and boy did this car make him happy.  He remembered his father showing him all of the old muscle cars he liked as a boy before he died and always treasured those times (his dad liked the mustang the best, but Sam had always been partial to the bird-themed cars.  What can he say, he likes what he likes).

Sam knew that someone touched his baby.  And he was absolutely fucking sure that a certain someone was not stupid enough to touch his car (especially after absolutely obliterating his last one).  Sam made sure to pay for this one in cash upfront and carried the absolute highest amount of insurance, well, as high as an Avenger could reasonably expect to have (Sam will admit that they did go through vehicles more than the average citizen).

Deciding that he wouldn’t rest until he figured out what was different about the car he approached her cautiously.  One too many bomb threats (a few of which were NOT hoaxes) had made Sam trust his gut even more. He sometimes wished he had the Parker kid’s petey-tingle or whatever the kid was calling it these days.  A quick circle of the car didn’t put Sam at ease even though he couldn’t see what was different.

He checked the trunk and the undercarriage, getting his jeans dirty in the process.  He couldn’t find anything underneath the hood or underneath the seats. Nothing in the pockets in the back of the seats.  He finally got in the driver’s seat, frustrated beyond belief that he couldn’t shake the feeling of something being different about his BeepBeep.

He fit perfectly in to the seat, so it hadn’t been moved.  Sam growled to himself, overcome with frustration. He grabbed the steering wheel angrily and--oh!  He found it! He squeezed the suede steering wheel cover and felt a strange protrusion. He ran his hands around the wheel and found three additional bumps.

Since he hadn’t blown up yet, Sam decided that removing the steering wheel cover was a safe bet.  After spending the last half hour thinking that he was moments from dying in a bomb blast Sam let fly a string of curses so terrible he was surprised his mama hadn’t spontaneously appeared to wash his mouth out.

Four bright orange hair ties are wrapped around the top half of the steering wheel.  Sam cannot for the life of him figure out what they’re doing there. Bucky knows how Sam feels about this car.  Sam is so caught up in his thoughts and confusion that he doesn’t notice the subject of those thoughts standing right outside the passenger window.  Sam nearly jumped out of his skin when Bucky knocked on the window.

“You good, Sammy?”  Bucky asked, concerned.

Sam stared at him for a solid ten seconds, then gestured at the steering wheel.   “Explain.” The words were tense.

“Oh,”  Bucky said, ducking his head and blushing a bit.  “I heard you say your hands would slip on the wheel sometimes when you turn when you were talking to your sister.  I didn’t mean to pry, I just thought it’d help you stay at 10 and 2.” The explanation was so darn cute that Sam found all of his irritation leaving him yet again .  It seemed that Bucky was determined to make his life easier by any means necessary and Sam was about done trying to figure it out at this point.

“Man,”  Sam began.  “What are you, my fairy godmother?”  He leaned his head back against the headrest.

Bucky’s confusion morphed into a smirk, “Who else is going to look after you, pigeon?”

Sam groaned at the nickname.  “We were having a moment, Terminator.  Look what you’ve done to it.”

“Whoops.”  Bucky said, deadpan.  “What are you doing out here, anyway?  Going somewhere interesting?”

Sam had indeed forgotten why he had come out here in the first place, once he noticed his beloved car had been touched.  He didn’t want to go back inside and just sit around though, he felt like going out and doing something out of their routine.  “Why don’t you get in and find out?” He asked, leaning over and opening the passenger door for Bucky.

Bucky grinned and slid onto the long bench seat.  “Take us away, Sammy.”

Sam cranked up his baby, listening to the Hemi engine growl low.  He carefully replaced the steering wheel cover and placed his hands between the guides Bucky had so thoughtfully placed for him.  Sam looked over at Bucky and took in his easy smile as he relaxed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Sam rolled down their windows and put on Still Bill , they needed some soul for this ride.  As he backed out of their driveway, Sam had no idea where they were going, but he knew he’d enjoy every moment of the journey as long as Bucky was on his right.

5.

Sam really did enjoy training exercises.  Well, sometimes. Today wasn’t going in his good books, though, because he was almost dead on his feet.  Bucky had kept him up all night. He didn’t hold the nightmares against the soldier at all, especially since he was just as prone to them as any of them these days.  Bucky’s just had a tendency to wake up the whole house. Sam and Figaro both did their best to calm him afterwards, but Sam knew from personal experience that usually the only thing that drove the demons away was the warm light of the sun.

All of that was neither here nor there because Sam was supposed to be focused on rescuing their virtual hostages from terrorists who’d unleashed some killer robots unto the city.  Sam was not supposed to be dwelling on nightmares that were not even his own.

He was across the street from the bank in which the terrorists had 13 hostages.  Wanda was holding the perimeter, making sure that the killer robots didn’t advance further into the city while Sam and Bucky were attempting to infiltrate the building without tipping off the hostiles.

Sam saw a flash of light in his periphery from the side street next to the bank and once he focused on it, he saw that Bucky was signalling that he had found a way in.  Sam made it to the alley and let out a low whistle as he saw Barnes point up several floors to a broken window.

“Just couldn’t resist another ride on the Sam Wilson Express, could you?”  He asked quietly as he maneuvered and rose to a hover in the tight space.

Barnes just raised a brow and lifted his arms (determined to ignore Sam’s quips), ready to be carried to the window.  Sam obliged him and when they landed in the small office on the fourth floor of the bank they made their way to the door to begin working out the best way to disable their targets.

“Cap, perimeter is secure and all robots have been neutralized.”  Wanda’s heavily accented English came crackling into Sam’s earpiece.  “Orders?”

Sam gave Wanda their location and a moment later Wanda floated in.  “Looks like the hostages are on the main floor of the bank, but we don’t know where all of the hostiles are, so I’m gonna send Redwing out to see what’s what.”

Sam tapped on his bracer, calling for his well-loved drone and--

“What the fuck is this?”  Sam asked, voice flat. Redwing’s tail-end had been covered in a rainbow of colors.  Sam didn’t even need to look any closer to know that they were Bucky’s damn hair ties.  He has not had enough sleep or coffee for this and Sam was just done.

Bucky snorted before schooling his face into an innocent expression.  “Redwing is a pretty bird, Sam. Just like his mom.”

“Nope.”  Sam got up (leaving the beautifully--absurdly--decorated redwing hovering) and walked out into the hallway and made his way to a balcony where he shot the two targets holding the hostages.  Bucky was at his six and he took out the one above them. They were making their way down the stairs, back to back, when their virtual construct blew up around them.

Sam and Bucky stood in the middle of the second largest training room, Wanda and Redwing several yards behind them looking at them (a bit too judgmentally in Sam’s opinion).  Sam threw his hands up and left. He headed straight to his room in the compound without another word.

He had just managed to take off his wings, boots and goggles before Bucky was banging on his door.  Sam sighed and contemplated ignoring him, but Sam knew that Bucky was stubborn enough to stay out there all night, the asshole.

Sam opened the sliding door just as Bucky was about to start banging with his left hand (and wouldn’t that just do wonders to the poor metal?).  Bucky abruptly dropped both hands to his sides and looked at Sam in concern.

Sam didn’t want to do this now, he was sleep-deprived and keyed up for a reason he hasn’t really examined himself yet.  “Can I help you?”

Bucky held out his right hand and Sam saw that he had brought Redwing back, without all of the extra layers.  “I didn’t mean any harm by it, I thought you’d laugh.” Bucky said softly.

Sam did laugh as he claimed his mechanical wingman which further confused Bucky.  He felt as if the last two days had lasted an entire week and Redwing being ‘pretty like his mom’ was just too much.  He moved to put Redwing back in with his wings and said, “Babe, I’m too tired for life right now. It was funny.”

Bucky was silent when Sam turned to look at him, finished with the drone.  “What?”

Bucky came closer, right into Sam’s personal bubble, still not saying a word.  Sam raised an eyebrow in question.  

“Wanna try that again, Wilson?”  Bucky’s voice was lower and Sam felt faint at their nearness and Bucky’s damn (voice, smell, face, body heat) everything .

Sam internally rewound the last two minutes and mentally slapped himself.  Seeing as how he’d already put it out in the universe and Bucky wasn’t running away, Sam was (still) too tired to be upset.  Eyebrow still raised, he said, “I said : Babe, I’m-”

Sam didn’t get to finish his sarcastic reply as Bucky was kissing him.  Bucky’s lips were touching his and Sam must surely be dreaming. He will cuss if his alarm goes off and he has to do this terrible training day all over again.  He threw his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissed back eagerly, because if this was a lucid dream he was going to enjoy the hell out of it.

Bucky pulled back slightly, laughing, “So not a mistake then?”

“Obviously not a dream, you would be naked and shutting up,”  Sam muttered to no one before Bucky distracted his thoughts by licking a stripe from his neck to his earlobe, sucking the latter into his mouth.

The noise Sam made could have been categorized as a moan (or a shriek depending on which one of them you asked) and he pulled them both further into the room, determined to get horizontal before he passed out from either exhaustion or (suddenly requited) horniness.

Neither Sam nor Bucky were seen for the rest of the day.

+1.

Sam yawned as he shuffled into the compound’s kitchen and went straight to the coffee pot, praying there was some left.  He was in luck as there was just enough left to fill the largest mug he could find. Once his coffee was creamed, he joined the rest of the Avengers at the table and reached for a muffin from the tray someone (probably Rhodes, he was considerate like that) had brought.

Bucky’s sleepy form plodded to the table and he grunted in appreciation as Sam handed him the half-full mug of coffee he’d made.  Sam knocked Bucky’s shoulder with his own and Bucky dropped his head on Sam’s shoulder in answer (covering Sam’s upper torso in loose, wavy hair) once he’d gulped down the rest of the coffee.

“Why do you people wake up so early?”  Bucky whined.

“It’s 9:30, Barnes.”  Rhodes said, unimpressed at Bucky’s displeasure.

“Last I checked, that was before noon, which is a more reasonable hour for being conscious.”  Bucky mumbled, determined to stay grumpy.

Rhodes snorted.  “You sound like Peter.”

“How dare you, Quill is an idiot.”  Bucky said, affronted.

“Not that Peter, dumbass.  Parker. The actual teenager.”

Bucky’s frown deepened even further because he was certainly not a chipper, happy, talkative teenager, he was a grown man who just enjoyed resting his worn-out body sometimes.  “Why is everyone on my ass all of a sudden?” He wondered aloud, shaking his hair out of his face.

Sam giggled softly at the word ‘ass’ and Bucky smirked up at him.  Valkyrie rolled her eyes at the two of them and set her bottle of whatever she was drinking (not coffee, that’s for sure) down on the table hard enough to rattle silverware.  “You two are sickeningly chummy this morning.” She observed them with narrowed eyes.

Bucky whipped his head around to glare at her, tossing his hair back again when his glare seemed to have no effect at all on the Asgardian.  Bruce cocked his head and looked at both Bucky and Sam closely. “You know, she’s right.”

“Thank you for your support, dear greenie.”  Valkyrie said sarcastically as she took a fortifying swig of what smelled like rocket fuel.  “After what I heard of yesterday’s training exercise, I would have expected more--not this.”

“You gossips!”  Sam accused with his mouth full of the last of his muffin.  Crumbs flew everywhere and everyone looked disgusted except Bucky who looked at Sam in amusement.

“Look at these guys,”  Bucky said, shaking his head and then tucking all the hair he shook loose back behind his ear.  “Just bumping gums all over the place. For shame.”

“Oh my God, babe.  Just put it up already!”  Sam said, exasperated as he took the black elastic from his wrist and handed it over.

“Whatever, mom.”  Bucky griped as he pulled it into a messy bun and stuck his tongue out at Sam.

The rest of the table was shocked silent.  Bruce and Rhodey’s jaws dropped and Valkyrie just stared at them with a brow raised.  Wanda remained unaffected, simply going back to her magazine. “Well that explains a lot.”

Sam ignored her and proceeded to give Bucky a loud smacking kiss on the cheek.  “See? The morning is better already, isn't it Barnesy?”

“Absolutely not.  I draw the line at cutesy names.”  Val got up from the table, draining her bottle as she went, leaving them with Bruce, Rhodes and Wanda.

“We don’t have to take this, Willie.”  Bucky said, pulling Sam close and kissing the top of his head as Sam laughed at the butchering of his surname.  “They don’t deserve our shmoop.”

Bruce kept glancing between them trying to gauge whether or not they were serious.  “Are you just messing with us?”  

Sam looked up at Bucky and grinned.  “Are we, babe?”

He was answered by Bucky getting up, picking Sam up and throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.  Bucky kissed the side of Sam’s backside and headed out of the kitchen. He paused at the doorway, looked back at everyone and slapped a laughing Sam’s ass, the sound echoing through the kitchen.

“Nah.”

Sam’s laughter echoed after them.

[occasionalfics]

Donor

main masterlist | bucky masterlist | ko-fi | ao3

For: Me. I was just reading fics one night had something sparked this idea but I don’t remember what, exactly.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader. I missed writing this boy.

A/N: So you’ll notice that I took the time to make infertility a thing to sympathize and empathize with, unlike Joss Whedon 🙄🙄🙄 It’s been so long since I wrote Bucky and something about this idea just...stuck with me. I think I wrote most of this in one sitting at like 2am because I just wanted to have it out.

Warnings: Mentions of infertility/sterility. And other things like fluff and happiness because, who are we kidding, it’s me.

Words: 2,729

It’s late when Bucky comes to bed one night. He’s been up for hours, contemplating what you said over dinner. You know him well enough to know it’s eating away at him for a few reasons, not the least of which being what those Hydra monsters did to him.

Sterile.

So he couldn’t, what, procreate and make an army of tiny Buckys to come and beat those Nazi assholes into the ground like they deserved?

It didn’t matter, though. It already happened, well before you ever even a thought in your parents’ minds. Before they were even old enough to know one another, you think. Maybe even before they were born.

When he does get in bed, he’s skipped the preliminary process in favor of sliding right up to your back, sliding his arms - metal and flesh alike - around you, and pulling you as close as he can get you. Just like every night, only now he sighs heavily, his beard stroking your shoulder because you chose to wear a tank top to bed tonight.

“Okay,” he says. You can hear the deliberation in his voice, but also...the certainty. He wants this, too. Maybe at first he didn’t like the option you presented to him because you’re his wife, but he’s thought it over. “You’re right - if there’s anyone I’d want to do this with, it’s Steve.”

He kisses your shoulder to punctuate how sincere he is, regardless of the fact that you can hear it in his voice.

You turn over to face him because you this isn’t easy for him. You’d both known all along that this was going to be a hurtle - that Bucky couldn’t fully give you everything you wanted, but that was why you’d even suggested this option in the first place.

Because, really, while you’d be asking a whole lot from Steve, you were asking even more from Bucky on a deep, personal level. You were really, truly asking him to be okay with knowing that his body couldn’t give yours what you wanted.

You’d told him earlier that night that it wasn’t about what he lacked. It wasn’t about what he couldn’t control, but rather giving him control over how to go about it.

You wanted a baby so, so badly. He’d known it all along - practically since before you’d started dating. Before you’d even gotten engaged, you’d obviously considered different options, but at that point, you’d both agreed that kids were way down the road.

And down the road was now.

“James, I only want it if you want it, too.” You search his eyes, pleading for clarification. You aren’t going through with this unless he is absolutely sure he wants what you want as much as you want it.

And he gives you a small smile because he does. He wants it. With you, his wife.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I just...since coming back, I never gave it a thought until you. And I sure as hell never expected I’d be asking Steve to help out in this department.” He chuckles to himself, like he’s got some inside joke with his own consciousness.

“He’d just be a donor. That’s all.” As his face falls again, you clarify: “Well, and obviously the Godfather and Uncle and everything. Obviously.”

His laugh is nothing more than a contented breath, pushed out between two stretched lips. Obviously.”

--

Dinner the next night is a whole messy affair because you and Bucky are more than anxious and excited - words can’t begin to accurately describe how clumsy the anticipation makes you both. Steve and Sam sit across the table; one makes questioning eye contact with his life-long best friend while the other laughs, slaps the table, and cracks jokes the whole night.

After drinks and dessert, you clear the table and start to wash dishes, but Bucky comes and shuts the water off, puts his hands on your elbows, and whispers, “It’s time.” You let him walk you back to the dinning room table and sit you down.

“Are you two getting a divorce?” Steve asks, eyes wide like a small child watching his parents fall apart.

Bucky chuckles, somehow nonchalant now. “Not at all,” he says. “You’d be the first to know if we were, but I didn’t say vows to this one for nothing.” He takes your hand under the table and you smile at him.

“So then why’ve you two been actin’ like fools all night?” Sam asks, sitting back in his chair.

“We want to have a baby,” you say, never once looking away from Bucky. You don’t think you can; he’s looking right back at you like you carry the whole world. No, like you are the whole world.

“Con...grats?” Sam asks, his confusion almost pulling you away from your lovely husband beside you. “So, are you pregnant or…”

You think you see Steve nudge Sam from the corner of your eye. It’s then that you shake your head, and as Sam asks what he’s done wrong, you finally look at him.

“We want a baby, but…” You squeeze Bucky’s hand because, suddenly, you’re not sure how to put this without either making it sound like Bucky’s fault or, even worse, bringing up old scars to bleed out all over your mahogany table.

Bucky takes the hint. He knows he has to be the one to say it.

“I can’t. Uh. Produce.”

You squeeze his hand harder, letting him know that now you can take it. “We’ve talked about this a lot over the last, what, month? And we both want at least one of our own, you know? Like, I want a baby. I want to have a baby.”

“How many ways’re you gonna say it?” Sam asks, totally teasing if his smirk is any consolation.

“As many ways as I want, Samuel.” You flash a playful warning glare his way because everyone in the room knows he’s not really in trouble for anything.

“We know adoption is an option but we’re not sure how me being a former assassin’ll play into that,” Bucky says. He’s keeping keen eye contact with Steve, who’s brows raise as recognition seems to dawn on him. “We don’t want to be waiting forever to clear whatever hoops DFC’ll throw at us. Not for our first.”

“We figure, maybe if we can prove we’re already suitable parents, adoption will be easier down the road,” you add. “But for now, we only have a couple options and the most reasonable one, we think, is to see if you’d be comfortable with possibly donating sperm, Steve.”

Both men on the opposite side of the table from you are struck silent. Sam looks utterly floored, but Steve… He’s like a brick wall. Nothing on his face to give any hint of outright emotion.

Your heart sinks, and you think you can hear Bucky’s go right along with it.

But you need this. You have to know, one way or another, if this will work.

So you look at Sam and say, “We wanted you both here because we know it’ll be a decision you make together. And, I thought, hey, maybe one day I can be a surrogate for you-”

“You definitely didn’t say anything about that last night,” Bucky says, but you think he’s just trying to lighten the mood. He doesn’t sound or look or seem jealous or angry at all. He even winks at you, and you smile back at him for it.

“Just thought it might be a nice trade to offer.” You shrug.

“You two...want me to help?” Steve asks.

His eyes are wet and shiny. You want to get up and throw your arms around him and make sure he knows how much his tears mean to you, even though none have actually fallen yet.

“We do,” Bucky answers.

“How much help?” Sam asks. And you don’t blame him. He and Steve are relatively new as an item - they took years to recognize that they had feelings for one another and even longer to actually do anything about it. You’re not surprised that Sam is a little territorial and maybe a bit confused about how everything will work.

But you and Bucky prepared all day for this exact question.

“Bucky and I want to be parents,” you say definitively. “Clearly we want you both involved in the child’s life - you’d be the two best uncles this kid could ever possibly have.”

“And we want you both to be Godfathers,” Bucky adds. “Because we don’t know anyone else we’d want to raise this kid if we couldn’t.”

Steve sniffles. Sam rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he leans forward and rubs Steve’s back.

You, on the other hand, are impatient and anxious still. Their reactions are faring well, but you crave a direct answer.

“So?”

Bucky’s knuckles graze yours under the table. He knows what you’re feeling, can read you like a damn book, but you both know what you’re asking of another human being.

“I’m just...honored, really,” Steve says.

And it’s not the answer, but you think it’s pretty close. Your ears immediately heat up, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling.

“You two really thought of asking me first?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers. “Of course we did. Who else would we even think of approaching with this?”

Steve doesn’t deign to answer that. He just...cries. You’ve never seen him cry before, but this seems to get to him somehow. And he laughs through the tears, which you know has to be a good thing.

You feel your own tears coming on.

“Will you do it?” you ask on a whisper. Because you’re desperate for an answer, but you don’t want to make it seem like you’re expecting one way or another. Even if you are.

You get what you’re looking for when Steve suddenly grips your free hand and nods.

--

ALMOST THREE YEARS LATER

You miss the patter of little feet completely. Usually, Rosie is the loudest runner in the entire world. She wakes you up every damn morning - but you asked for this.

This morning, however, you must be wiped-the-fuck-out.

Because the first thing you feel, hear, and react to is an excited two and a half-year-old launching her tiny, round, soft, joint-y body into your bed exactly as the sun is coming up on Christmas morning.

You hear a groan that matches your own from across the bed. Then tiny girl squeals, followed promptly by uninhibited giggles.

“You’re daughter’s awake,” Bucky moans.

You chuckle and manage to turn around in bed, only to have your midsection attacked by miniature arms.

“Before sunrise she’s your daughter,” you shoot back, smirking to yourself at your little Lion King reference. You can’t help yourself, despite having used the same reference at least once a week since Rosalind was old enough to get herself into your bed.

“Mama!” the girl in question yells, nearly blowing out your eardrum. “Santa left presents!”

“I know he did, Rosie,” you say, but you refuse to tell her how you know. Other than to say: “I heard the reindeer hooves last night, waaaay after you went to sleep.”

“Really?!”

It’s Bucky’s turn to laugh. He leans down and kisses the top of his daughter’s head, ruffling her sandy hair before telling her, “Oh yeah! They were so loud! I’m surprised you didn’t wake up to hear ‘em, babygirl.”

Rosie pulls her arms away from you and sat up, on her knees, between you. “Did they eat the carrots we leff out last night?” she asks, the waves of her hair falling across her cheeks like Bucky’s does.

“Of course! C’mon, I think they left a few little bits behind, those messy reindeers!” He slides out of bed and holds his arms out and, without hesitating to gawk at the metal appendage, Rosie just jumps right into him. Clings to his torso like a spidermonkey, giggles louder as his arms wrap around her, kisses his nose and fills your whole morning with glee.

God, you love them both so much.

You watch them head downstairs because, first of all, Bucky’s ass has not quit; and second, you like giving him a little time alone with her sometimes.

Four years ago, neither of you thought Rosie was a possibility. But she is so wonderful - so smart and affectionate and unconditional with everyone. As passionate about art as her Uncle Steve, and as funny as her Uncle Sam. As loud and unabashed as Steve tells you Bucky was like as a kid.

And you’re in there, too. She has your eyes - had ‘em since the day she was born. And, he swears, she’s got your ability to read people down pat. He’ll never be able to hide anything from either of you for the rest of your lives.

Rosie lets out a huge yell and calls for you, and you decide not to keep her waiting any longer. She’ll come pounding up the stairs if you don’t answer her soon, so instead, you pull on a sweater and head downstairs to join in on the fun.

Bucky’s putting the remains of the carrots that you know he munched on before bed last night into a container. “Just in case,” he says when he sees you at the foot of the stairs; both of you give the other matching raised eyebrows in question until you nod and watch Rosie giggle from the floor.

You notice she has a sugar cookie in her hand, and once again, your eyebrows shoot up.

But Bucky just shrugs. “Santa left one behind! What was I supposed to do?”

“Save it for Santa,” you say, moving into the room. You bend down and pick Rosie up, put her on your hip, and open your mouth wide.

“Wanna bite, Mama?” she asks.

You nod soundlessly, and she shoves the sharper, nibbled edge of the cookie into your mouth, still laughing as if there isn’t a moment of her life that she doesn’t do it. You bite down, chew, and can’t stop yourself from laughing right with Rosie.

You and Bucky distract her long enough to wait for Sam and Steve. She gets close to crying over not being able to open just one present before her Uncles come, but the second they walk in the door, she’s all over them. It’s like the one present no longer existed.

Everyone sits on the floor in front of the tree in pajamas - Sam and Steve made the mistake last year of getting dressed up before coming over, only to be scolded by a semi-coherent two-year-old who refused to change out of her nighty. They follow her rules now, and they dote on her like she’s their own.

When you say something about how spoiled she is by her Uncles, Steve let’s out, “Well next year, she’ll have to share.”

You look at Bucky, who looks back at you before you both turn to stare at Steve. Rosie’s too busy with her new miniature kitchen set and the line of Monster High dolls she has sitting on the plastic counter to notice.

“Share with who?” you ask.

Sam rolls his eyes, but his smile is genuine. “You and your big mouth,” he mutters, softly slapping the back of his hand against Steve’s bicep. He scoots forward and can’t stop smiling - his eyes are bright and happy and not just Christmas-happy, you know. “We’ve been approved for adoption.”

Bucky’s response is immediate. He congratulates your friends, gets on his knees to hug Steve and slap Sam’s hand in that weird bro-handshake they made up a few years ago. Rosie watches, but doesn’t leave her new loves of her life.

You force a smile - not because you’re not happy for them, because you are, but because you remember the day you and Bucky asked Steve to help make what ended up being Rosie. Neither Sam nor Steve had mentioned it since that day, but you’d kind of prepared yourself to fulfill the promise of being a surrogate for them.

Maybe you should’ve said something. But then again, you know it’s not really about you. You blink and remind yourself that this is good news. Your friends didn’t forget about your offer on purpose; they’re simply doing what’s best for them.

Like you and Bucky did.

[dracomalfoy-youlittleshit]

So this has taken a lot of thinking and I finally want to share my novel with the world of Tumblr!

Thanks to @rockmarina I grew some balls to do this. I’m about 7 chapters in right now, but with everything that’s been going on in my life, I lost all writing motivation so I’m hoping to share my work and getting constructive feedback from people I’ll actually get back into it?

Well, Let’s see how it goes.

Here’s the prologue and Chapter One, If people like it I’ll share more I guess?

(I made the cover myself too!)

Prologue:

London, 1887.

                    The last of the carriages lined the dark, stoned streets. Small flickering candles shone through the narrow windows of terraced houses. The light patter of rain hitting the ground could be heard, and the taste of thunder lingered in the air. The lampposts were slowly being lit, emanating a low, dim light to the streets below allowing Shadows to creep from the cold, dark alleys concealing the secrets and terrors lurking within them.

Men, women and children returning from their poorly paid jobs and arriving home to almost no food. A young beggar girl was sitting alone on the street, her pale face caved in, her body thin with the hungry passing of days. Women were forced to sell their bodies just to get their next meal, never knowing the dangers they were in. Everyday, working class people suffered as the high class lived in luxury. Their tables filled with uneaten and wasted food, their wardrobes brimming with garments of the finest quality and their homes warm and comfortable. These dreadful people only cared for themselves, oblivious to the fight some people must endure daily… 

Wiley Walker and Celia Roberts have never been like the rest of their kind. They would always spare a shilling or two, sometimes some bread and water, to the young beggar girl. The two were kind and had both aspired to make a difference in the world in their own ways. Celia was a strong woman with straight brown hair, soft eyes to match and piercing rose red lips, She believed that women were not objects or prizes to be claimed by man, that all women had a voice and needed to be heard. She wished deeply to become a respected businessman like her father, knowing that would take a lot of work, yet she was ready for it. Firstly, she wishes to start small and state her right to not marry, not wanting her life defined by any man, even if she could decide his identity. 

Wiley was the opposite of Celia. He was a quiet and reserved boy with lengthy ginger hair tied back from his pale, freckled face. His emerald green eyes contrasted his image. They shone with confidence and even power when his demeanor suggested otherwise. He was quite reserved in the presence of his family, giving into every one of their demands to keep the peace and to divert all of their attention away from him. 

Wiley and Celia, although polar opposites, were best friends and had been from the age of 4. They confided in eachother about all aspects of their life, even if doing so was dangerous… Wiley had a secret, a rather large secret that he could never tell his family or anybody close. Celia was aware of this, of his forbidden homosexuality. No longer punishable by death, Celia had thought much less of this than Wiley himself. He detested this part of himself, as many others would if they discovered it. He had managed to keep it concealed for years yet, the truth would soon come out as he is soon to be married… 

Chapter One:

The Roberts’ manor was an old and run-down place. Vines and ivy covered the chipped grey bricks that were barely holding together. The dark winter sky gave the house an ominous look. The leafless trees seemed to curl around the building as if to scare off any passers-by. The dark bayed windows glowed with soft candlelight as dinner was being served inside. The interior of the home was much more cozy and comfortable than the exterior. The dining table was being filled with food as maids plumped the velvet seat cushions and the butler set down the silver. 

Around the back of the house was a rather large garden, the brightly coloured flowers looked out of place against the deep green grass and cracked stone paving. Under a canopy, to escape the lightly falling rain, sat Celia and Wiley. 

Celia’s soft brown hair blew in the wind as she tucked a stray piece behind her ear. “Stop worrying,” Wiley said with a small smile. His fingers found a small silver ring on his thumb and began turning it, “you will be fine.”

Celia didn’t reply. She continued to look out into the garden, her hazel eyes in a vacant stare. They both stayed silent, listening to the wind through the trees, wishing that they could stay like this forever. “You know what’s going to happen,” Celia breathed, as if she didn’t want to admit it to herself, even though she knew it was inevitable. 

“Celia-” Before he could continue, Celia threw her head back and pulled out the loose bun at the top of her head, catching him off guard. She discarded the long red ribbon to the floor and ran her long fingers through her hair with a sigh. “Please, don’t say anything.” She sat forward, pushing her hair from her face. “I just want five moments peace before the chaos.”

Wiley bent down, plucking the ribbon from the floor and running it through his boney fingers. “Here, let me fix your hair.” he held out the ribbon in his hand and Celia smiled in response. “Fine,” she said before wiley had began to make his way over to her. “You always have been good at these things.” “Doing your hair?” “Making me feel better,” Celia muttered, earning a toothy grin from Wiley. “It will all be okay, you do know that, right?” “Wiles… They’re going to marry me off to some egotistical bigot with a big, fancy job. He’s going to expect me to have his children, I don’t want anybody’s children.” Celia’s face flushed with rage as she massaged her temples. Wiley brushed his fingers through Celia’s hair, tying it into a neat bun using her ribbon. A few stray strands poked out around her head that Wiley had tried to tuck in. “There.” He took a seat, crossing his legs and twirling his ring once again. “Do you remember Nicholas?”

Celia’s lip twitched before breaking into a large smile. “Gosh, that seems like so long ago,” she laughed. “We were both crazy about him, well, you were. I just wanted a friend.” “It was at least 5 years ago now. He went off to marry, didn’t he?” Celia leant back over again, turning a loose hair strand between her fingers, her previous smile fading. “That’s where everybody goes, Wiles. It’s where I’m going and it’s where you’ll be going when your family finds you a suitable woman.” “I reluctantly await the day a woman wants to marry me.” He fiddled with his fingers on his lap. “How about Douglas, remember him?” Wiley asked,Celia didn’t reply. She leant back in her chair, closing her eyes in thought. She knew it was a touchy topic for Wiley and didn’t want to encourage him to talk about it when she knew he didn’t want to. “Where did he go? After your father chased him out, I mean?” “I don’t know, that was the last I ever saw of him.” She replied quickly to move the topic on, sitting forward again and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t want to get married, Wiles. I know that’s what’s going to happen today. They’ve been acting strange for weeks, I know they’ve found somebody for me.” A tear escaped her eye and Wiley quickly wiped it away with a handkerchief. “You don’t know that for sure. I hate seeing you like this, Ci-Ci.” “I’m going to miss this. Just us.” “You don’t have to miss it, you know you’ll see me again. Whatever happens at this dinner.” Wiley stood, taking the smaller trembling girl in his arms with a deep breath. Wiley caught sight of a small, middle-aged woman waiting in the doorway. She had large bags beneath her eyes and her hair was a curled mess around her head. Her uniform was crumpled and covered in stained patches. She didn’t speak until Wiley looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Mr Wiley, Miss Celia. I apologize, I don’t mean to interrupt. Your parents require your presence in the dining room, your dinner is served.” 

“Very well. Thank you, Sylvia,” Celia muttered. “Well, let’s go.” 

They hastily entered the dining room and wordlessly took their seats at the polished table as the footmen served drinks. Both had tried to move unnoticed as their parents sat at the end of the table, yet they knew the silence wouldn’t last long. “What have you two been doing all day?” Ralph Walker, Wiley’s father, was the first to acknowledge them. He looked much older than he was, with deep sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones. He was a very pointed man with a small but rough beard on his pale chin. “We haven’t seen you both since we arrived.” 

“Apologies, Father, we were in the gardens.” Wiley flushed slightly and started fiddling with the ring once again.

“I don’t know what you expected, Ralph. Those two have never been apart.” Oscar Roberts, Celia’s father, was a very short and plump man with a round face and a balding head. He had very nervous-looking, brown eyes and didn’t like to speak up in conversations. Ralph and Oscar had known eachother since they were children and, like Wiley and Celia, they were inseparable. They had even started a business, Roberts & Walker, sticking together even after marriage. Wiley silently wished for a bond with Celia as strong as their fathers’, yet he knew that couldn’t happen. 

Just as the footmen came out of the kitchens once again with their food, Celia’s elder brother walked into the room with a girl on his arm. 

“Ahh, here he is!” A large grin spread across Oscar’s face as Celia’s eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. Wiley noticed the look on her face and gave a small smile of reassurance.  The two new arrivals took their seats at the long table, opposite from Wiley and Celia. Celia’s brother, Benjamin, was a very tall man for his age. His neatly kept brown hair was pulled out of his eyes smoothly and his face was clean-shaven. His wife, Eliza, was a petite woman with lots of tight blonde curls neatly sitting atop her head, tied together with a long pink ribbon. Celia had instantly disliked her from their first meeting. Her dresses were much too frilly and she wore too much makeup. 

“Some whiskey, Benjamin?” “Of course, Father.” Benjamin gave a smile and a footman appeared to fill his glass quickly. Celia looked down into her drink, twirling it around the glass.

“And wine for the lady?” the footman asked. “I’m afraid I must decline,” Eliza answered quietly with a large smile on her red lips, “just water, please.” Oscar looked knowingly over to his son and Ralph smiled towards the couple. 

“I’m assuming you have some news for us, dear?” Mrs Roberts asked cheerfully. “Ahh, yes.” Benjamin stood, catching the attention of Wiley and Celia. “I am very pleased to announce that we are expecting a baby.”

The table uproared with cheers and congratulations from both families. Celia had taken no happiness in the news, she sat quietly, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

“So, what are you hoping for?” Mrs. Walker asked happily.

“A boy, of course!” Benjamin bawled and Eliza rolled her eyes. 

“I want a girl.” She smiled, taking a sip of her drink. 

“Well, any names?” Mrs Roberts asked with a smile, “What will I be calling my future grandchild?”

“Well Mother, we were thinking Oscar for a boy,” Benjamin glanced over at his father who grinned, his large cheeks slightly flushed. “And maybe Alexandra for a girl.” 

“Oh, beautiful!” Mrs Walker chucked. Mrs Roberts laughed along with her happily. 

“Let us raise a toast.” Ralph stood, tapping his class with a spoon. “To the happy couple!” 

“To the happy couple!” They all cheered in unison - Wiley and Celia much less enthusiastic as everybody else. 

After everybody had calmed down, the conversation turned to Celia. “You’ve been quiet all evening.” Oscar eyed her harshly. “Any words of congratulations for your brother?”

Celia muttered a hum of reply before turning her attention to her food. She had completely removed herself from the conversation and soon it turned to the topic of marriage. She only began to tune in when Wiley was brought into it. 

“Any ladies in your sights, Wiley?” Benjamin asked with a grin. Wiley’s face paled and his hands dropped to his lap. “Uh, a few, I suppose,” he responded carefully, trying to hide the obvious shake in his voice. “Too many to choose from?” Ralph joined the conversation with stern eyes before they almost instantly filled with amusement. “That’s my boy!” 

“Well choose soon Wiley, dear. We expect many grandchildren,” his mother said sweetly. Wiley only smiled in reply, the kind of smile that only Celia could see straight through. He moved his hands from his lap and hesitantly picked up his cutlery, yet only managing to push  a small pile of vegetables on his plate. Celia repeated Wiley’s actions yet as she ate, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the dinner was going unnaturally well. 

The conversation had fallen quite silent before Ralph broke it with a clink of a glass. He stood tall, pointing his chin in the air with his chest puffed out. “Now that we are all comfortable and have eaten, I, we,” He gestured to Oscar, “would like to reveal the real reason we held this dinner.” His eyes seemed to omit light as he spoke. “Our families have been joined since we were young. We have a bond much stronger than many, and so do our children.” Wiley gave a small smile to his father and Celia filled with dread. “We know you both are coming of age and that you have your own ideas of who to marry, but Oscar and I both agree that our families deserve a stronger bond. Our company would stay within the confines of us; and what better way to do this than to join our families through marriage?” Wiley and Celia’s faces drained. “Father—” “Celia,” Oscar cut her off with a grin, “Wiley is the man you shall marry.”

Without another word, Celia rushed out of the room, tears filling her eyes. Wiley wished he could follow her…

“What do you say, Wiley?” Ralph asked, his eyes lit as if staring directly into Wiley’s soul. He knew he couldn’t refuse, but he didn’t want to agree, so he just nodded, keeping his eyes locked on the floor. “May I—, can I—” He took a deep breath and stood from the table. “Allow me to talk to her,” he said, his voice shaking. “Sit, Wiley,” Ralph ordered. harshly Wiley instantly sat back down. “You can’t seriously be against this.” 

Thump.

“You two make such a delightful couple.” 

Thump.

“I was convinced you would like this idea.”

 Thump.

“She likes you, I’m sure of it.”

Wiley’s heart was pounding in his chest and he felt like the walls were closing in. His mouth went dry and it suddenly felt difficult to breathe. His legs had lost all feeling, as though he was turning to mush. He wanted to run, to escape this situation, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t disappoint his father. But he also knew that he couldn’t marry Celia. He couldn’t be the one to ruin her life.

————————————————————————————————

So that’s it!

I’d like to thanks @piertotumlocomotherfucker for Alphaing a lot of this stuff for me even though we haven’t spoken a lot recently and I’ve been too much of a mess to write…

Gonna tag to signal boost too!

@justawynaut @secretlycrazyhummingbird @bellerixe @mushyperalta @do-your-thingg @gamerfreddie Ahh I don’t talk to anyone else so signal boost if you can guys, If not just ignore me.

Please let me know if you like it, I’d love to post the rest of what I have if you do! Likes and reblogs greatly appreciated!!

[writingonthemoon]

Old Clothes Part 5

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Word Count: 2981

Warnings: Mentions of death, religious comments, and a tiny bit of blood??

Author’s Note: I am so, so, so, so, so sorry about how late this part is.  The combination of school and work has been kicking my ass so far, but Ia good cry later and I’m getting the hang of it now.  I hope you all really enjoy this and the next part will hopefully be out by the beginning of October.  Share with everyone you think would enjoy this!  Thank you all so much once again!

Old clothes start to fall apart. Why wouldn’t they? Not only have they been worn by strangers until they no longer fit what they wanted, but they’re the wall between the wind and bare skin. The wind becomes a friend while sprinting. Running becomes a part of life when there’s something always following close behind. It nips at heels like the wind at the nose and follows the trail as if it were a breeze through tunnels. The swooshing of the trees pairs with the pounding of feet on dirtied roads. My mother had gotten all too used to the feeling.

     I used to be a kid. A real kid who would play and play until the moon had come to join me. Of course, I wouldn’t play in the dirt, but I had dolls that had been passed down to me that were from my grandmother’s childhood. Sometimes they would be a family who would be caught in a bind and have to flee town. Other times they would be adventurers that would travel the forests and mountains in hopes of something incredible. There were three stuffed in my pockets that night. My few favourites I couldn’t bear to part with. The Queen, the Witch and the Warlock.

     They weren’t always magical or royal, but it was my preferred way of storytelling. I once had a King and Princess and Prince and many others, but I lost them all to the inferno of my failure. My collection was down to three and I’d continue to attempt an expansion but to no avail. The twigs I would tie together for villagers were snapped in two underfoot and the rock giants glued together with mud would crumble with a gentle breeze. No, my travelling circus would remain a silent trio act, performing for an audience of one with the ringmaster lurking overhead. I played God to a world of mortals and the strings of fate were in my hands. Ironic that I played the role when it did not exist. Either that or I removed myself from the game, becoming a passive onlooker to the cruel roll of the dice that decides the ends of all.

     It was velvet, the regal dress of Her Majesty. A brilliant red with gilded embroidery that made her shine in the light. The back of her crown was delicately laced with her hair, keeping it floating atop her head while she saw over the proceedings of the executions of traitors. Wicked was the witch who dressed in white, her silken cloak billowing behind her as she awakened her powers in the storm. Lightning struck her staff of ivory and scorched the hearts of her enemies. Lichen crawled upon the robes of the wizard, his stiff beard gaining knots and growing worse for wear as he cast spells of whimsy from the oak branch he called a wand. Black tweed melted him into a shadow during dusk and caused looks of doubt in the dawn.

     Sometimes I was the Witch, bringing misfortune unto myself and others in my wares of hope. Other times the Wizard and I were one, my adventures casting spells of joy on those surrounding me as I twisted them into fairytales. Mostly, though, I was the Queen. Her immunity against the forces of society and the corrupt morals of the world mirrored my own permanence in the land of expectations and lies. I had to guard the people around me to keep myself from persecution, just as she had to protect her subjects to assure her survival on the throne. We were equals in the way we thought with logic and reasoning and how we fought with carefully chosen statements and hidden suggestions. But would it be enough? Would it all be enough in the end? Or would we have to stare down the executioner’s blade and meet Death after too many evasions?

     My fingertips burned while I sat on the bridge overlooking the river that ran beneath. With the city finally sleeping and the Moon cold and grey, I allowed myself a reprieve. It was only a moment, but a desperately needed one at that. My mind was free to wander as it seemed fit while I rested and it chose the chilling sights of the afternoon. Albert, Ben, Charlie. Their faces were frightening but warmed my heart like a fire warms your toes. Ah yes, the August afternoon felt more like an autumn evening, one that sends a shiver down your spine but spreads a blanket of comfort over you. That anecdote was backed up by a coming patter of rain that landed on myself and the pavement beside.

     It was cooling, the rain. I relished in it’s frozen embrace, leaning back to ease my turmoil. Soon it was a heavy downpour like the sky had turned the faucet full on. If there were others in the streets, they would be scurrying for cover like rats from the light. My body drew me to stand, gazing at the clouds as if they were the Sistine Chapel. The beauty was greater than all the work in the Louvre. Nature could never be captured so precisely outside of the moment.

     "Hey! You!“ My head snapped across the bridge into the borough of Brooklyn, where a figure stood in the shadows, the rain soaking them the same as it was me. The pending confrontation had me frozen in fear. This sort of thing had never happened to me when I had to fight before, but the events of the evening had changed more than just my record.

     Footsteps approached me quickly, the person drawing nearer and nearer. Puddles splashed as I began to make out features of the face. Dark brown eyes shone with kindness in the night and messy black hair was hidden beneath a sopping hat. I thought it strange his shirt lacked sleeves. Then again, it wasn’t the oddest thing I’ve bared witness to.

     "What’re you doin’ out here, Miss? Youse gonna get a cold.” There was something about him that resonated with me. It wasn’t the running, no, certainly not. There was a lost look reflecting in his pupils, one of someone who had nothing more to lose but wished with what little hope they have that they did.

     "I could say the same thing about you…“ I trailed, not knowing what name to use for the boy in front of me.

     "Graves, Miss. Everyone calls me Graves.”

     "Of course, Graves. But why are you out here chastising me for when the same thing is happening to you? You should be of under some blankets sleeping.“ I waved my hand in the direction he came from.

     "I was just heading back ta the Lodgin’ House over there in Brooklyn from visiting my Ma and Pa, but I came ‘cross you. It was nice out b'fore.”

     I mumbled, “But then…” before putting the pieces together. That was it. He was set adrift at sea the same way I was, not knowing which way was home or if it still existed. “I’m so sorry.” My hand met my lips, covering the shocked expression.

     "Nah, it’s fine. I got all the Brooklyn Newsies wit me.“

     "Of course.” I shook my head to clear out pestering questions, “it’s just… I lost my parents too and I know how wrong it can feel. If I may, without intruding, offer my condolences.”

     "Thank ya.“ He tipped his cap at me, “Now, can’t let a lovely lady like you stay out in the rain like this. Why don’t you come back to Brooklyn with me?” He started walking away before I responded, obviously expecting me to follow him. My feet were glued to the ground, though, and there was no way I’d be moving so soon. Graves kept rattling on, “Youse can stay on the girl side of the house until mornin’. Well, I say girl side, but it’s just Rafaela and Joey. I think you’d like Raf. She’s a little rough ‘round the edges, but once she warms up to ya, she’s a real sweetie. Joe’s just a ball a energy. Ya neva know what she's—” The lack of trailing footsteps caused him to stop. His eyes met mine and I could sense the hurt at that moment.

     "Sorry, Graves,“ I plucked my feet from the ground, "I got lost in thought there for a moment.”

     I was soon at his side, my gait wanting to outmatch his, but my lack of knowledge besting my body, “'Bout what?”

     "You’re lucky to have so many kids supporting you with this loss. I was alone when it happened to me. No siblings, no aunts or uncles or friends. Just me and the forest.“ It wasn’t a lie because this broken boy didn’t warrant one. He just wanted the best for everyone, so I let him have a peek at my vulnerability, but not enough for him to dethrone me.

     "That… I’m sorry. Nobody should go through that alone.”

     "Eh, it was years ago. There’s nothing I can do about it now. All I can do is keep moving forward. One day, I’ll make it out.“ Make it out of life and reunite with my family. That’s been the goal for years. See them again.

     "Well, I’m definitely sorry then.”

     "No need to be.“

     The two of us carried on in silence, but not for long. I guess the Brooklyn House wasn’t as far as I assumed. Perhaps it was easy being close to the bridge for selling rather than further away. You’d get the morning and evening rush of people coming and going to and from work. Whoever got the bridge as their turf, on either side, must make a fair wage from all the workers. I’d assume it to be the higher ranking Newsies would get the top spot before the lower ones, who were probably left with the quieter corners and empty shops.

     "Here we are.” Graves’s announcement brought me out of my thoughts of Newsies politics if there even was such a thing. I gazed up at the subject of his presentation. The building wasn’t much different from the one in Manhattan, but it was burgundy in colour from exposed brick and there was a different air about it. “Come on in.” The door was held open for me while I scurried inside out of the rain that had somehow fallen harder in my last few moments outside.

     It was calm on the inside. No shouting or running or fooling around. Two girls caught my eye and I assumed them to be Rafaela and Joey. Then they saw me and became worried. The two rushed over in their red-toned dresses that looked too short to be appropriate. Both my hands were grasped as they led me around the building and into a room not much bigger than a broom closet. A bunk filled half the room and the door took up much of the other half.

     "You poor thing! Graves knows betta than ta make a lady stand in the rain.“ The one girl with dark hair fretted about the room while speaking to me.  She was obviously looking for something to give to me so I could warm-up. Her accomplice, whose hair was covered with a loudly patterned scarf, gave me strange looks as she rifled through a small sewing basket that was slightly mounding with ill-matched clothing all in the same scarlet hues. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to figure out my size or if I was a spy.

"Here you are,” an old rag was presented to my face, some drops of blood stained the once white fabric, “An’ Rafaela there,” she, who I assumed to be Joey, pointed to the one with the headscarf, “should have somethin’ picked out for ya to wear while your clothes dry. I’m Joey.” The energy radiating off her was enough to chase the chill out of my core.

     Rafaela faced me fully, a dark blue skirt and white blouse held in her hands, “Sorry, but these were the only things that would fit.” There was an accent behind her words. It was one I hadn’t heard in a very long time, but that was mainly because I was British as ever.

     "Oh, you’re Spanish?“ Rafaela nodded, "It’s beautiful there. I hope to return someday. I got sidetracked last time I was there and accidentally forgot a project I was working on. Shouldn’t be too much of an issue to complete it… unless somebody’s found it.” My fear started to manifest at the possibility of my paintings being found. What would the locals think?

     Joey and Raf laughed, “I was actually born in Puerto Rico, but my parents were both from Spain. I would love to visit one day and see where they grew up.”

     In a single bout of happiness, I made a wild suggestion, “You and I just might have to go together then.” We giggled as Joey made a sound of offence, “You too Joe. I’m telling you two, we’re going to live like Queens in Spain one day.”

     "Go change! Then we can sit by the fireplace and keep you warm until Spot arrives.“ Rafaela ushered me towards the restroom across the way, leaving me to wonder about this 'Spot’ she mentioned.  Most likely their leader, but what type of leader were they?  The charismatic Jack Kelly?  Or were they more stoic or friendly?  Time would tell me soon enough. 

     It wasn’t a terrible skirt. It was a little short around the ankles and I needed my belt from my dress to keep it up. The shirt did fit very well, even if the shoulders were smaller than fashion dictated.  They were normal, I suppose, when you look at an actual shoulder.  I do think I was quite well put together in my new outfit.  Almost like a higher-class working girl.  Those entertainment reporters dressed fairly similar.  All I needed was a smart little bow and I could pass as anyone with credentials.

     The moment the cold knob of the door left my fingers, I heard an exclamation from Joey, "Oh, you look fantastic!” She ran forward and took my hands, "Rafaela can do your hair once we get downstairs.  She’s amazing at it.“ I was pitched forward at a sharp tug from both girls.  Next thing I knew, I was seated on a worn footrest that could collapse at any moment.  My white ribbon was pulled from my hair and I was brought back to memories of my mother doing my hair for me, then my sister practising her own styles and Jesse playing with it lightly as we travelled.

     "Do you care if we get rid of this ribbon?  It’s so old.”

     "NO!“ I was too loud in my protest and drew eyes towards myself, "No, uh, please use it.  It’s all I have left of my sister.” A small ‘oh’ came from Rafaela asher and Joe proceeded to release my hair from its tangled bonds.

     The three of us spoke quietly as light tugs pestered the back of my head.  Slight laughter entered the conversation but never dominated.  I enjoyed it, the homey feeling that filled the room.  A hasty fire crackled off to the side, my dress laid out in front of it.  The rain poured outside, warding off all who dared be in the streets so late.  A soft smile graced my face and my eyes were closed in bliss.  This was the perfect moment, even if I knew no one around me.

     A creak of the front door alerted me to someone new and the following hush told me of their importance.  The Brooklyn leader, Spot.  I went to turn my head but was held back with a short ‘not yet’ from the girls behind me.  My position was held until I was told.  I quickly stood and glanced at the soaking wet boy who stood in the entryway.  He was short, even shorter than… than most.  The echoing of my shoes was still heard as I stopped before him, my hand outstretched to greet him.

     "Spot, correct? I’m sorry for intruding on your turf, but Graves here,“  I gestured to the boy in the shadows watching the two of us.  He was brought forward by social protocol, standing adjacent to the gap that separated me and Spot, "said I should get out of the rain and that it was perfectly alright if I stayed here for the night.  If not, I can leave now.”

     "No,” he put his hands up in a simple gesture, “it’s fine.  I’m Sean Conlon, but people call me Spot.” I thought I sensed an Irish accent mixed with the language of the streets, but I could’ve been wrong.

     "Well, I think you’ll learn I’m not exactly ‘people’.“ I sent him a shining grin in an attempt to break him and I almost did.  The questions patched up the cracks before I could tear the protective wall down.

     "Graves,” his head swivelled, “who’s this?  ‘Cause I like ‘er.”

     "Oh!  Yeah, yeah right, this is, uh, this is… What’s your name?” Graves gave me a look as he realised I never quite introduced myself to him.  I prided myself on that accomplishment, my posture straightening the slight amount.  I enjoyed pulling the wool over the eyes of others.

     I took a breath, readying myself for whatever would come next, “It’s nice to meet you, Sean.” My hand met his in a swift shake and I felt a million eyes pierce my skin and a fiery heat sear my back.  Whichever one of the angels that had arrived was not on my side, just preparing to send me to the Devil.  Even if there was no God to pray to, I sent one out for help as I spoke my next words, "I’m Odette.  Odette Tuck.“ 

[xirelluniyt]

Running

The day began like any other in Doma.

The morning sun shined through the window with joyful warmth. Himari awoke content, glad that the sun could greet her. Her husband had left at dawn to do his business in Kugane, but it would still be some time before he returned home. Sensing a still silence in the air, she knew her boys weren’t home either. Hiro likely went to the river to practice his knife techniques. Xiran was a toddler, so if he wasn’t home, then his father must have taken him in the morning. That boy is an early riser since birth like his father. Must be the desert blood, moving with the sun to get through the day, she pondered. Himari took advantage of this rare moment to draw a bath, slowly easing her slender frame into the warm water. Her dark scales took a shine in the water and sunlight peeking through the high window. Sakura oil used to be her greatest pleasure in life until her sons took its place, so any moment to relish in its soothing scent was always a nice change of pace.

After her bath, she took to their library. It wasn’t spectacular, but she spent many days reading books of heroes and their battles to her children here. It was a special place where anything was possible. Her latest read was a book of aetherical research by an elezen mage named Louisoix Leveilluer. Sharlayan sounds like a wonderful place, she thought, I hope to study there one day…

Well into her third chapter, the silence was broken by the main door opening followed by a child’s cheering. Her bright green eyes darted to the window. The morning was now mid-afternoon, and with it came her beloved and youngest son. She marked her page with a braid and put the book away, walking out to the main courtyard to meet them.

“Mommy! You had to see it! They hit everything with their hands! No sticks or knives or nothing!” Xiran’s eyes were flaring with excitement, his eyes bright as jade. “Oh, really?” She replied with equal enthusiasm as she bent over to hug him. “Well go get changed and you can tell me all about it!” Xiran laughed and jumped as high as he could on his way inside, trying to kick sakura petals as they fell. At 3 years old, he was barely 3 fulms high, but full of energy. She smiled as he ran into the house, his feet pattering away. She turned to see her husband, a Highlander as strong as stone. He was a mountain compared to his Auri wife, a native from the Azim Steppe. He kissed his wife tenderly. She stroked his cheek and looked deep into his dark blue eyes, like pools of the sea. “I take it you two had an interesting day?”

He smiled and stood straight. “A group of Monks from The Fist of Rhalgr came into port at Kugane today. Under strict eye, they were permitted to put on a demonstration. Boards, bricks, stone blocks, all reduced to crumbs by bare hands. Quite the spectacle, to be entirely honest!” He almost seemed more enthusiastic than his son, not having seen anything of his Ala Mhigan origins in quite some time,  However, she met his excitement with a slight tone of seriousness. Ala Mhigans in Hingashi meant her husband was there for more than just business dealings with foreigners. “So what about your transactions? Any news?” His smile left as quick as it came, lowering his arms as he took a serious face. He spoke in a hushed voice. Garlean spies were everywhere, some were said to possess powers only known to the Shinobi. Some were even said to be Shinobi, men and women who quickly allied with the Garlean Legatus upon his occupation of Doma.

“Johan Bludfyst was one of the Monks in the demonstration. He said he was able to secure a passage for us, but he’s taking serious risks even agreeing to let us aboard. He’s only staying in port tonight, and we are to either be on his ship before he embarks or we lose our chance.” His face was grave, almost hopeless. “The Fist has already set up a home for us with the essentials that we’ve managed to smuggle over, but there’s so much left to do. We haven’t even told the children that we’re leaving the only home they’ve ever known…I don’t know what to do.”

Himari hugged her husband, which took him by surprise. Her grace under pressure was always something of a mystery but always gave him the motivation to persevere in the worst of times. “There’s nothing left here but material items, Kyland. All that matters is that we’ll be away from here, away from this oppressive hold that the Garleans have over Doma. Our family will be able to grow in peace.” He returned her hug with a strong embrace. “We must pack then. Take only what we need to make the journey and leave in the night,” he said lovingly. He would do anything for her.

The sea water lapped against the pier quietly. Under other circumstances, it would be peaceful, looking out at the sea with the moon hanging low in the midnight sky. Kyland could make out the constellation of Rhalgr and took it as a sign of the future. Ala Mhigo would be their new home for a time, and from there travel to other parts of the world. Eorzea was a large continent, filled with wonders. Himari would tell him of the places she read about in the books he would bring her from the markets in Kugane. Her eagerness was his drive and wanted to give her the world she wished to see. This was his chance to do so, for her and their sons. He walked from the bow of the ship and met with Johan as he and Himari walked up from below deck. He wore a snug set of robes and pants in the event they ran into any trouble, his katana tight on his hip. It had been many moons since he held his blade in combat, but he was the cautious type. “How soon can we shove off?” he asked hurriedly. Johan met his gaze and placed a sympathetic fist on his bicep. Johan was an older monk with a silver beard and hair over a weathered face, wearing black monk garb. He spoke calmly to Kyland, attempting to ease his anxiety. “Soon, friend. We only need wait for the captain as he finalizes the manifest. Are you keeping the name Rayne? People know it here, including the empire.” Kyland gripped his katana, “Nothing in this world will ever make me abandon who I am,” his tone was serious. He looked to his wife and felt calm until he spotted a gruff looking Roegadyn with a scroll in hand making his way to the ship. His anxiety spiked. “That’s him,” huffed the Monk, “Let us make haste.” Johan walked onto the pier to untie the ropes off the bow while Kyland took to the stern. The captain scurried along, a nervous look on his face like he’d seen a ghost as he boarded. This made Kyland more nervous on top of his already heightened anxiety. He looked to his wife, who noticed as well and was just as confused. He then heard the heavy footfalls on the pier. Without looking he knew it was a squad. Ten samurai guards, Garlean cronies that sniffed out their plan. He had worked the rope to its last pass. One more pull of the knot and the ship would be free. The leader stood in front and spoke in a gruff voice. “Kyland, you are hereby placed under arrest for treason against the Garlean Empire! Cease and drop your weapon!” Kyland rose slowly, facing the squad of guards, guns drawn. Just one more gods-damned pass, he thought with grit teeth.

Johan, his ropes untied, ran and set himself back to back with Kyland. He whispered as not to be heard. “This is a harsh situation, brother. If the Empire finds out we helped you, they’ll certainly attempt to advance on us next.”

“You intend to run then, Monk?” He whispered back. The squad leader yelled again, “Do you hear me, traitor?! You are under arrest!” The squad slowly advanced, tense and uncertain. Some of these soldiers were new to their duty, and those that weren’t never had to pull a weapon with intent to kill.

Johan chuckled nervously. “I’ve never run from a fight, but with the information you’ve provided, we can’t bear to lose you as an asset or let your family come to harm. I intend to buy you time. Run, I can hold them off.”

Kyland looked at his wife. She was crying, not wanting to lose her love. They came this far, so close to freedom. She didn’t want to lose him, or their chance at a new life, but she could see in Kyland’s stern expression he had already made that choice. He would do anything for her.

“I’ll never make it to the ship before I’m peppered with bullets…Keep them safe Johan, they’ll need your protection on the journey there,” Kyland said with a hint of sadness in his voice.

Johan widened his eyes in shock. “Certainly you can’t take them all yourself, you need aid!”

Kyland closed his eyes, the memories flowing. His first kiss with Himari, his ceremony of bonding, his sons’ births. “They don’t know who you are, or what you’ve done for us, otherwise they would have this harbor surrounded. You can still retain secrecy. Do me this favor…as my last request.”

The Monk spied the rope, almost undone. Kyland sensed his concern. “I’ll take care of it, and them. Go!”

“Gods’ speed, brother.” Johan took two steps and jumped from the pier to the ship. The squad followed the Monk but quickly retrained on Kyland as he took his stance. Right hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to strike. “This is your final warning, traitor! Stand down or be fired upon!”

Kyland scowled in anger. He hated the empire and always sought a way to fight them. He took one last glance at his beloved Himari. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her expression was pure sadness. Even in this dire moment, she still kept herself together. She knew she would have to be strong for the boys. She knew she would have to be there to be the mother they deserved, and the father they’ll never grow up with. Her grace under pressure was always a mystery to him, but now it all made sense. She stayed strong to give her family the life they deserved, and now he had to do the very same with his life. Her perseverance was his motivation.

“Stand down, traitor!” the squad leader yelled again. Kyland snapped back to reality, his scowl pressed harder. “My name is Kyland Rayne, and I will not stand down!”

“Open fire!” the leader retorted, and as the bullets flew, time slowed down. Kyland may not have held his sword in combat in many moons, but his skills were still sharp. In one motion, he drew his sword, cutting the rope and dashed. In the blur, Himari was running to avoid gunfire, Johan took a position over the edge of the ship and pushed the ship off the pier using every onze of his might to get the ship as far away from the port as possible. Kyland’s blade diced every bullet he could see. He was clear of danger, save for the ten samurais before him, but he had faced worse odds and won. However, he had never faced a true Shinobi.

The ninja appeared out of the shadows and met Kyland with a blade to the gut. The tip of Kyland’s katana was but an ilm away from the squad leader’s face, causing him to fall backward and retreat back with the squad, but the threat was over. Kyland coughed up blood as his stomach hemorrhaged. He never saw the ninja’s face, but it didn’t matter. His final act was what he intended, giving his family the fighting chance they needed. He pushed the ninja back and tried to strike, but a knife was thrust into his throat and up into his brainstem. He was dead before his body hit the pier with a sickening thud.

The ship was getting close to port when Xiran awoke in his mother’s arms. He rubbed his eyes as he sat on her lap, hearing the commotion above deck as they prepared to port. Three months at sea hearing stories of Gyr Abania and his father’s former homeland made him excited. He wished his father was there to see it too. His mother was on a bale of hay, and he on her. She was covered by his father’s favorite black togi. He wore it often to gatherings in the summer months, as it had no sleeves and let him stay cool. He nuzzled her shoulders to try waking her. Her response was weak, she could barely hold her head up. Xiran had never seen his mother so pale before. “Mommy, are you sick?” he asked, barely awake yet. “All is well, child,” she answered. “Can you hear them…? We’re almost there…Soon we’ll start our adventures…” Her breathing was shallow, almost like every breath was getting shorter. Johan came into the cargo hold, hearing them stirring. “Good morrow, Hiro has been on the deck since dawn, asking all sorts of questions! I never thought I could have seen a child so drawn to sea-faring as much as he!” He lifted Xiran with such ease, Xiran thought he could fly and laughed. “Go join your brother, let him know you’re awake!” He put Xiran down on his feet and the young boy ran off. Johan looked back to Himari, dumbfounded. “Come now, we’ve come all this way you must be hungry.” He went to take her hand, but it was cold. Johan’s heart dropped and he ripped the togi off of her. She lay in a dark kimono and long pants, and she lay still unresponsive. He jostled her lightly, trying to rouse her.

“Himari, come now, wake up!” He patted and lightly shook her, discovering her left side was oozing fluid from a bullet hole under her lung. She had slowly succumbed to infection, self-treating to worry about her children’s safety more than her own. “Jo...Joha-,” she answered softly.

“I’m here, Himari, don’t push yourself, I’ll get help!” he rose to find aid but Himari grabbed his wrist.

“Xiran…Hiro…teach them to be strong…like their father…” Johan took to his knee at her side again. She caressed his face. “Thank you…for giving us a chance…to live…” she lay her head back again and took her last breath. Her last thought was seeing her son, tall and strong, wearing his father’s togi into a battle. His hair was black like his mother’s, his face full of drive and determination like his father’s on his last day, his eyes bright as jade, as the day he saw the Monks for the first time.

[NEXT]   [SoL Chronology]   [SotS Chronolgy]   

[raph-fangirl]

A Tale of the Shapeshifters

previously - chapter ii

~~~

Athena Everleigh is a young girl living in Dublin, Ireland in 1905. She tricks her parents into letting her work for a mysterious man–Sir Claudius–in a castle not far away from the local village. But, unbeknownst to both, Athena and Sir Claudius are shapeshifters. Will this strange relationship between a half-human/half-cat and half-human/half-dragon… work itself out?

~~~

Also available on:

Fictionpress.com

Wattpad.com

Quotev.com

~~~

Chapter III - Beochaoineadh Castle

Morning light never touched Mrs. Everleigh’s side of the bed lest it was made. Even before the birds began their twittering, she had already risen, candle in hand, headed her way out the door. It was a daily ritual--something she had done since her first footsteps, without shoes, without proper garments, and without hesitation. She traveled through her trail in the woods--several miles, her pace never surpassing a brisk trot--and always back in time to make breakfast. The only pride she ever carried was the mud stuck to the back of her heels.

Not two minutes had Mrs. Everleigh been out of the house when a sleek gray cat sneaked into her room. She groomed herself--tufts of silk fur flew up into the air, bouncing around and around like flurries of pollen in spring.

Mr. Everleigh sniffled.

The cat paused, batting her silvery blue eyes. One of her white paws hung in mid-air. Then he began to snore, and so she commenced grooming.

Eventually, Mr. Everleigh’s snores fell out of rhythm. He took several short breaths between each one, almost heaving for air. During these breaths, his chin jolted up and his beard stuck straight out. The cat continued to watch, her eyes tracing each slight muscle movement.

Only two or three minutes had passed and Mr. Everleigh began to have a coughing fit. He rolled over to the other side of the bed, groaning all the way. It frightened the cat so, and she dashed out of the room, claws scraping the floor.

Mr. Everleigh shook awake, sneezing and coughing one right after the other. Athena heard him from the hallway.

“Father?” she called, peering in through the doorway.

He groaned into the pillow which caused feathers to fly out.

“Oh, Father, are you alright?” Athena came to his bedside.

Mr. Everleigh turned his head toward the girl, laying one swollen red eye on her. He then sucked in through his nose and heaved again.

“Is it because of the spring blossoms?” she asked, rubbing the back of his hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

He tried to mutter something when one of Athena’s younger sisters entered the room. Rubbing her eyes and yawning, the little one spoke: “What’s wrong with Pa?”

“Oh, he’s just a little tired is all, me little one. Go back to bed.”

“But it sounded like he was a-coughin’, Annie--”

“You’re just hearin’ things. Fetch me some water, won’t you? I’m thirsty.”

“Alright, Annie.”

Athena listened until the toddler’s footsteps no longer could be heard. She then faced her father, who had fallen back asleep.

“Father. Father!” She placed her hands on his back and shook him until he woke.

“What? What is it?” He sat straight up, his bloodshot eyes searching around the room. “Ach! Blasted headache!”

Mr. Everleigh began to reach for his temples when Athena placed her hand in his. “Father.”

“What?” He stared at her for a few moments, until he realized who she was. “Athena!” he called and his face softened. The deep lines around his forehead and brows disappeared. “What is it, my daughter?”

“Today we are supposed to go to Beochaoineadh Castle, Father.”

“Oh, not today, my darling,” he said, placing himself back down in bed as though it were made of rotten, splintery wood. “Ah! Oh!”

“But, Father! You promised!” Athena pouted. She climbed up next to the old man until her silvery blue eyes challenged his red-brown ones.

“Athena, my darling, Father is in pain.” His eyes bulged out first, then squeezed shut together while he rubbed his fingers over his lower back.

“Hmph!” She climbed over to her mother’s side of the bed and rolled off. Her little sister waited at the door.

“Here, Annie.”

“T’ank you, little one. When Ma comes home, tell her I’ve gone to town,” she whispered. The little girl nodded, so Athena took the pail and shooed her away.

She came to her Father’s side.

“What is that, darling?” He tilted his head forward.

“Water, freshly drawn.” She sloshed the liquid around in the pail a few times.

“Oh, how marvelous of you! You are a kind and gentle one--” he reached for it, but she hid it behind her back.

“Only… only if you let me go today--by myself.” The girl stuck her nose in the air and shut her eyes, almost looking like a lady.

Mr. Everleigh sighed. “Now, darling, please don’t be this way. You know I do everything in the world for you. We shall go another day when I feel better.”

“But you promised today--”

“I know what I promised!” he shouted. The blood veins on his arms crept up and he stared at the ceiling.

Athena still held her ground, but the pail began to sink and her eyes moved to the floor. Mr. Everleigh braced himself for the tears, but there were none.

Instead, she slammed the pail on the ground, took hold of her skirts and twisted them into tight little balls, whispering, “If you do not let me go alone, I will tell Mother what you told me last night.”

And with that, Mr. Everleigh succumbed to not one, but two women of the household.

~~~

What brought awe to Athena’s eyes upon viewing Beochaoineadh Castle was not its size--for she had viewed greater architecture during trips to visit family in London--but rather its style. She had only ever seen it from a distance, on her way to the market, just as everyone else in the town had. But there were certain nuances about it that caught her attention when viewing it up close. The cold and bold bricks lining the outside told her to never return. There were even multiple fortresses surrounding the lower portions of the castle, as though guarding something. Of course, there were other castles like this in Ireland--she had seen them!--but they always looked to be in use. Vines twisted around Beochaoineadh Castle’s lower quarters, and there was a sharp cliff dropping off its backside, leading into the ocean.

Athena had always loved the ocean. She had loved the sound of the waters slamming into cliffs as a little girl. But the water was so near and so loud that it pounded in her eardrums. She could not hear the birds singing or the wind rustling or the sounds of the nearby town. Beochaoineadh Castle drowned every feeling from her soul--every feeling except that which continued to propel her forward.

Her shoes dug into the dark gravel, making a sound like scratching. It looked like the gravel had never been walked on: there were no wheel marks, horse prints, or even footsteps to be found. She took the large door handle and lifted it, but the door opened on its own.

The black inside sucked the light from her face, feeding off her warmth. Her breath became mist that traveled beyond what she could see. She almost wanted to reach out and touch the blackness to test its thickness, but even without touching, she felt it enveloping her everywhere.

The wind pushed Athena inside and the door closed behind her, ultimately enshrouding her in total darkness. She had not anticipated changing into a cat, especially upon greeting her future Master, but she had no other choice. The girl leaped into the air, in a diving position, then landed on her paws. Her dress fell into neat ruffles on the floor and her shoes lay right beside them. She would have to fetch them later. She sniffed around, searching for any kind of scent that wasn’t must or rotting stone. There. Her fur pricked up. Even in the dark, surrounded by dust-coated, ancient walls, she would always recognize that primal, earthy scent. It clogged her nostrils, fresh and alive. Fire.

Athena sprinted, placing one paw in front of the other. The stone under her was so cold she must have been running on a frozen lake. She followed the scent of burning wood but, eventually, began following the feeling of warmth instead. Her ears perked. Almost there. Just a few more leaps. The stone beneath her paws became lighter in tone--the fire was near.

Athena stopped, almost toppling over on herself. She felt a presence. Could it have been Sir Claudius?

She sniffed and scouted the area, noticing bleak furniture in the corner of her eye. They led to another room. I must be in the Grand Hall now, and that room there must be where the flames are coming from, she thought.

Pitter-pattering on over toward the light, Athena listened for breathing, for movement, for anything. She knew that someone was here, but who? And, where?

If only I could meow and get their attention! But that wouldn’t work because--

“*Púca!” a man roared.

Athena reared at the dark and savage sound, her back arching and her fur sticking up as high as the rocky cliffs on the ocean shore. She sprinted all the way back through the grand hall to her clothes. Sprawling herself out on the ground, she transformed back into a human once again. She could no longer see but at least her bare body cooled down as she laid on the stone.

Once her breathing became normal again, Athena rolled over and sat up. She began to put the dress over her head. “Agh…” she groaned upon putting her arm through the hole meant for her head.

Eventually, the dress and shoes fit snug. She stood up and pushed what she believed to be the door when, like an orchestra’s crescendo suddenly being cut off, she stopped.

Athena turned, walked forward a few steps, and squinted.

“Cats may be better at the smellin’, but man’s better at the seein’,” she whispered to herself, giggling nervously. “That is, far…” she lifted up onto her tip-toes “far away.”

How did he know that I was a púca?

* Púca (Irish for spirit/ghost; plural púcaí) … is primarily a creature of Celtic folklore. Considered to be bringers both of good and bad fortune, they could help or hinder rural and marine communities. Púcaí can have dark or white fur or hair. The creatures were said to be shape-changers, which could take the appearance of horses, goats, cats, dogs, and hares. They may also take a human form, which includes various animal features, such as ears or a tail.

[theothercourse]

Down with Love - Chapter 4

TITLE:  Down With Love CHAPTER NUMBER: Chapter 4 AUTHOR: theothercourse WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Actor Tom GENRE: Romance/Drama FIC SUMMARY: In the winter of 2011, Tom returns to New York City for the War Horse premiere and visit his Broadway singer ex-girlfriend, hoping to rekindle their flame. Deep in denial, she struggles with his reappearance in her life and his desire to overcome the obstacles that forced them apart more than once since they fell in love almost two years ago. These two ambitious and successful actors fight their families, careers and each other along the course of true love. And in the words of Shakespeare himself, the course of true love never did run smooth. RATING: Mature (NSFW chapter - reunion sex and a ton of angst) AUTHORS NOTES:  Sequel to The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth 

Book Cover - Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Down with Love

         New York City, December 5, 2011

The Taylor Family Bakery stood in between Wexler’s Stationary Store and Samson’s Photography on Main Street in Cold Spring, New York the last time I laid eyes on the place. The only bakery within a twenty mile radius served a few small towns for residents and weekend visitors a little over an hour by train from New York City. The brick face structure had been built in the 1800s, and looked like it. All the businesses on the block had been retrofitted from something else and now served to fulfill the needs of a community of around 2000 souls, the quintessential everyone knew everybody else’s lives kind of town.

 I attended school with the Wexler twins and the postmaster’s son and the grocery store manager’s daughter. My parents didn’t contribute much to the community or participate beyond the doors of the bakery, only if and when it served the good of the business. They were hands off people, and it translated to them as parents to me. All their efforts served the bottom line, and keeping the money in the black instead of the red. Those were constant phrases I heard as a child, red meant danger, black meant less stress and oppressive tension around the house.

Because my parents were absent from me as a child, I found people and places I fit in, even as a six year old until I found my voice, my love for the stage, and my desire for a round of applause. I didn’t wander far from the backroom of the bakery, where I was put with a coloring book or a toy, anything to entertain a small child without supervision. Instead I ventured out into the neighborhood, Main Street, and found myself in Cold Spring’s only pizzeria, owned and operated by an older Italian woman who traded her disco roller skating rink in New Jersey for tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese in the early ‘80s in Upstate New York.

Everyone called her ‘Mama Raina’ though the licenses for her restaurant had been issued to Julie Caruso. All her stories began with ‘When I cashed out in dirty Jerz…’ It was her catch phrase, and she’d been well settled in as the neighborhood hangout before the bold and bored six year old version of me found the place. I visited every day after school, attracted to the strange but colorful marriage of 70s disco glam and 80s electric pop music atmosphere that exuded from inside. Record album covers littered the walls, collages of top 10 singles decorated the cheap laminated tables, and music blared from a black boom box in the back corner. I learned early on not to touch the underside of the table, all sticky with abandoned pieces of pink and green chewing gum.

When the high school kids survived past the 3pm end of the day bell, the popular set all funneled in and crowded into Mama Raina’s for a slice and a soda, burning two or three hours before flitting off home to their white collar, working class parents for family dinner. Because it was such a small almost-tightknit community, at six years old, I became an honorary teenager, with Mama and the dozen or so teenagers watching after me. They all knew who I was and where I’d come from, and adopted me as little sister between the hours of 3pm to 6pm on weekday afternoons.

One particular afternoon remained burned into my memory. Seated in the back booth, I could still remember the smell of the garlic knots and the well-cooked tomato sauce and the Hawaiian punch from the teenagers’ snacks. As most afternoons went, everyone including Mama sang along with the boom box, cranked to 10, playing whichever popular song of the week. It was the regular activity to blow off steam and create a cohesive sound, singing along with the radio.

Whitney Houston’s Where Do Broken Hearts Go made the cut, and it was the first song that I remembered learning the lyrics to, after so many afternoons in Mama Raina’s sanctuary. The teenagers were so proud when I sang along, and they all shook my hand or ruffled my hair with affection. That was the day I felt included somewhere, with likeminded people, treated like an equal. I mattered.

Twenty years later, as I rested against the Marriott Marquis Hotel’s down pillow, folded in the arms of the man I loved, I mattered. To him. Starring into Tom’s eyes, our bare legs threaded through each other’s, I counted for something. My hands were tucked up under my head as I faced him. The smile upon my face pushed through the hesitancy of spending time with him, and being intimate with him again.

Straight white teeth peeked out from behind the ginger goatee as a matching gleeful expression met mine. “Did I really put a smile on your face?” The raspy bedroom pillow talk continued to be Tom’s strong point.

“You did,” the giddy bubbling inside me made that smile grow, and a truthful confirmation for him.

The afterglow of our lovemaking found us snuggled beneath the sheets with the bedside lamps on, so we could see our reunion glow.

“Where did you go just now?” he asked mimicking my relaxed pose.

“Mama Raina’s. Whitney Houston singing in the background.” In our time together, I rarely talked about my childhood. Not from shame or embarrassment, but simply, for me, my life began when I found theatre and the acceptance that I found within that community.

Tom acknowledged it with a silent nod, sensing that it was ancient history and he didn’t want to tread there unless I led the way. Instead he brushed locks of my hair behind my ear and behind my shoulder, baring my neck. His fingers lingered at my naked shoulder, an internal debate playing behind his eyes: to ask or to listen.

“My composer—the one who wrote Bonnie and Clyde—Frank, he wrote one of her songs, one of her hits. Whitney Houston, I mean. It actually went to number one here. It—I used to sing it as a kid with a bunch of older teenagers that, well… babysat me.” I avoided the topic of family since that was a sensitive subject between Tom and me, something that came between us more than once. “Can you imagine it? I get to sing his score, and I listened to his songs on the radio. Me!” I said with incredulity.

“Why not you?” His British pronunciation ticked my inner ear. If it were possible to fall in love with the sound of one single word, it was Tom’s ‘not.’ The nasally resonance made my heart pitter patter a quickstep. “You’re extraordinarily gifted.”

I giggled airily at his compliment and his subtle approach, closing the shallow gap between us. “Tom, thank you… but what I meant to say—it blows my mind! A composer, that one on the radio back then, wrote a song. For me. I get to perform his songs every night. They pay me to do that. And a room full of people, almost 1000 people, listen to me sing his songs.”

I mattered then as I mattered in the arms of this man. He made me feel that.

“You’ve been with this show… since… April was it?” He flattened his hand to the small of my back, maintaining our positions but eliminating the gap between us. The king-size bed nearly swallowed us up and the bedclothes glued us together.

“I’ve been attached as Bonnie since then- when Daddy Long Legs closed-when I saw you—“

He interrupted me with a kiss on the lips before I could rehash that painful part of our history. When we were apart…

Changing the subject, I explained how the past year had gone though he’d been there for some of it. “1776 was a limited run, and playing Martha was fun, a different pace from Bonnie. Peppy and lively, Martha was, and Bonnie is spirited and loyal. Martha gave me a reprieve from the darkness in Bonnie and Clyde.” I reached out and touched the bristles of his goatee. I was used to scruff on him, the day or two old stubble, but not the full on facial hair that Tom sported.

“I liked you in that one too,” he complimented evenly rolling me over onto my back. The aroused man positioned himself between my legs and propped himself over me. “Are you enjoying that?”

My fingers played and softly yanked at the brush of hair on his face, enchanted by the coarse yet ticklish feel of it.

*

Smirking into another pass of Kristiane’s fingers over my whiskers, I told her plainly, “Henry.”

Her eyes lifted to mine almost in surprise. With a coquettish grin, she reminded, “No, I’m Kristie. Expecting someone else?” Her foot grazed up the back of my leg inching her way to hook around my waist, her body language asking for physical affection. She wanted me again.

The gesture went straight to my groin with a jolt, the knowledge that this woman wanted another go of it excited the masculine and primal part of my being. Blood drained from my brain to my cock fueling my lust for her, but the need to talk with her stayed strong. “Clever that, but I meant the facial hair, the moustache and beard, they’re for Henry.”

Playing coy, she grinned wider, “And I thought it was for me.” She brought my face down to hers and licked the shell of my ear. “I’ve been enjoying the burn.”

Fuuuccckkk.

Maybe this wasn’t the time for talking. In our history, I had to break down her defenses and grant her patience to get her to honestly open up to me. I did want to revel in her, every bit of her, in the physical and philosophical sense. Her feminine and sexual side were a temptation, a best kept secret that she only shared with me, and I was blessed for it.

Brokenly, while laying claim to her neck, working my way down, I breathed, “The BBC—the… Hollow Crown—Henry the fifth…”

Her breath hitched and caught when my lips made contact with her breast, kisses and scrapes left along the path from her cheek southbound. “…Shakespeare,” she moaned, identifying and making the connection to our conversation. Another moan, and her meaning changed, “My Shakspeare.”

I was hers, from that first note I heard her sing at a friend’s birthday party before careers and family and friendships got in the way. The woman brazenly took to the stage with a karaoke microphone in hand and sung a song written for a man and made it her own. As confident as she was performing in front of a room full of people, she’d shown me her inquisitive and sensitive self, her vulnerability and her intelligence. She captured my heart and my imagination within a few short days and enriched my life.

Where I was confident in wanting her for the rest of my life, she needed convincing. I didn’t understand her aversion to marriage, but I was determined to bring her around. We were too good together, and we understood each other’s lives outside us as a couple. I rose above her, assuming a bruising kiss, anxious to change her mind about our future. It wouldn’t become just another night of sex, amazing mind-blowing, life-altering sex. I could get her to see beyond her fears and know that I’d be there to support her if she fell.

I kissed her until we were both out of breath and she smiled again for me. “I shouldn’t like this,” she touched my chin, tugging at the facial hair there, “as much as I do, but it’s sexy. You’re sexy and it’s rough and scratchy, but I want to feel it everywhere.” Kristiane had never been shy or ashamed of her sexual appetite, once we’d been together. Cautious with new positions or locations or experiences, she followed my lead, knowing she could trust me and I’d never abuse that trust. I’d been the first man to go down on her.

Hearing her desire to be devoured in sensation, the grounding and real pleasure-pain of tender worshiping kisses and the chaffing burn of prickly beard, spurned me into action like a race car when the flag drops. Kristiane applied pressure to the gas pedal and I took off with 900 horsepower behind me. Groaning at the strain in my cock, I gruffed, “Details, woman and I’ll do it. Every explicit detail.”

A flame of acceptance lit behind her eyes, a fierce loyalty and willingness to show me her choice. Her arms circled above her head into the folds of the pillows, her right hand holding her left wrist in a tight grip. “Pin me to this bed and make me squirm, make me feel it. Your tongue, your teeth, your lips, your skin, your hair, your scruff, your fingers, your hands, your cock—all of you on me.” Without shame and hesitation, she possessed all the beauty in the world, especially when she asked for sexual gratification.

My knuckles grazed along the inside of her thigh towards her sex and then teased away from her cleft. Like a siren, her heat called to me. “The first solo you sang tonight, what was it?”

The blush of arousal rose from her chest up her neck into her cheeks, her skin luminous with the color of a rose. Her hands splayed over my chest as if to push me away but it turned into a caress, her thumbs playing along the patch of hair in the middle, and her fingertips stroking my nipples. Her mouth opened slightly in invitation, the expression of heightened want. “Touch me.” An urgent plea. A pressing beg.

I licked her lower lip before dipping my tongue within her mouth swiftly, only a brief taste. “Sing for me and I’ll do everything you crave.” My hand slid back up her thigh and swiped a light caress over her center.

“How ‘Bout a Dance?” her tone light, following my question about her song… just barely. The provocative touch stealing her train of thought, focusing on my hand instead of the song she knew in her blood.

“Yes,” I encouraged, ghosting my facial hair across her cheek. “You sang it beautifully.” If the woman wasn’t naked beneath me, I might’ve been a bit more articulate but it took more than enough effort to say that. “Us—” I sunk my teeth into her shoulder, marking her as I had earlier. “I heard us in that song.”

The lyrics spoke to me while I watched her portray Bonnie Parker in Bonnie and Clyde, and her voice had been silvery and sweet, crisp and clean.

“How ‘bout a dance? What do you say? I’ve got some moves… that I’d love… to show… you. Let’s find a spot… and dance the night away,” she sang quietly just for me.

The attempt to sing through my enticement on her skin was impressive at first but descended into heavy breathing as I trailed down her body with my tongue from her neck to the crease between her legs. I scraped my goatee along her flesh as she asked me to, behind the moist path.

Her fingers combed into my hair and held me fast against her damp slit. Her thighs clamped against my cheeks, my beard undoubtedly prickling the sensitive flesh pressed around my face. I pushed the flat of my tongue against her, savoring the tang of her wetness.

*

New York City/London, August 22, 2010

“Tom, we haven’t been the same since Paris,” Kristiane’s voice lost some of her pep that I longed to hear. The tension between us, the strain of the distance and the stress of our last two days together ate away at her confidence in our relationship, and it tore me up. The time difference and the difficulty finding a slot for us, just to talk around dying mobile batteries and overheating phones.

She didn’t understand – couldn’t understand what was happening, how could she when I barely understood it myself? I inhaled slowly, taking in the oxygen, letting the fresh evening air fill my lungs. I swirled the last of my drink around the bottom of the glass. This vivacious woman felt even further away than the 3000 plus miles between us, and I loathed each and every emotional mile that separated us.

Solemnly, I replied, “I know.” The truth was I knew it wasn’t entirely her fault, and it certainly wasn’t mine. Neither one of us could’ve anticipated this when we got involved. I think I heard her heart break at the admission when she hissed as if in pain. Because if allowed myself to admit it, she was in pain. This wasn’t what I wanted for her, especially not so close to her birthday. She deserved all the happiness and all the smiles, but I kept the frown on her face.

She was quiet for a long time, looking for something concrete to hold onto while she felt like she was suffocating or drowning. I heard every splinter of her shattered heart when she finally spoke again. “Are we breaking up? Is that what this is?”

Under all the hurt, the feisty girl was fighting for her place in all of this, but I knew that her pain could bury her and leave her as the girl I met a year ago, broken, afraid, searching for a friend. “Kristie, I don’t want that. You know how much you mean to me.” I stood up, unable to sit still any longer, doing nothing but nursing my drink.

“Tom, please… tell me what’s going on. I’m losing you.”

I couldn’t deny it. Part of me disconnected from her and I despised that. I was utterly in love with her, and I wanted her in my life, but a small part of me wondered if we could survive.

“I’m sorry… unreservedly sorry. But I question where—Kristie, us… where we’re going…”

“Tom, you’ve got me as long as you want me. We’re together.”

I didn’t say anything as the issues swirled around my head in a jumbled mess. My feet beat a worn tread in the hotel carpeting from my pace back and forth. The walls seemed to close in on me as my heart seized in my chest. No words came, no denial, no confirmation, no comfort.

Instinctive Kristie picked up on the silence immediately. “We’re together, right?”

Again, I let the question stay there, fester like it had since Paris, since London, since my mother laid into Kristiane. I couldn’t answer for sure. I adored this woman, but she confounded me. Yes, we were dating, as much as two people could, living in two different countries with an ocean between us. But together? I wasn’t so sure.

Panic rose in her voice, “Tom, we’re together, right?”

I paced another lap in my hotel room, seeking sanctuary from the chill air, knowing that the cold came from the inside, not the August evening. “Kristie, I’m not certain…”

“What is happening?” Her vulnerability and apparent agony seared through me. “Why is this happening?” Her tears soaked her voice, the melody broken and disjointed in her torment.

I hated my doubt and I hated myself for putting her through this. “Kristie, my love, I’m having a rough go of it. I- this- I want… that- we’re moving towards something.”

The vision and memory of her crying at the airport taunted me, knowing from the shaky labored breaths she took that I’d put those tears in her eyes again. This sensible, composed woman was a shadow of who she was because of me.

“What are you saying, Tom? We’re working to be together in the same country.”

“To what end?”

“I’m uh- mmm- I don’t understand, Tom. Don’t you want that? Please… what is happening with us?”

I sighed into the phone, her belief in us rocked, the fallout of something in her inhale. “Kristie, I… what you said… to my mum… I don’t think we are.”

[laura15starcrown-blog]

Book of Worlds

Chapter 1

Smoke winded around the brick pillar of a crumbling building. A street beggar had lit a fire underneath, taking cover from the drizzle that was gathering force above. The sky was moving from its usual gray haze into dark, murky storm clouds. The rain began trailing down the narrow streets, washing away the filth and oil that had lain stagnant there.

Shadows hurried through the street, entering homes and abandoned buildings. A woman scolded a little boy, pulling him along. Her eyes narrowed at a stranger whom she passed, a man sitting on a street bench, looking blankly forward, as though completely unaware of the rain falling on him.

As if waking up from a revere, the man started. He looked up at the sky, wiping away the raindrop that had splattered down his nose. He stood up and turned around, muttering an oath. He didn’t have an umbrella. He should have known better. Though the day had begun with such blue clearness, the weather was never to be trusted.

He grabbed a hat which had been lying besides him and placed it on his head. Picking up his briefcase, he started walking swiftly down the street.

At the street corner, he paused and reached into his coat pocket. He growled and turned around, running back to the street bench. He had forgotten a letter on the bench. It was half soaked and the ink bled blue through the envelope.

He  patted it dry with his coat, though he was already half soaked himself.

Tucking it clumsily back in his coat, he ran back to the corner. He hailed a cab that was coming, sploshing down the turn and it trumbled to a stop. The man jumped in and signed for the driver to go.

“Where to sir?”

“London train station. Hurry if you can.”

The driver grunted, and the cab jolted forward, the rain pattering down on the roof and windows. The man took out the letter, blowing on it and dabbing it with his handkerchief.

After a couple of minutes he dropped it next to him and sat back.

Staring out into the gray London streets he mused to himself. “I’m coming, Maylian. I promise.” He twisted off a ring from his finger, looking at it with a distant eye. Its diamond burned a strange copper in the cab, the silver band an iridescent gleam.  He held it up between his fingers. His eyes searched deep into it, as if it could show his something, explain its mystery. It did nothing but glint knowingly.

With a sigh, he slipping it back onto his finger.

~

Maylian Rose Oddity lived in a elegant mansion that was known in that neighborhood as the Fontaine House.

It was one of the most prominent manors in Durnshire, a neighborhood consisting of old and splendid estates and gardens. Those of the Durnshire neighborhood competed with each other, in silent scheming, on the lush greenness of their lawns, the perfect symmetry of their flower beds and the gleam of their many windows.

The Fontain house was ruled by ‘Madame’ Fontaine, a beautiful woman in her time–some fifty years ago. She was an English woman by birth, who had married a French colonel. A noble and benevolent man. He had seemed a hale and hearty specimen, broad shouldered and with only a hint of grey in his golden beard, but you never knew when someone’s time had come. The good colonel had died thirteen years ago from a stroke of the heart.  

With Madame Fontain dwelt her son, Edwin Fonatine, his wife Clementine and their four children. The eldest ten, the second eight and the youngest a set of one-year old twins. Charming children all round, so all the ladies of the neighborhood said.

And what of Maylian Oddity?

She was the only child of Madame Fontaine’s youngest child, her daughter Elona Fontain.

The marriage of Elona Fontain and what befell afterward was still a discreditable history in that countryside, whispered at tea-parties, housecalls and women’s committee meetings and other quaint occasions that hummed for any gossip, if not new, then fairly muddy, in which the teller could embroider whatever odds and ends she wished.

It was at such a gathering, the birthday celebration of a well-known lady, Mrs. Russell Fendear, that Elona’s history was once again being re-told by a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Hardnund,  to her friend Miss Winchester.

Miss Winchester had just asked who the little red-headed girl was, sitting near the fountain by herself .

“Maylian Oddity. Don’t you know her?” Asked Mrs. Hardnund.

Miss Winchester furrowed up her pretty head. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard that name.”

“Well, of course you wouldn’t, really. “Oddity” is an unknown name to any who do not know the story of Elona Fontain.”

Mrs Hardnund saw that she had her listener’s attention. So she began, “There was high hopes for Elona Fontain. At eighteen, she was a remarkably beautiful, charming and intelligent girl, above all, rich as the stars above. She could have had her pick of any young man who came her way and trust me, there was quite a line, and a peaceful life of security and contentment, but the wilful girl up and ran away with a poor, worthless young man. A writer by the name of Leyden Oddity.”

“Dear me!” Said Miss Winchester, filling in Mrs. Hardnund’s dramatic pause.

“Yes, now the two eloped and next they were heard of the couple had travelled to the Indian Ocean. It was there Elona had found she was with child.”

Miss Winchester’s eyes widened. “Really?” She responded.

“Quite. I mean, can you imagine? Pregnant! On the other side of the world, with the only route home around the coast of Africa and up? Sea voyage, while in labor? The thought!”

Miss Winchester shook her head in utter pity.

“It was no wonder the girl died giving birth and all during a horrible storm. To complete the poor fate of the newborn child, the Oddity man, running across the deck to look for help, was swept overboard and drowned in the merciless waves.” Miss Winchester’s large eyes were wide, her hand covering her mouth.

Mrs. Hardnund revelled in her tale.

“Death at sea was his ending, orphaned upon the waters was his child.

Somehow or other, some kind soul, or perhaps it was a family member…no one was ever very clear about who, took the baby to the shores of England, and brought the infant home to the mourning family.”

Mrs. Hardnund signed, “Not only had poor Madame Fontain lost her daughter, but  Monsieur Fontain was stricken down when he heard the news, dear man, dying of grief. For despite his daughter’s betrayal, he had loved her dearly.

And so dear Madam Fountain was left to raise the child on her own. I very much admire Madam Fountain for her fortitude, despite how the girl’s turned out.”

After hearing this account, Miss Winchester mused,

“Poor little thing. How very sad.” Miss Winchester had a very strong compassion for orphans.

“Yes, I suppose. Though she is a different sort of girl.”

“Really? What’s so very different about her?” She didn’t think the girl strange, lonely maybe, but not too queer.

“Do you know my good friend, Clementine?” Miss Winchester indicated she had not. “As I told you, that’s her niece, she has spoken to me, in confidence of course, of some of the girl’s peculiarities.”

She paused. Miss Winchester leaned in.

“She says the girl talks to herself. Clementine says she’ll walk outside and have conversations with nobody at all, isn’t that funny? The girl has no respectable children of her own age to play with. She’s actually befriended the kitchen boy. The two go off and play with each other, as if they had every similarity in the world. She is also very cruel to Clementine’s two children. Eliza and Edwin. Clementine says she’s quite a burden, and if it were up to her she would send her to boarding school. You know Clementine actually graduated from the french school for young ladies, Cultiver Academe?”

“Indeed!” Said Miss Winchester, though she really didn’t care where Clementine Fontain had graduated from. “So the girl isn’t at all addled in the mind?”

“Oh, no! Not particularly, but she is an undoubtedly odd girl.” Said Mrs. Hardnund, laughing at her own wit. Miss Winchester joined in half-heartedly.

“Clementine says she didn’t just inherit that ridiculous last name, but all her oddities from that family too.”

“How old is she?” Asked Miss Winchester, placing a strawberry scone onto her napkin.

“Thirteen. Me and Adeline were invited to her birthday party a couple months back. It was an interesting affair…” She said pursing her lip.

“I warned Adeline in advance not to be too friendly with her, girls at this age pick up so many things, I would not want my Adeline putting on any airs.”

Her head turning to where a pretty, brunette girl sat, laughing with her friends as they painted watercolors and chattered.

Yes, Thought Mrs. Hardnund to herself. That Oddity girl was as odd as her name implied. She surely was not the only mother here not wishing her daughter to be influenced by a girl who played with servant children.

Miss Winchester nodded in understanding. Though she really didn’t understand. She had once been very good friends with a servant girl named Bitsy. Bitsy had left serving them years ago, but they still kept up a correspondence with each other.

Miss Winchester also didn’t think talking to oneself was too peculiar, she prefered talking to herself sometimes,  if of course, no one was near by. Everyone thought to them self anyway. And what she had heard, well, assumed, was that that Clementine Fontaine’s children weren’t as charming as everyone said they were–rather the opposite.

Miss Winchester decided that Maylian Oddity was simply unique, in her own way. She had a starry-eyed look to her, like she knew something that no one here did. At least that was her opinion, but she would keep that to herself.

                                                                          ~

They had come home early from the birthday, her aunt complaining of a headache. Maylee couldn’t help pondering over the conversation she’d overheard about herself. She had been mortified. She couldn’t believe her aunt had said all those things about her to her friends. Maybe she could a little, but it still hurt the same.

She heard the carriage rattling away, as the front door shut.

“Maylee! Maylee, over here!” She heard a voice hiss.

She turned to see Peter beckoning her from behind a cracked door. She looked towards her aunt and grandmother who were heading down the hall. The nurse maid was bringing the twins to their mother who waved her away,

“I’m too exhausted, keep them from me a few more hours .”

Her grandmother was demanding whether her dear Francis, her bleary-eyed spaniel, had been given his daily walk and groom while she was gone.

Maylee came to the door.

“What is it Peter?”

“It’s a new one. Here.”

He handed her a letter from behind his back.

She looked at the address, the fog in her mind lifting a little. She stuffed it in her pocket.

“Thank you.” “Are you alright? You look tired.” His hazel eyes were questioning.

“I am.” She said sighing, taking off her hat and giving it a withering glare.

“Today was horrible. I had nothing to do and no one to talk to. I was miserable. Not to mention that I overheard a couple of slithering, gossipy women’s conversation about me. I’m sick of hearing about that odd Maylian girl, hahaha. How ironic that her last name is Oddity! How clever!”

Maylee screwed up her face,

“I’m not really that odd, Peter am I?”

“Not that much, you’re as ordinary as ordinary can be.” He smiled.

She rolled her eyes,

“I don’t want to be that ordinary, maybe just normal.”

“Sorry, you’re definitely not that.”

She tried to hit him, but he hid behind the door.

“Of course I’m not, I’ll never be. Just because I don’t like to talk about who did what, or what new ruffle is in fashion, or paint flowers and butterflies on my young ladies portfolio, doesn’t mean I’m strange or odd, Gaul I’m so sick of that word!”

Peter nodded.

“I’m just glad my last name is Kentwood, it’s bit heroic don’t you think?”

“I suppose it makes up for having such a completely common name like Peter.”

It was his turn to glare.

“It’s not that common.”

“Yes it is, the hard part is finding someone not named Peter these days.”

“Whatev-” he was cut short, “Maylian! Maylian, where are you?” Cried her grandmother from the sitting room.

“I’m over here, I’ll be right there!” She called back.

“I guess I’ll see you later.” Peter said.

“Alright, bye.” She said as she started down the hall.

She ignores me all day and now she needs me? Muttered Maylee to herself. She looked back to see a copper brown head of hair disappear down the stairs.

[drippypriest-blog]

The clouds dribbled away, basking the gardens of the Kindlewood estate in a lavish light. Or at least that's what Marus thought they were doing as she stared at the brick walls of the estate's basement lab. She groaned, rubbing greasy knuckles on her eyes. She had been up for two days and had spent a majority of the time down in the lab. Aside from the lovely, cloudless brick wall, the room held six steel work tables, a few chains here and there, and a cluster of fuel tanks and their torches. Goblins bustled about, flitting from table to table. Marus let her daydreams of sunshine fade as she focused back on what was probably a bit of screaming. A young goblin woman tugged at her apron, pulling Marus completely into the present.     "B-boss! It's waking up again!" she screeched, jabbing her index finger at the thrashing mass of steel on the nearest table. Unholy cries of agony and terror from both the subject and the goblins filled the room. Gears, springs, and a few loose bars went flying, banging against workmen, tables, and walls. Marus adjusted her apron and marched close enough to grab a Zap-O-Matic (tm) from her trembling assistant. She stabbed the sparking end under the tarp until the thrashing and the noise subsided. The goblins watched with a mixture of awe and horror as their 'Boss" dealt with the pet project, only to cower in fear as she whirled around and brandished the device.     "This is why I told you, make sure it's ready before you turn it on! Awakening the machine before it's complete will ruin the entire project, and I won't see this wedding gift go up in smoke," she growled, pointing the zapper at each and every one of her assistants. Confident she had instilled a healthy dose of anxiety in their heads, the woman tossed the device into the hands of the young girl from earlier. "Clean this mess up and touch up on the seams, I don't want parts flying off when it moves," she said, hanging up the apron. The girl nodded and scurried to her duties. Marus exited the workshop, slamming the wrought iron door. She sighed, leaning against the cold stone walls. Just as her heart was settling- BOOM!     The priestess jumped, a resounding explosion upstairs knocking dust from the ceiling. Marus huffed and fast-walked to the stairs. A foul-smelling *poof* followed by the seedy stench of cigar smoke signaled the arrival of her little devil, Garygal. He pattered behind the disgruntled woman, cackling,     "He's at it again, huh toots? I was wondering when you'd come outta that crap hole." The imp did his best to keep up, Marus refusing to slow for him. Gary latched on to the hem of her pants and climbed up to her shoulder, giving her buttocks a sharp squeeze in his ascension. "C'mon babe, I'm sure he's doing that paperwork, juuuuust like you asked him to-" BOOM!     "No, he's not," Marus replied, voice dangerously low. She panted, reaching the top of the spiral staircase. The door to Vainore's office was sparking, flashes of brilliant light shining through the sides.     "Someone's gonna get it," Gary cooed, taking a puff from his cigar as his steed kicked the door open.     The normally tidy and organized office was a mess. The books on their shelves were either askew or on the floor and the plush cushions of the couch were littered with scorch marks. Lazing on the loveseat was an unshaven man, casually casting Fel bolts at a few of the portraits on the wall. He was mid cast when he looked over to glance at the puffing woman.     "Oh...do you need something?" he asked, flicking his fingers. BOOM!\     Marus trembled, marching to the man's untouched desk. She picked up a dusty stack of papers and moved to drop them on the caster's stomach. He grunted, scratching at his face.     "The explosions I tolerate, and the mess is not my concern-," she started.     "It really isn't," the man interjected.      "But this is getting ridiculous. It's been days since the meeting and you haven't finished drafting the proposal for the Triumvirate," she continued.      "Oh yes, but I have."      "Where is it?" The man tapped a finger to his temple in reply. Marus tugged at her face, taking a moment to calm herself. Meanwhile the man let sparks trickle through his fingertips. Gary sat on the desk, was he pantomiming them? "Vainore, I understand you don't enjoy this, but we have work to do. You are the resident leader of the Tainted Legacy, doesn't that mean something?" Marus asked, voice pleading. As usual the man was of few words, simply giving Marus a half-amused expression to look at. A few moments of pondering and she put it all together. "You're bored, aren't you?" Vainore Kindlewood shrugged, settling into the scorched cushions. A look of his person was all that was needed; Vainore wore his usual finery, clothes tailored to suit his lean-muscled physique. Yet they carried a faint, unwashed smell and the sides of his usually manicured beard were scruffy and untrimmed. Marus sighed, resting a hand on the armrest. Gary cried out something about how this discussions needed more sparks, but the two ignored him.      "You were so excited about this union and now you're abysmally bored. You've spent Light knows how long cooped up in here. Go outside, do some fieldwork. I can handle the paperwork, just go out and get that spark back, please? I hate seeing you like this." Marus watched the man's face, though he did not meet her gaze. He looked to the crumbling portraits on the walls, smile fading. The man set the pile that had been resting on his stomach down on the floor and rose. He stretched and fettered with his robes for a moment before going to the desk. Vainore plucked a blank sheet from within his drawers and scribbled a hasty mess on it before calling Marus over.     "Marus Veshiron, I hereby promote you to the resident leader and scholar of the Tainted Legacy. Sorry for the lack of pomp, but I really don't care anymore, it isn't as fun. Besides, you seem like you need something to do," he said, voice casual. He shoved the paper into her hands and she stared at him, open-mouthed.    "Wh-what?" She started, staring down at the paper while Vainore moved behind a screen to change clothes. Gary made a few attempts to burn the "decree" with his cigar, Marus managing to bat him away. Freshly dressed, Vainore emerged and made his way to the door.    "You'll be fine, my servants will be there should you need them. I will return in a few days," he said and that was that. Marus had no time to ask him her increasing number of questions and was left to wonder in a room reeking of Fel fire. The imp hopped back on her shoulder, dusting a few of his ashes down between her breasts.     "Still think dis gig is better then what you had with those losers under the church?" he asked. Marus took a moment to nod, reaching over to snag Gary's cigar. She gave it a couple puffs, silent. "Babe, quit yer mopin'. You ain't one of them goodie goodies. That crap in your lab says so," he scoffed, taking his cigar back. She nodded again.     "I do miss them, not the purpose, but the people," she sighed. scooping up the paperwork. "Maybe one day the Silent will distort its noble purpose, but until then, I have work to do." She settled down into Vainore's chair and set to work. The imp rolled his eyes, tugging on his tail obscenely. He didn't get a rise out of his target, Marus' face down as she scribbled. He pouted, blowing a raspberry as he hopped off the desk. The demon almost made it to the door before Marus called out to him. "Remind me to send them a gift basket, I've been too busy to come and say hi." The imp let out a crude fart in acknowledgement.