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joonie-beanie · 4 years ago

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The Demon Brothers + comforting a self-conscious MC/Reader

So a while ago an anon sent me the below ask

And I kind of adored the idea, considering I am also insecure, and chubby, and in need of some demon bro comfort. Hence, here we are.

Rather than bullet point, I ended up writing short stories for each brother. Hopefully you still enjoy 💕

Lucifer:

The eldest brother is not unaware of the way your eyes stray when the two of you are in public together—your gaze raking over the other inhabitants of the Devildom as you traverse the busy streets.

At first, he assumes the array of creatures—some far less human-like than he and his brothers—are interesting to you. Then, he notices the way you begin hugging yourself with your arms. As if trying to hide yourself away from any prying eyes.

It is indeed out of place for a human to be seen in the Devildom, and you do get some stares, but...he has a suspicion that the sudden shyness you exhibit stems from feelings that reach beyond what strangers may think of you.

He doesn’t like seeing you in such a state.

“Y/N,” he addresses you after tugging you into a small, scarcely populated side alley. One of his gloved fingers curls beneath your chin, and he guides your hung head to look at him. “I can tell you’re upset. Explain to me why.”

You glance away from him, cheeks heating up, and your arms hugging your sides a bit tighter.

“I just...you, and your brothers are all so beautiful,” you start by saying, causing him to blink in surprise. “And...whenever we’re out like this, and I see all of the other demons living here, I can’t help but feel like I pale in comparison...”

Lucifer’s features soften as he stares at you. You’re worried about such a silly thing?

“Y/N.” He steps forward, his thumb moving to hold your chin. He tilts your head up, guiding you into a kiss. It’s soft, and loving, and immediately your fingers are twitching against your sides—itching to reach out and hold him.

“You are perfect as you are, and I have never thought otherwise.”

He kisses you again, his free arm moving to curl around your waist and tug you closer. You feel your heart aching in your chest.

“Lucifer—”

“You need not compare yourself to others, because there is no one else like you—and you are radiant in every sense of the word. I give you my word as the Avatar of Pride that what I speak is the absolute truth.”

His voice is quiet, and tender, and full of adoration. You feel like crying.

“I love you,” you whisper the words against him, voice a little broken, and Lucifer smiles before kissing you again. He will try his best from now on to help you feel a little more comfortable in your own skin.

Mammon:

The second brother invites you to Majolish to watch one of his fashion shoots, and you agree despite knowing how self conscious it will make you, because you know it will make him happy.

So, you find yourself standing in the back of the studio, watching Mammon on the temporary set—which is composed of an oversized mattress, and colorful pillows. He’s wearing slacks, and a button up that’s not buttoned at all—revealing his toned body. Since it’s a group shoot, he’s surrounded by equally enticing male and female demons. And while the sight should get you going, considering they’re all so attractive, it just makes you feel...bad.

Biting your lip, a sick feeling rising in your chest, you end up stepping out into the hall. Mammon finds you there soon after, a look of relief on his face when he spots you with your back against the wall—arms hugged together.

“There ya are! I thought you had left!” He runs up to greet you, but his smile wavers. He can tell you’re upset—gaze straying away from him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He reaches out, hands hovering nervously. Had he done something? “I...if I did something wrong you can tell me...I didn’t mean to upset ya—”

“No, it’s not you,” you mumble, cutting him off. Now he’s even more confused. “I guess...I got upset seeing you and all the models. I know I don’t look anywhere near as attractive, and that thought started to gnaw at me, so—”

“What are ya talking about?” he interrupts you, head cocked to the side curiously. “I think you’re hot as hell.”

You feel your cheeks heat up, surprised at his words. “What?”

“I-I mean!” suddenly he’s turning red, hand lifting to sheepishly rub at his neck. “I’ve never thought that ya weren’t attractive, ya know? Ever since you came here my heart can’t help but flutter whenever I see ya…”

Your heart aches. “Mammon…”

“Listen! I just…,” his shy gaze turns back to you, and he reaches a hand out, cupping your cheek. “I think you’re one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

He leans in, but hesitates for a moment, so you’re the one who ends up sealing the kiss.

“Don’t worry about that kinda crap, okay?” he whispers against you, his arms lowering to wrap around your waist—holding you tightly. “Or else The Great Mammon will have to start knocking some sense into that silly human brain of yours.”

Tears blot your eyelashes, but you can’t help but giggle.

Levi:

You love Levi dearly, but he has an Akuzon addiction that needs to be addressed.

Recently, Akuzon had apparently expanded their clothing options—stocking more cosplay-like pieces—and Levi had thrown them all into his cart without second thought. Now that they’ve arrived, he’s begging you to come over.

Except, he doesn’t tell you why he wants you to come to his room until you’re already there—watching as he unpacks the multiple bags worth of questionable clothing.

“Ooooo~! This one is especially cute!!” He holds up something pastel, and undeniably adorable. You don’t disagree—it is cute, but...as you stare at it, an uncomfortable feeling settles in your stomach.

Can you even pull off something like that? You’re sure Levi is hoping that you’ll look like one of the cute anime characters in his favorite shows, and you don’t want to disappoint him.

As much as you would love to try on the clothing and model for him, you don’t believe you’ll be able to do the outfits any justice.

“Y/N?” the demon calls your name curiously, noting how you’ve gone silent. You’re no longer paying attention to him, your head hung as you stare off to the side—a perplexed look on your face.

“W-What’s wrong?” Leviathan drops the clothing held in his grap, stepping towards you. He knows that he can get a little overly excited about this stuff, but you’re typically tolerant of it…

“I don’t know if I’m the right person to model for you,” you end up saying, voice quiet. An array of negative feelings are swirling in your head, making it hard for you to say what you want to without vomiting all your worries at him.

“I’m not...built the same as an anime character, or the cute 2-D people in your video games. The clothing won’t look the same on me, and I don’t want to ruin the images you probably have in your head.”

“Y/N—,” he cuts you off, his hand grabbing your own. He lifts your hand until your fingers are splayed against his chest. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.

When you glance up, his face is flushed.

“I...this is how I get every time I’m around you,” he tells you honestly. “Whether you’re in your RAD outfit, or pajamas, or just a t-shirt and jeans...I...m-my heart always beats l-like this.”

He looks like he’s about to phase out of existence—embarrassed beyond belief with everything he’s currently confessing to you—so you instinctively reach your free hand up and cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, cheeks aflame.

“I think you’re so cute,” he mumbles, amber eyes staring right at you. “You don’t have to look like Ruri-chan, or anyone else. I...I like you. So, please don’t think those things about yourself...”

“Levi…” There’s adoration in his gaze, and you can’t help but kiss him.

Beneath your palm, you feel his heart skip a beat.

Satan:

The Avatar of Wrath has recently become accustomed to inviting you out on little coffee dates. It’s a chance for both you and him to escape his brothers, and have a space to yourselves where you’ll be able to talk freely.

The cafe the two of you frequent is dark, and cozy, and right up Satan’s alley. So far, all of your experiences there have been pleasant.

Today, however, the stunningly attractive barista is throwing herself at Satan as he orders your drinks, and a familiar uncomfortable feeling begins rising in your throat.

Just great.

Chin resting in your palm, you watch the two interact—Satan maintaining his pleasant composure, even when she presses her arms beneath her chest and asks if he wants any company. You see him shake his head, and you assume he mentions that he’s already here with someone, considering the barista’s gaze strays to you. She looks you up and down, an unkind amusement swimming in her eyes, before she turns back to Satan.

...wow.

You face yourself away, feeling bitter, and anxious as you wait for the fourth brother to return to your side. That assuming he does. You wouldn’t blame him for running off with the Barista—

“Y/N,” two hands reach out and cup your cheeks, guiding your head to the side. You manage to note that Satan is now crouched beside your chair—barista abandoned—before his lips connect with yours.

“I love you. You’re absolutely stunning.”

“Wha—,” you flush red as he pulls back, shocked at his actions. Satan usually isn’t so open about his affections in public. “You...how did you—?”

“I was watching the barista when she glanced past me. The rude, yet satisfied look on her face was telling enough,” he says, a bit of anger slipping into his tone. However, it’s quick to melt away when his gaze refocuses on your blushing cheeks.

“Just so you know, I think you’re beautiful. I’ve always thought so.” He presses back to his feet, the tips of his ears turning red. “So...don’t mind what others say, and be kind to yourself, okay?”

At a loss for words, you reach your arms out and hug him around the middle. He blinks in surprise, but a chuckle leaves his lips—his hand petting against your hair.

“Do I need to start telling you how much I adore you every day?”

“I might die,” you mumble into his shirt, and he feels his heart ache. He’ll be sure to start expressing his affections for you more often. He doesn’t want you feeling down about the way you look, because he has never given it a second thought.

In his eyes, you’ve always been perfect.

Asmo:

Asmo is unfortunately stellar at reading your body language. So on the days where your self-confidence and self-image aren’t best, he’s right there, trying to subtly raise your spirits.

Today, when he notices you picking at your food during breakfast, a frown on your face, he knows it’s going to be one of those days. And he doesn’t like seeing you upset.

So, he invites you to come to his room for a nice, relaxing spa day.

You agree, although it takes a little bit of convincing on his end.

Soon enough, you find yourself standing in front of Asmo’s outrageously large tub. He’d prepared a milk bath for you—the white, swirling liquid thick, and heavenly smelling. You’re a little nervous to disrobe and sink inside—especially considering your current mental state—but...you end up doing it anyway.

Once you’re shoulder deep into the tub, Asmo knocks on the door, making you jump.

“Are you up for getting a scalp massage?” he questions, peeking his head in. There’s a kind smile on his face. “I’d love to give you one.”

It takes you a moment to answer—your gaze lowering to look at yourself. It’d be impossible for him to see you beneath the milk, so that helps you feel a bit better…

“Okay,” you say, and Asmo is quick to skip inside. He rolls up his pants to his knees, his calves dipping into the bath on either side of your shoulders. A moment later, you feel his fingers rub through your hair, and you can’t help but sigh.

“Feel good?” he questions, and you hum in acknowledgement. Silence falls for a short while—Asmo simply focusing on easing the tension from your body—but he can’t let his thoughts go unheard.

“You know,” he starts by saying. “I don’t understand why you’re so hard on yourself. I think you’re positively stunning.”

“Asmo…”

“No, I really mean it!” he pouts, getting the feeling that you think he’s just saying that to try and make you feel better. “You’re cute, and scrumptious just the way you are! And I’ve always thought so—since the moment I laid my eyes on you when you were summoned by Lord Diavolo for the exchange program.

“So just...take my word for it, please, and let me be the positive voice in your life when your silly brain is making you think otherwise.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and his hands move to gently hold your cheeks. After a moment, you reach up and place your hands on his own. Your chest aches at his words, conflicted, but more than anything, you feel grateful.

“Thank you, Asmo.”

“Anytime, darling. I’ll always be more than happy to shower you with the love, praise, and affection that you rightfully deserve.”

Beel:

Beel loves inviting you to the gym with him, because when he’s done working out, he’s starving, which means it’s a good excuse to go out and have a meal with you.

Most days, sitting on the sidelines at the gym, or hopping on the treadmill and getting a good walk in doesn’t really bother you. Especially because you get to watch Beel as he exercises.

Today, however, you’re feeling entirely too self conscious as you sit on the empty bench press beside the Avatar of Gluttony—watching the way his arms flex as he lifts the heavy weights.

You know that the gym is typically an accepting place—an area where people (or in this case, demons) of any shape and size can come to work out—but you just feel like you don’t belong. Not accompanying Beel, at the very least.

He basically looks like he was handcrafted by god himself (and very well may have been)—his face handsome, and body toned in all of the right places. And here you are, unable to compare to him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

His voice reaches your ears, and you look up to find him staring at you in concern. You can only guess that you’d had a pretty sour look on your face while you’d been lost in your thoughts.

“It’s...it’s nothing, Beel.” You force a smile, not wanting to burden him with your current emotions. He frowns, regarding you for a moment, before he lets it go.

“Okay, I’m gonna change, and then we’ll go eat.”

“Alright,” you respond, immediately pressing to your feet. You head for the door without saying anything, intending to wait for him outside per usual.

A few minutes later, Beel exits the gym to find you sitting on a bench nearby. Your leg is bouncing anxiously, gaze zoned on the concrete at your feet.

“What’s wrong?” he questions again, taking a seat beside you. His tone indicates that he won’t be accepting “nothing” for an answer this time.

You knot your hands together in your lap. “I just...do you ever get embarrassed? Bringing me to the gym with you?”

He blinks. “Embarrassed? Why would I?”

“I don’t know, because I’m...not...up to par with a lot of the demons in there? Or, because you look like that, and I look like this, and—”

“I’m lost,” he cuts you off, looking confused. “Are you saying I should be embarrassed because I’m bringing a cute human with me to the gym? Maybe it is a little weird, considering this is the Devildom, but—”

“No, not just because I’m human. I meant—”

This time, he silences you with a kiss. His large hands cup your cheeks, holding you tenderly.

“I know what you meant, Y/N, but I disagree,” he tells you, uncharacteristically serious as he sits back. Then, a bashful smile spreads on his face. “I actually think you’re really adorable. Anytime I look at you I think of my favorite food. I love you just how you are, and will never feel embarrassed having you at my side. So, you should remember that from now on, okay?”

He reaches over and slots your hands together, tugging you to your feet.

“Now, let’s go get some ice cream.”

Belphie:

Both you and Belphie are aware that one of Belphie’s favorite activities is napping with you. Particularly, with his hands wrapped around you, and his face pressed between your shoulder blades.

Recently, you’ve been passing on all of his invitations to share a nap.

And he’s seriously starting to go crazy.

Had he done something to upset you? You always seem normal whenever you’re talking with him and his brothers, but when he sends a text asking you to come over and nap, you’re either busy, or just don’t feel like it.

Today, he decides to try and bring the nap to you.

He waltzes into your room mid-afternoon—pillows and blankets tucked beneath his arms. Without waiting for a response, he makes his way to your bed and sets everything up, making a perfect little fort for the two of you to nap in.

Once it’s set up, he crawls his way inside and then rolls over, turning to face you.

You’re stood at the edge of the bed, arm awkwardly held in your grasp. You don’t move to join him. Belphie sighs.

“Did I do something wrong?” he finally asks, wanting to resolve the issue if he has. He can’t take this anymore.

“What? No, it’s not you,” you tell him, surprised to hear his question. The demon blinks at you, now even more confused. If he’s not the reason you’ve been avoiding napping with him, then what is?

He fixes you with a curious stare—letting you know that he won’t be leaving until you tell him the truth—and you sigh.

“I just...haven’t been feeling too good about myself lately,” you admit to him, eyes glancing off to the side. “And because of that, I started thinking about you holding me when we nap, and ended up getting self conscious, wondering if I felt weird in your arms, or if—”

Before you get the chance to continue, Belphegor is grabbing your wrist—tugging you down against the mattress. With your back facing him, he’s quick to scoot up behind you, his arms wrapping around your midsection like normal.

“I never have cared about looks, or any of that stuff,” he mumbles, giving you a squeeze. “You fit perfectly in my arms, and always will, so don’t overthink it.”

“Belphie…”

“I love you for you, okay? I think you’re cute, and all that jazz. Now don’t make me say it again…”

Sounding embarrassed, Belphegor presses a kiss to the back of your head. You place your arms atop his own, smiling softly.

“Thank you.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms.

#om!#obey me #swd obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me fic #obey me fluff #lucifer #mammon #leviathan #levi #satan #asmo #asmodeus #beel #beelzebub #belphie #belphegor

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rouiyan · 4 years ago

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𝘖𝘏 𝘕𝘖 𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘋𝘕'𝘵, (𝘖𝘏 𝘠𝘌𝘚 𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘋) [ 𝘭.𝘫𝘯 ]

💌 delivered ⧐ an early valentine’s day special from miss ree to you~

synopsis – of all the fucking days in the year...

♡ lee jeno x (gender neutral) reader ♡ best friends to lovers (ft. hyuck)

♡ genre: fluff ♡ wc – 863 ♡ original request ♡ disclaimers : profanity, an apparent dislike of valentine’s day

disbelief claws at his disposition as donghyuck squints extra hard in the process of making a comment that's most likely something along the lines of, 'why the fuck is your text font so small?' though it actually only goes as far as, "why th—" before he's overcome with copious amounts of laughter. what had been incredulity in his initial reaction is now sure to have morphed into a sort of second-hand embarrassment. on the contrast, you have half the mind to take defense, "don't laugh at him! i'm sure he's just trying his best here," but alas, your own countenance is on the verge of splitting into a grin.

while donghyuck laughs out the rest of his hysterics, you've reverted your attention back to your phone screen to gloss over the transpirings that had him short-breathed in the first place. in short, lee jeno is your best friend. lee jeno is good looking. lee jeno is sweet, thoughtful, endearing. lee jeno is your crush. and lee jeno is also terribly inept at conversing when it comes to his own crush: you.

truthfully, you had not meant to suggest anything with the message you'd sent a little under two hours ago. it's almost valentine's day, huh? very simple, an observation at most, indicative of absolutely nothing. and up until about an hour ago, you had not the slightest idea that the aforementioned boy liked you back. that is until donghyuck had to take an unforeseen bathroom break in the midst of playing that stupid game on his phone, the same game that he'd begged you to take over for lest you wish he lose. (you did but you must admit, you are too good of a friend). thus commencing the fourth round of a game you'd never played in your life with hyuck's earbuds unceremoniously shoved in your ears from his desperate rush to go potty.

perhaps you actually held an affinity for the game, you would have never found out because right as the door clicked shut in his absence, another voice sounded through the speakers. unbeknownst to you, apparently hyuck had been playing with jeno the whole while. to further, it seems that jeno had no clue that hyuck had been replaced, muttering on about taking a break himself to check his notifications. you sat quiet, benumbed and fixed into the couch, as your crush of four years began to ramble in exclamation, "holy shit! hyuck, y/n texted me an hour ago."

on your end, rather than daring to speak aloud, your thoughts multiply from there on out: nothing much to tell from that, right? just a guy fretting about not returning his best friend's messag— "dude, valentine's day….do you think it's too cheesy to ask someone out on valentine's day?"

heart in your stomach you prayed to the gods above that he wouldn't be able to hear how heavy your (or hyuck's, as he assumes) breaths have come to be. the seconds take their liberties in lengthening themselves so that one feels like two and two feels like four and so on and so forth until twelve have passed in silence. much to your relief, that's when donghyuck decided to come on back. eyes wide, you shoved the earbuds back into ears, phone into his hands, and mouthed to him the words he understood to repeat, "what did you say?" and jeno, ever the compliant friend, relayed the same question that had you shaken to the core in the first place.

and donghyuck, ever the conniving wingman, had only this to reply, "what do you mean cheesy? that's the best idea you've ever come up with."

thirty minutes ago, while you'd since exploited your stamina capacity by pummeling the boy with any and all pillows within arms' length, you still boasted an exemplary ability to glare at him from across the room. if only you had the strength to strangle his phone out of his hands or swipe the smile off of his face because whatever "tips and tricks" he was sure to be schooling jeno on were to be the death of you.

as it turned out, they were not only the cause of your imminent death but also of hyuck's, seeing as how he has now resorted to the floor, the couch insufficient for his maniacal fit of laughter. to recap, recall, reel it all in, let's start with the fact that the only thing you'd said to jeno had been this: it's almost valentine's day, huh? and the only thing he'd replied with, almost two hours later, was this: yeah i'm free that day :)

smile bordering on a cringe, you type out an enthusiastic let's go on a date then! accompanied by a hefty sigh. should you be happy that you finally, finally get to put an end to an agonizing four-year-long and (apparently not) unrequited love? yes, in fact, under almost any other circumstance you'd be mesmerizingly thrilled to even ponder the possibility. but here you are, thumb on the send button, effectively sealing your fate forevermore.

(five years later and your fifth anniversary with lee jeno still falls on february 14th. fucking valentine's day.)

✧ end note — requested by the lovely🌙 anon. i’m very sorry if you do happen to think that valentine’s day is the best day to be asked out on. i, for one, do not but it’s all personal preference (and a fic starter i guess)...will i post some full special for actual valentine’s day? at this point in time, that is unclear because i do have a whole ass fellowship interview that morning but for now, i hope you enjoyed it and may the best of days be yours <3

#jeno fluff #jeno scenarios #jeno imagines #neowritingsnet #neothestars #neo-constellations #neoculturecafe #nct jeno #lee jeno #jeno x reader #jeno timestamps #jeno fanfic #jeno soft hours #jeno blurbs #jeno best boy #oh fuck tags

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 5 years ago

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Floating

The original request: Hey if you’re open to suggestions could you write about cal coming home one day and saying “uhm you look.. not sober?” And convincing him to join drinking with you and having a fun time 😉

This original prompt has since been adjusted. I did get permission (x). Thanks to you anon, for being so understanding and working with me so I can serve you best.

Remember folks, consent is important in all matters of life--sex, romantic relationships, platonic, whether you’re giving a hug. Does not matter--allow the person to consent or even reject and respect those boundaries. Consent is also ongoing!

Please stay safe during these uncertain times. Drop a sweet message to your favorite blogger. Reblog your favorite fic. Recommend a fic to me if you want! We need to spread some joy.

Enjoy my masterlist--linked in the source!

Feel free to send me a song + a boy or small blurb request. (Can I beg for Michael content and request? Yes, thanks.)

This is a reader insert (you). Open to all races, gender identities. Just general light-weightness for the consumption of alcohol.

______________________________________

It was only going to be one drink. One drink while you dipped your toes into the pool. And you had even poured it with a light hand, just to avoid feeling too out of your head too fast. But that light pour for one drink became a second one. And maybe they did become heavier pours as you went about it. But it was so hard to really taste the rum in the drink. That you figured maybe just a little bit more wouldn’t hurt.

And now you’re sinking into the pool, your swimwear reflecting from under the water as the sun beams down. You relax your head into the slightly white marble. It feels good and for a second you’re not worried about the world outside, you’re not worried about work, or school, or bills. You’re not worried about anything because nothing else matters but the sun warming your skin and the water holding up your limbs.

Before you can even realize, you’re three drinks down. It’s not that bad. Not until you go to pull yourself out of the water and suddenly without the natural buoyancy it’s a little harder to keep your limbs in coordination. A laugh pricks up your ears and you look up to Calum. “You do not look completely sober. I’d give us mostly.”

“It was only supposed to be one drink,” you huff.

Calum nods. “You okay? They say you’re not supposed to drink alone.”

“I’m okay. The water just tricked me.”

He gives another nod. Your speech isn’t slurred at all and you’re keeping well on your balance. He slips the shirt over his head and settles down on the edge of the pool, feet sinking into the water. Paws click and you both look down to Duke. “No, no, no, no,” you mutter, capturing the small old man and settle him into the nearby wicker outdoor seat.

He shakes his fur in response to your wet hands. Calum knows for sure you’re still good to work so quickly to rescue Duke from any other pool dives. “You don’t know if he wants to just get his paws wet,” Calum returns.

As you turn the gold chain around his neck catches the light and you watch it shimmer for just a moment. It looks so delicious around his neck and you shake your head to keep the thoughts at bay. “No one’s having a heart attack on my watch. Not Duke accidentally falling or you diving in after him again. Nope, not fucking happening again.”

Calum nods, reaching down to run his fingers over the surface over the water. “So what’s on the menu bartender?”

“It’s just Cuba Libre’s. I’ve been doing them in like halves. So it’s nothing to knock you off your ass.” Calum’s height and stature and his drinking history leave you in the dust. But it makes you a cheap date, so his wallet has never had to complain about a drink or two putting you in your sweet spot.

“Hmm, seems like a short menu.”

You laugh and settle down next to him with a gentle shove to his shoulder. “Look, I can’t do anything with your vodka vice and my rum vice. Just get the fuck over it.”

He laughs but looks at the small tray you step up near the pool. The bottle and cans have started to sweat and he can see the ice that’s melted to create a pool in the bowl. “I’ll give it a shot.”

He hasn’t removed the shorts, but as he stands, back muscles rippling just a little as he lifts the bottle, you can’t help but stare. “You’re hot, you know,” you call to him before pushing back down into the water.

“That’s it. No more drinking for the bartender,” he teases, grinning over to you. His chin is decorated in a few scraggly hairs that are trying to form a beard. But you still like it, don’t mind the light scratch when he’s nuzzling into your neck. His attention turns back to the table, glancing over the small cue card you’ve handwritten with the instructions. He assumes it’s something new you wanted to try, and he’s not sure about the lime until the first sip. It’s not so bad.

He settles down on the edge of the pool, legs dangling. You swim up between them, resting your arms on his thighs. “What do you think?”

Smacking his lips dramatically together to get the taste fully in his mouth, he rolls out his bottom lip. An hyperbolic thinking face. But you must admit that you like it when he raises the one eyebrow, really seals the deal. “Ain’t so bad. I reckon we can keep it on the menu.”

“You’re awful,” you say between laughter. “Just say you might like a rum drink for once in your life.” Your fingers wiggle for the glass--yours is empty and you don’t feel like refilling it. He hands over his glass with ease, watching you take a few sips.

“Never. You’ll never get that out of me.” He does go in for his second sip after you hand it back to him. You know it’s good and that he likes it. You reach up, just to brush your fingers over the tattoos, before hooking your finger into the chain. It’s a gentle pull. A soft tug to let him know you want him closer. He ducks down, grinning at the action. “Yes, my love?”

“You’re a little shit,” you sneer. “But you’re my little shit.”

He hums. “That’s the way I like it.”

“I’ll tell you what I like,” you grin, singing the lyric just a little before sealing his mouth with a kiss. It’s swift but a little messy and he groans when you pull away. Using your feet, you push off the wall, arms lifting out to the sides. Duke is content on the chair, curled up in on himself. Calum watches you float, watching the way the water shapes around you thighs.

“And you said I was hot,” he calls.

“You are.”

“And so are you.”

You snort, watching the cloud pass over the sun. It hasn’t been easy, being cooped up in the house for the last two weeks. Both you and Calum adore having time together. But you’re both used to doing things, living that separate life that makes coming together so much more special. A lot of the day lately has been you working in the living room and he attempts to write and play bass in the back. And every so often you shout at each other to see a meme or for a kiss. Though before you’re escape to the pool, you were curled up next to Calum as he played the piano. His attempts at teaching you never went very far, but you always cherish his patience with you.

“We gotta go the grocery store tomorrow,” Calum hums, still watching the sun soaking into your skin.

You turn yourself vertical, feet brushing barely at the bottom of the pool before you feel yourself pulled back up to the top by the water’s tension. “If we go to another seven stores for toilet paper and turn up nothing, I will scream into the skies.”

“I’ll scream with you,” he laughs. Typically, Calum always kept stock. But after some plumbing issues, he let it go slack just a little. It resulted in you running out for a quick restock. Which did not turn up well for you. Though, Calum did find a small pack that was tucked away that bought you guys an extra few days. It was a saving grace when your phone rang from Calum in the second CVS you had run to saying he had found the white gold. “But for right now you can just float.”

“Join me?” You don’t say anything about the glass being nearly empty but you do smirk in his direction.

His slender digit singles you out. “Not a fucking word.” He drains the rest of the glass before setting it down and pushing into the pool too. Basketball shorts as all. As he wades up to you, there’s an obvious grin lifting the right side of his mouth. He slides his arms around your waist and hoists you up. You wrap around him, legs and arm meeting at his back.

“This is not floating,” you tease, ghosting the tip of your nose over his.

“Nah, but I like this too.” His mouth captures yours, all the rum, Coke and lime mixing on your tongues again.

-H

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forasecondtherewedwon · 5 years ago

Note

Hey! Number 13 from the prompts please? "I made the mistake of thinking 'This can't weirder'. Sorry". It's totally upto you, but feel absolutely free to make it NSFW, because i LOVE your smut lol. Thank you! ❤😊

Friend! (And Anon!) Gosh, it’s been months, huh? But this is my final summer prompt!!! Anyway, thanks, both of you, for hanging in there and for your lovely compliments!

Web Fluid WingmanPairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: EWord count: 7402

13. “I madethe mistake of thinking ‘This can’t get weirder.’ Sorry.”

“Peter?” MJ knocked on the door of the boys’ changing room.“I know you said you have to go, because it’s an emergency. I just wanted to…”She trailed off for a few seconds, feeling weird about talking to a door.“Don’t worry about coming back to practice. Everybody’s gone already.”

When he didn’t answer, she eased the door open a little,keeping her gaze on the floor.

“Peter? I saw you come in here. Did you leave?”

There was a faint noise that made MJ frown in confusion. Asort of groaning. Then, a gasp like someone who badly needed to catch theirbreath. She wasn’t usually the person to jump in and play the hero or whatever,but if someone was in here making those sounds, they might be in trouble. Andif it was just Peter, that was ok. She could help Peter and deny it later.

A rubber sole squeaked on the tile floor and MJ snuck intothe changing room, striding quietly down the aisles of lockers until she foundsigns of life: a backpack left out on a bench and the dork himself standing inthe far corner. He had his back to her. He was grunting.

She walked towards him and realized she couldn’t see hishands, couldn’t see them though he seemed to have his arms straight down infront of his body. Peter panted and MJ felt a flush rise up her face like hotsteam. Had she just walked in on him with his hands down his pants? Oh god, shehad to leave.

“Uh, sorry,” she said quickly, and stumbled in her attemptto retreat, just enough to bang her shoulder into a hollow metal locker with awobbly clang.

Peter whipped around, eyes wide.

“MJ?”

She tried to look away, cover her eyes, but even as sheturned her head, her gaze darted down in curiosity.

“Wait…” MJ narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. “What doyou have on your wrist?”

He had his wrist clamped in his opposite hand, tuggingfrantically. As she automatically reached out, some kind of liquid shot intothe air. Peter’s hand batted at it, hers jerked upwards to draw back, and theirpalms smacked together.

“Please tell me that wasn’t―”

“It wasn’t,” he promised quickly.

Peter was bright red. He seemed to be telling the truththough; she darted a look at his crotch and saw his jeans were definitely nothanging open to expose his, well, to let him do what she’d briefly thought he’dbeen doing.

“Just some kind of freaky Spider-Man goo then?”

“Wha-what?”

MJ rolled her eyes and drew back her hand to cross her armsin a spare me your pathetic deceptionsgesture. Her hand came, but Peter’s came with it. Reflexively, she shook herarm, and his arm shook too, riding the wave of her increasingly franticflapping.

“What the hell is this? Peter, what did you do?”

Their hands were still pressed together―glued, more like―at the palms. This wasn’t your regular white craftglue either, it was some kind of Spider-Man-grade adhesive bullshit and it hadzero give. Apparently, the drying time was instant and it was very effective onflesh surfaces.

“I was… working on a diorama,” he began, “f-for WorldHistory?”

MJ glared at him. She raised her free hand and counted outthe facts for him on her fingers.

“You’re lying,” she said, flicking her thumb up, “you’reSpider-Man, and you’re not even taking World History.”

“How do you know I’m not taking World History?”

Oh, those innocent, brown, Bambi eyes.

“Because I memorized your class sched- never mind.” MJneeded to not freak out because freaking out was making her answer questions itwould be far better to avoid. The last person she wanted knowing that shewatched everything Peter Parker did was Peter Parker. “One more thing,” sheadded, raising another finger. “You’re getting me out of this right now.”

“I can’t.”

“Stop it, loser,” she said with a sigh, letting their handsdrop. “Spare us both the time it’ll take for you to come up with an excuse I’mnot going to believe anyway. I know you’re Spider-Man, so quit pretending youdon’t know what’s going on.”

“I know you know.” Her eyebrows shot up at his words. Petershuffled his feet in agitation, MJ’s arm swinging with his. “I mean, I didn’tknow, and I’m totally horrified that you figured it out, but I also believethat you figured it out because you’re smart and, and, I can’t fix this.”

As his shoulders slumped, what he’d said sank in for her.

“But you didthis,” she reminded him, sending a tremor through their arms.

“Not on purpose! I was trying to leave, like I said,” heinsisted, expression earnest, doing his damnedest to gesture with both hands,“and I put the web-shooter on―” She assumed that was the thing around hiswrist. “―but it made this weird sound, which it shouldn’t have done because,obviously, I maintain my stuff really carefully, like, it saves my life on aregular basis, you know? Or at least saves me from breaking my leg or somethingif I fell while I was swinging―”

MJ wished he’d accidentally sealed his lips together insteadof their hands. Her face was severely unimpressed.

“―so I went to take it off again,” he was saying, “but Icouldn’t get it, and then… and then… you came in.”

“What. The. FUCK!” she shouted, getting some of herfrustration out. She felt better right away, catching her breath. Their handswere attached with ‘web-shooter’ goop that MJ had mistaken for ejaculate. Theirpalms could not be separated. These were facts, and facts were something shecould deal with. In a calmer voice, she explained, “I made the mistake ofthinking ‘This can’t get weirder.’ Sorry.”

“I can unstick our hands,” Peter promised. “Just not here. Ihave a compound that washes this stuff away like it’s nothing, but I keep it inmy closet. In, um, my room.”

“Well then that’s where we’re going.”

He looked a little stunned.

“We’re going… to my bedroom?”

“To get the unsticking compound,” MJ repeated. “Keep up,Parker.”

Peter gave her a self-deprecating smile that made herautomatically lick her lip. Hopefully he couldn’t feel her pulse too stronglyin her hand, because it had definitely accelerated, but he probably could.Because he was Spider-Man. Just like she’d guessed!

Hmm. Maybe vindication would taste a little sweeter when shehad a chance to be alone and retreat into her own thoughts. He was too much,too close, standing here next to her.

“Let me just grab my backpack,” Peter said, pointing behindher.

MJ turned with him and he slung it up off the bench and ontohis shoulder. She still had hers over the opposite shoulder, so at least shewasn’t trapped in the straps of her backpack. Just trapped with him. The partof her brain where her intense crush on Peter was currently being suppressedsent some good feelings through her body. Shutup, she thought at herself.

Aloud, she said, “We should hold hands.” No, that wasn’t thecrush talking, it was pure logic. Sort of.

“Hold hands?”

“Yeah, so we don’t look, you know, affixed with industrial-strength glue.”

“Right, uh, good idea. How should we?”

They studied their hands. His had come down while hers wentup, and they’d been facing each other, so their fingers didn’t align. Instead,their palms met on a diagonal and it was pretty easy to curl their fingersaround the each other’s hand. MJ grasped the side of his palm, pinky hookedover his wrist, and Peter’s fingers folded over the curve of her thumb. Theylooked up at each other and she saw agreement in his eyes. She then had toremind herself that he wasn’t looking that way because he actually wanted tohold her hand, it was just dealing with an unexpected and unwelcome scenario.

“Now maybe we should…” Peter started to say, then finishedhis thought with an action.

Watching her face carefully, he raised his arm in the air,elbow higher than his head. MJ understood what he was doing. She glanced at thefloor and took a quick breath, then rolled in to him like they were dancing.His arm ended up draped across her shoulders, hers bent at the elbow to cutacross her chest. Their hands were clasped over her collarbone.

“Could be worse, right?” he checked, sounding nervous. Likelyjust anxious that this sorry attempt at a disguise would be totally obvious.

“Looks credible enough,” MJ assented. “People… inrelationships… probably walk like this.”

She glanced at his face and realized how close it was tohers. And he was staring right back at her. Willing away a blush, MJ reached upwith her free hand and tenderly pulled her trapped hair out from under his arm.

“Oh, sorry,” Peter said, yanking his arm up and out of herway. It made her nearly clock herself in the jaw with her own hand, stuck fastto his.

MJ raised a pacifying hand before he could apologize again.When he settled his arm back around her, it seemed to hold her slightly closerto his body than before. Which was fine. Obviously not on purpose. It gavetheir arms more slack if their bodies were closer; that was probably exactlywhat he’d meant to do.

“We need to catch a bus, right?” she asked as theycautiously exited the change room, peering both ways down the empty hall.

Of course, she knew the answer, but she was really trying tokeep herself under control for the rest of this misadventure. They would go tohis place, fix this, and then forget about the whole thing. Apprising Peter ofhow much she’d noticed about him was not a necessary conversation within thescope of this plan.

“Yeah. You alright?” He turned his head to look at heragain, but MJ just nodded without meeting his eye. He was way too close and shewasn’t mentally prepared to be casually almost brushing noses every time theyspoke. “Ok, come on. I don’t normally leave this late, so it might be busy.”

It was busy. Itwas the start of rush hour. The busses were clogged in traffic, slow to arrive,and many too full to accommodate a conjoined Peter and MJ once they did. Theyhad to stand at the bus stop for ages, her tucked into him, him curled aroundher, exchanging awkward smiles, out in public like they did this all the time.When a less packed bus squawked up to the curb, the two of them had to fumblefor their passes. Peter seemed pretty ok managing to swing his bag down hisarm, catch the handle in his teeth, and dig his bus pass out with his freehand; MJ lost a few seconds being gobsmacked at the fluidity of his motions.

“Can you get yours?” Peter asked, at about the same momentshe remembered she’d stuffed her pass into her front right pocket and nowdidn’t have her right hand available to retrieve it.

MJ really tried to reach across with her left hand andwriggle her fingers into the pocket. She could touch the edge of her bus pass,but the angle was no good. She couldn’t pull it out. Normally, she would’vepersevered (normally, she wouldn’t have been glued to Peter Parker), but thebus would only wait so long. They were the last to get on and traffic wasthinning up ahead as a string of streetlights turned green.

“No,” she said, defeated. “It’s too deep.”

He’d been watching her struggle, not attempting to intervene(she would’ve told him to back off), so he knew what to do when she nodded,inviting him to try. It only took a few second, but in that time, his hot handwas pressed against her hip, wiggling down her thigh inside the pocket of herjeans. The shift of Peter’s fingers through the thin cotton of the pocket’sinterior casually turned her inside out. MJ was flushed and restless, a littleabrupt as she plucked the liberated bus pass from between his index and middlefingers.

They flashed their passes to a driver who, like most,probably couldn’t care less, and maneuvered clumsily down the aisle. Theydidn’t get far because there were a couple dozen other passengers, and becausethe bus lurched forward and they were forced to grab onto something. Peter,with his Spider-Man reflexes, grabbed a swaying rubber handhold. MJ apparentlyhad useless instincts, because she didn’t go for any of the germy supports thebus offered; her hand just tightened around Peter’s and he jerked her closer soshe wouldn’t fall. Her backpack slid off her shoulder and she held it in frontof her with her left hand, not wanting to risk smacking a stranger if sheheaved it back into place.

She turned her head and felt a lot of emotions take turns onher face: gratitude, surprise, annoyance. The ride smoothed out after theinitial surge and MJ would’ve shuffled away to put as much space between theirbodies as possible, but a few people rose from their seats and headed towardsthe rear door. Instead of moving farther from Peter, MJ had to get closer―a lotcloser. As the group of passengers contracted to make room for those exiting,she found herself not under Peter’s arm, but with her back to his chest. Hisarm encircling her all the way to her opposite shoulder. His exhale ticklingdown her neck where her hair didn’t cover it.

“Sorry,” he started, “I can’t…”

“That’s ok,” MJ assured him, quick and terse.

The bus braked aggressively at the next stop and she bracedher feet firmly. Peter must not have been ready, or maybe he couldn’t seearound her since he wasn’t tall enough, because his hips bumped into her frombehind. Just as MJ couldn’t imagine any more contact, he gripped her hip.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled again, using her hip as leverage topull his own away from her. She couldn’t decide if his Spider-Man powers meanthe should’ve been able to stop himself before colliding with her so intimately,or if Spider-Man was just as susceptible to bus inertia as every other rider.

She shook her head like that agitation would dislodge hisapologies. It didn’t bother her, thecontact. The only shitty thing about it was that it wasn’t on purpose. But MJcouldn’t think about that right then. He’d probably hear her acceleratedheartbeat or see her pulse thump beneath her skin at her throat.

Or.

Was this an opportunity? Starting with walking in on Peterwhen she’d thought he was masturbating, this afternoon had been a series oflooks and touches that never should’ve happened. His hand in her pocket. Herbutt against his groin. Their goddamn hands bonded with an adhesive Peter’dprobably invented himself, the nerd. And he hadn’t seemed to mind, not any ofit, not if MJ forgot about her personal embarrassment for a second andreflected on his reactions. If there was ever a time to, well, try something―put the moves on him, soto speak―this was it, here in a scenario overflowing with potential excuses.The bus rocked, the people pushed and squirmed, and the noise! Surely, with allof these bodies, he wouldn’t notice herheartbeat picking up its usually lazy pace.

MJ took the next opening to press back into Peter. Stiff,she waited to see if he’d re-establish their little buffer of empty space. Hedidn’t. Maybe he felt slightly tenser where his chest met her shoulder blades,or maybe he was just attempting to remain upright. Huh. Peter not upright.Peter―deep breath, MJ―flat on his back. That was a thought. She acted on thattempting concept, nudging his crotch as she straightened her spine. There, thatcould’ve been accidental.

She did it once more, always standing on the figurativeshoulders of the bus driver, who was doing the good work of driving this busreally badly, thereby making these touches possible.

“Careful,” Peter said, just under his breath, just to her.

It sounded like a genuine warning, as though he was reallyworried about her safety, and MJ was going to bite back with something snarky,probably rude. Until his hand landed back on her hip. And stayed there, notguiding her away. Her body felt misted with heat, and no, it wasn’t sweaty buscondensation.

“Of what?” she asked, turning her head just enough tosuggest she was listening. Loosely framing their conversation so she couldescape should Peter back out.

“I don’t know yet.”

He withdrew his fingers from her hip very slowly. MJ’sbreathing sped up and she almost turned all the way around to face him, but shecontrolled herself.

“Two more stops,” Peter informed her.

“Ok,” she acknowledged lightly.

Her cheeks were hot.

He prioritized her―tripping and shuffling to clear a pathfor her―as they pressed their way to the rear door, his block approaching. Whenthe door folded open, MJ couldn’t remember how they’d managed to get on the bussmoothly. Were they going to have to count to three and jump out together toavoid mistiming their steps and leaving one or both of them with a rolledankle?

While she puzzled, Peter cut through the thought process;his hand around her shoulder dropped to her waist. It made the side of her handslide straight over her boob while the heel of his hand caressed it from theside. Before she could say anything about Parker coping a feel, he hugged heragainst him and lifted her down to the sidewalk. Effortless. That was what hadher mentally stumbling to catch up to what had just happened. She had the heighton him, but he’d picked her up (and her backpack, stuffed to punishing fullnesswith hardcovers) without a hint of strain. Right, the Spider-Man thing. He wasprobably hurrying so they could get up to his apartment and separate.

As MJ went to ask him which building on this block was his,Peter glanced at her. The look held a long time, even with the door squealingshut behind them and the bus thundering away. It held almost as well as theirhands. She swallowed. But the compound keeping their palms stuck together hadbeen engineered by Peter on purpose. Their handhold had not.

Fuck. The combination of the look in his brown eyes―sotransparent―and the series of necessary yet highly intimate touches was really…it was making it… thinking was just…

“It’s that one,” Peter said, pointing to an ordinary greybuilding.

MJ glanced up, head tilted back. It wasn’t really to get abetter look at the apartment building (who hadn’t seen one of those?), but tolet the trickle of air that qualified as wind in these crowded blocks to passover her face. After a couple of seconds, she rolled her head to the side tolook at Peter.

“I hope you don’t have your heart set on taking the stairs,‘cause that’s not going to work.” She jostled their clasped hands.

He laughed weakly and, not meeting MJ’s eye, moved his armfrom around her waist back up to her shoulder, then lowered it again, thenraised it, then left it hovering somewhere in between like he suddenly didn’tknow how to touch her. She wanted to tell him that either was fine―the weightof his forearm draping over her shoulder or the pseudo-protective squeeze of itfitting into the dip of her waist―but she was feeling a little tangled up. Notjust with her arm crossing her body. Tongue-tied.

When they went to enter the building (waist it was), anelderly woman stepped out and shot them a sweet, knowing smile. Peter didn’tsay anything to disabuse the old lady of the idea of him and MJ as a couple.His lack of response was probably due to his concentration on grabbing the doorwith his free hand so it wouldn’t close on the woman, but MJ heard acceptancein the silence. It flummoxed her and she decided to flummox him right back.

“Can’t keep our hands off each other,” she volunteered witha conspiratorial (maybe? Was she doing the smile right?) grin as the seniortrundled past.

So it was unclear whether or not the woman had heard her,but Peter sure as hell did. It could’ve been true that MJ felt his pulse thumpthrough his thumb, where it curled around the heel of her hand, or maybe thatwas only one of several things she imagined about him as she darted through thedoor he was still holding open. He almost tripped, dragged behind her.

She allowed him to do the honours of pressing the button forthe elevator while she smiled benignly, very much not meeting Peter’s eye.

“MJ,” he said softly, seconds dropping away like thelowering floor numbers displayed digitally above the elevator door as theirride descended. She snuck a look at him from the corner of her eye and saw himwet his lip. Readying to speak. Preparing. She felt dizzy anticipation and heldhis hand tighter. “MJ.”

The door dinged open to a scene of minor chaos featuring anextremely dad-looking person with a baby―legs dangling―tucked into a carrier onhis chest and a toddler―legs viciously kicking like the kid was trying to flingtheir shoes off (looked likely)―in the stroller he wheeled out in front of him.

“Hold the door,” the man gasped, just catching the baby’stiny hat as the child dipped forward in an effort to examine its father’sforearm.

Again, Spider-Man used his Peter Parker disguise to aid thepopulous on the sly, slapping his palm to the edge of the door and maintainingwho knew how much pressure to make sure it didn’t budge as the man got all fourwheels of the stroller going in the right direction and escaped.

This time, in his haste to be the door-holding hero, he’dtugged MJ close to him. His front wasn’t fit as fully to her back as it hadbeen on the bus, but even partially aligned, she had some distinctlyunvoiceable questions about what was pressing against her butt.

She cleared them out of her throat with a light cough andstepped into the elevator, the door of which Peter continued to diligentlyrestrain until they were fully inside.

“No comment for that guy?” he asked lightly as the door slidshut. MJ glanced quickly at him.

“Well, he has two little kids. I think the memory of whatextended hand-holding can lead to is pretty fresh in his mind. I don’t want toassume, but I’d guess it’s been longer for the old lady.”

“Ha!” Peter blurted out. “Right.”

MJ heard him drum his fingers against the wall of theelevator―possibly out of view, but she wasn’t going to check, because his freearm was hanging at his side, which would mean his hand was near his hip, andshe couldn’t look towards his hip, since that would put his crotch in her lineof sight, and if there was anything happeningin that region, well. Was that something she could deal with?

“Nice, um, elevators,” she noted stupidly, nodding aroundtheir little metal box as it rose.

“Yeah, they’re, uh, faster than the stairs,” he agreed,equally idiotic, but she couldn’t fault him for following her example.

“Peter―”

“MJ―”

They spoke together and blushed together too when theirgazes crossed like laser beams in the vault of a heist movie.

“Your heart’s racing,” he observed quietly, thumb fleetinglystroking the inside of her wrist.

“I’m afraid of elevators.” Wow, maybe they could just goback to the ground floor, walk outside, and wait for the next bus to hit her.It would sever their connection and end the moronic stream of her words. Twobirds, one stone.

“But a minute ago, you said―”

“I’m also afraid of awkward silences.”

“Are our silences awkward?”

Do not react justbecause the nerd used the word ‘our,’she coached herself determinedly.

“I don’t know, Peter, but we’ve already managed tosuperglue―and I use the prefix ‘super’ literallyhere―our hands together today. Pretty hard to anticipate any other kind ofinteraction between us not being a mess.”

“So no… other kinds of interactions,” he clarified and shespied on him from the corner of her eye again to realize he was teasing her.

“Better not risk it.”

“Maybe the web fluid thing is the worst that’ll happen, andit’s already happened, and anything else we did would be fine,” Peter suggested.Anything else we did? she thought,finding it suddenly a little stuffy, a little warm in the elevator. “Maybe youjust need a sign.”

The elevator dinged to announce their arrival at Peter’sfloor. MJ turned her head fully to glare at him.

“You knew that was going to happen. Loser.”

They ambled to the door of his apartment―clasped hands likea third person they carried between them―where he dropped his backpack and shewas forced to bend over next to him, while he rooted around for his key.Retrieving it, Peter said, “So, my aunt won’t be home yet.”

“She knows right? About Spider-Man?”

“Yeah, she―watch your step,” he warned as they maneuveredinside, past a small heap of shoes. “She knows, it just might be weird.” Petershrugged.

“Right, yeah,” MJ agreed, waiting while he locked the door.“I guess she’d wonder why I know such an important secret about you, even ifyou’re not very good at keeping it.”

He frowned and she smirked, making him smile in return.Clearly, he was more comfortable in his own home, where his secret wasn’t asecret and he had the tools to fix little mishaps like this.

“No,” Peter disagreed, but in a low mumble. “I actuallydon’t think she’d be that surprised to see you.” Louder, he added, “My room’s thisway.”

Everything about the hallway was ordinary, except for thefact that MJ never thought she’d be walking down it. To Peter’s bedroom. Withhis arm tucked snugly around her. (His forearm was a warm, solid bar at herwaist. It was frighteningly easy to imagine him scooping her up and carryingher. Easy and dangerous.)

“Uh,” he said awkwardly, pushing the door wider when theyreached his room so they could step inside at the same time.

She couldn’t look at him, or at his bed, and it was a lot ofeffort to avoid both in the relatively small space, but MJ made that effort.Letting her body be loose enough to be rotated and guided around the room asPeter rummaged for what he needed to unstick them, she kept her gaze moving.Pictures of him and Ned. Open textbooks. A closet left ajar, where she glimpseda rumpled row of t-shirts (likely the pun-bearing variety). The question ofwhere he kept the rest of his clothes―namely his underwear―entered her mind.She exhaled unsteadily. Ok, that was the end of looking around.

MJ observed Peter once more, watching as he gave an opaqueketchup bottle a hearty shake. He glanced at her, face always too close (andnot close enough).

“Ready?”

She narrowed her eyes at the bottle.

“Ketchup? That’syour super-secret compound?”

“Yeah, the combination of the vinegar and the natural sugarsfrom the tomatoes are safe to eat, but really effective at dissolving web fluid.If I ever run into somebody who fights by squirting ketchup at me, I’m totallyscrewed.”

They stared at each other.

“You’re messing with me,” she decided. Peter grinned.

“It is the compound I told you about though,” he promised,holding the tip of the bottle over their joined hands. “I try to keep myimportant stuff not too obvious.”

“Right. Your bedroom is the most logical place to keep abottle of ketchup. No one would ever question that.”

Peter laughed, then raised his eyebrows at her, poised withthe apparently-not-a-hotdog-condiment. There was no doubt, no thought of nottrusting him. The only oddity that did occur to MJ was that they hadn’t unwoundthemselves from each other; their glued hands were positioned in front of herand to make it so that they were nearly centered for Peter as well, he was onceagain crowded up against her back.

“This won’t, like, burn my hand off, will it?” she asked,keeping her voice as monotone as possible. The prospect of her skin beingscalded or melted or corroded gave her an adrenaline kick nearly as strong asthe one she felt with Peter wrapped around her.

He didn’t laugh at her.

“No, no pain. It’ll just take a few seconds to seep betweenour hands and get to work. On skin, it goes kinda crumbly and then you canbrush it off.”

MJ took a breath.

“Do it before I have time to evaluate how much trust I havein an amateur chemist who keeps his concoctions in ketchup bottles,” shedemanded, releasing her fingers’ grasp. He did the same, so that only theirpalms were in contact.

Peter pushed the tip to the seam of their glued hands andsqueezed the bottle, following the join all the way around, tilting their handsto make sure he didn’t miss even a millimeter (she assumed his vision was thatprecise).

Once he’d circled around to his starting point, Peterflipped the bottle right-way-up and set it on his desk.

“It wasn’t so bad, right?” he asked, not looking at her whenshe stole a glance at him. “Being stuck together?”

“It wasn’t the worst,” MJ agreed.

Together, they stared at their hands while the compoundattacked the web fluid. There actually wasn’t much to see from the outside. Thestuff didn’t even run down their wrists or between their fingers. Peter’sbreathing was happening very close to her ear and she wondered if he wouldquestion the goosebumps springing up along her arms.

“What if it doesn’t work?” she asked quietly―somewhathopefully―staring hard at a small scar on the back of her hand where a girl hadpinched her in the fifth grade.

“There’s mustard in the fridge. We could try that.”

MJ turned her head to glare at him as Peter turned to grinat her, probably anticipating some snarky remark. She wasn’t confident thatshe’d really had one ready, but there was definitely nothing waiting to be saidwhen their noses bumped.

“Or Worcestershire sauce,” he mumbled, angling his head.

“Lime juice, maybe.”

His breath against her mouth was vaguely fruity―artificial,but not unpleasant. MJ recalled that he’d been chewing gum during decathlonpractice.

Her lips had just brushed his when they stumbled into eachother, faces glancing off one another’s. The first thought she had, bizarrely,was ‘earthquake.’ But no, it was just that the not-ketchup had worked its magicand their palms had come unattached all of a sudden. She hadn’t realized she’dbeen putting pressure on that connection, leaning into him, not just casuallytouching with accidental adhesion. Really holding him without chemical interference.

Slowly, Peter unwound his arm from around her; it didn’timmediately disappoint MJ that he hadn’t leapt back into the almost-kiss,because she was examining her own hand. The palm was nearly a stranger to her.No, she was being dramatic. Must be the influence of the nerd in front of herand she’d absorbed it by osmosis when their lips had touched.

She was sweeping the debris from her hand (like he’d said todo), watching the beige-ish rain fall onto the desk, when Peter yanked up hissleeve. The whatever-it-was that had released the incommodious web fluid wasfastened around his wrist, but with a grunt and a twist and rubbed-red skin, heremoved it. He flung the device across his bedroom, straight into his closet.It smacked the closet’s back wall and made the sound MJ now knew to associatewith web fluid being released. Pretty much instantaneously, the closet doorbanged closed on its own.

MJ turned to Peter.

“You probably just glued your closet shut.”

He laughed and nodded, looking like he was intentionallysetting that worry aside for the moment. Soon, she thought, he’d panic over thefate of his t-shirts.

With a subtle lick of his bottom lip that she―with her eyesfixed on his face―would’ve had to be blind not to see, Peter reached out andstroked the back of her hand gently with his fingertips.

“What are you doing?” she asked, already rotating her wristso that his fingers could skate across her palm.

“I thought we could do it on purpose,” Peter explained.

He aligned their fingers, then edged his over slightly toslip between hers. They folded their fingers in unison, locking their palmstogether. They were holding hands, the way people did it for real, not becausethey were involved in what was essentially an off-site lab accident, in whichtheir super-dork friend unintentionally coated their palm with an unfamiliarand extremely effective adhesive. It was nice.

MJ kissed him quickly, face darting into his personal spaceand out again, leaving Peter looking shell-shocked. He let go of her hand.

“Well, that’s―” she started to say, recognizing the novelchange of their palms not being stucktogether semi-permanently.

But then his hand landed on the side of her face and hekissed her much more insistently. That was what unbalanced MJ the most: Peter’sdetermination. Like he’d been thinking about doing that for more than the twoseconds since she’d kissed him. Then again, his pre-elevator boner was prettyhard evidence. No pun intended because what was she? One of his stupidt-shirts? Not that she could imagine Peter Parker ever owning a shirt thatalluded to dicks or arousal or―unlikeliest of all―legal proceedings. (The wholeSpider-Man gig was kinda a detour around the established justice system, wasn’tit? Not that she was complaining.)

MJ couldn’t imagine Peter backing her into his desk either,but that one he did do, mouth urgent on hers because she’d responded unrestrainedly.She took a second to push away from the desk though, not really wanting any ofthat crumbly stuff stuck to the seat of her jeans. If that ended up with herforcing Peter into the wall, who could blame her? His hand hadn’t so much creptas dove around the back of her neck, gripping her head through her hair, while the other hand continued to cup her face.

Some kind of irresistible pull, like a black hole maybe, wasdrawing her into him. It saved MJ from thinking about how she didn’t know whatshe was doing or wondering how she was supposed to handle Peter. Her handssqueezed his shoulders and her feet scooted closer to his and her mouth openeda tiny, terrifying bit, making her heart plummet, then float back up when shefelt the hint of Peter’s tongue touching her lips.

The movement of their lips softened as they tried this newthing, taking turns edging their tongues farther into each other’s mouths,allowing them to meet and retreat. But their hands held each other’s bodieswith greater resolve. MJ slid her palms from Peter’s shoulders around to rubacross his upper back. While she levered the top halves of their torsostogether, he went for the bottom halves, fingernails rasping over denim as he tookdesperate hold of her hips and pulled them closer.

There was no question now about what was happening in thefront of Peter’s jeans; he’d brought her as solidly into contact with hiserection as she’d done pushing his back against the bedroom wall. He pantedinto MJ’s mouth and she wrapped him tighter in her arms, dipping her fingersdown the neck of his shirt.

Peter shuddered, but she was the one who got goosebumps. Atingle raced up her spine and a heavy feeling settled lower; she was gettingwet. MJ’s newest urge was to open herself up to him somehow. Ok, not somehow―open her legs, specifically, soshe could feel the rigid length behind his zipper pressed somewhere other thanher abdomen. Somewhere she could press back and feel whatever Peter was feelingwhen she rocked gently against him and his breaths came harsh and short.

He kissed quickly over to her ear as his hands shoved thefabric of her long-sleeved shirt upwards, enough for his warm thumbs to land onMJ’s skin just above the waist of her jeans. Peter’s shirt buttoned and sheheard how he breathed differently when she unwound one arm from around him tolightly circle a button over his chest. Her heart swung metronomically as shestrove to stay still. As if this could scare the boy who scaledskyscrapers.

MJ began, slowly, to unbutton his shirt. Peter watched, headangled down, but still pressed to hers so that the shallow crater of his templefit to her cheek. She wanted to cup his face and hold it there to hers, onlyshe couldn’t spare the hand.

She was breathing fast through her nose as she neared thefinal button, working from the top down. Peter’s shirt hung open across hischest now and MJ looked. In another second, MJ touched, just the tips ofher index fingers, stroking an inch or two down his stomach. He pushed her shirthigher and when the look on his face told her he couldn’t stand it anymore, hestopped holding the shirt and held her bare waist instead.

Peter exhaled and MJ hadn’t realized how quiet it’d beenbefore that. She finished his buttons.

His mouth caught hers as she was reaching for his shoulders,so MJ had to push his shirt off blindly, eyes shut into the rushed intensity ofthe kiss. Peter rotated them, putting her back to the wall with a careful gripon her waist. It made her heart skip, even though they got their feet tangledin Peter’s shirt and almost tripped.

“I can…?” Peter mumbled, edging her shirt up even with thelower line of her bra.

MJ raised both arms and pressed them to his bedroom wall.She grinned when he met her eyes. He laughed excitedly and drew her shirt overher chest, then swiftly over her head. MJ shook her hair out of her face andwiggled her arms down to help Peter reach all the way to her hands as he slidher arms from the sleeves. He dropped her shirt and swallowed. Then, his gazefell.

She wanted to cross her arms or dig her fingers into anxiousfists at her sides, but MJ made herself reach out to Peter and ended upclutching his forearms while she eyed him the same way he was eyeing her.

With a longing sigh, his hands went again to her waist andhers stole up his arms (lingering on his biceps) to hold his shoulders,bracketing the breadth of them with choked-back awe. Their feet shuffled closeruntil neither of them was touching the wall.

They kissed and it was new all over again. All MJ couldthink about was closing the space between them; in execution, it wasn’timmediate. It was a little dance, both of them moving nearer with their eyesshut while they kissed. She, at least, was unable to judge the distance withoutsight. Peter was probably a bit better at that.

Her whole body tingled at the first touch of her torso tohis. Suddenly, it was easier and their hands gripped and ran over each otherlike water. Like water, finding every dip, smoothing over every plain. MJ waswrapped up in Peter not just because of his arms, but those helped, firm andstrong when they encircled her. Their mouths were hot and quick and Petergroaned when she slipped her tongue into his. She pushed her hips forward,chasing another sound like that, and he gave her one.

Flattened to MJ’s back, his hand nestled under the band ofher bra to keep her close. He could probably feel her nipples through the soft whitecups, right? If he couldn’t then, he definitely could when his other handcaressed up her stomach at a polite, deliberate pace―giving her lots of time tostop him―before running into her bra. Peter panted, a wet breath through his mouth, hovering his hand over her breast. MJ wanted him to hurry up and touchher so badly that she was in danger of chewing her top lip off.

His palm was warm as he shaped it to her and MJ pushed into it,shaking. After a minute of maintaining that position, Peter tucked his hand intothe cup. Just like slipping on a mitten. MJ made a noise she couldn’t help andtraced both hands down to his lower back, settling them there. She might’vefelt him throb against her abdomen, or it could’ve been her imagination.

Peter touched her with so much care, adding to the heatbetween her legs. She was less sure about removing her bra than she had beenabout her shirt, but he didn’t try to take it off and he didn’t need to, notfor this. Not to make her feel this way, with his clueless fingertips runningover her nipple while MJ narrowly kept her shit together.

She got the corner of his mouth before kissing him full-on.After their lips started moving together this time, MJ didn’t know how she wasgoing to go home. With Peter’s hands on her back and chest and this weirdsecret of the glued hands between them, she felt like she was already in aplace she never wanted to leave. MJ was really ok with being pressedskin to skin to Peter Parker.

Her phone went off in her backpack and it wasn’t so much atext that was inevitable as something that would’ve broken them apart sooner orlater.

“May’s probably gonna be home soon,” Peter admitted to herback when MJ reluctantly went to check her phone in case it was her mom.

“Right,” she said, feeling confused and elated and colderwithout him wrapped around her. “And you’ll need time to think of anexplanation for why you can’t open your closet.”

“Oh,” he remembered. “Oh… oh right. Shit.”

MJ snickered, then darted her eyes down at her shirt on thefloor. She was blushing pretty hard when Peter passed it to her, but so was he.

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

She yanked her shirt on to see Peter shrugging his over hisshoulders.

“Let me,” she insisted, fingers already grabbing the frontof his shirt.

MJ’s brain was freaking out over this sudden possessiveness,but her hands seemed strangely fine with dressing Peter. He watched her redoeach of his buttons, she knew he did. Seemed like they’d agreed not to verballyacknowledge the bulge in the front of his jeans. Not today, anyway.

“There,” she said, cocking her head a little spastically.Peter smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt and gave her a smile.

Her mouth opened to say something else, but there weren’tany words waiting on her tongue, so she hefted her backpack and Peter led herto the door of the apartment.

They kissed once, quickly, then again, unhurriedly.

“I can walk you?”

“I’m good,” she assured him. It was still afternoon andmaybe the sun and the air would help MJ transition into her normal self by thetime she got home. Maybe. She touched the neck of her shirt to make sure shehadn’t put it back on backwards or inside out.

Peter shrugged and smiled, holding the door open for her.

“Spider-Man might follow you anyway, to make sure you get homesafe.”

MJ put a hand on his shoulder and leaned in to kiss hischeek.

“I know, Peter.”

“Good.”

She stepped into the hallway.

“It was nice,” MJ offered, turning back for a second.“Holding your hand.”

He nodded, eyes full of brand-new intimacy.

“It wasn’t the worst.”

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grandtheftstarship · 5 years ago

Text

Not Yet (Leonard McCoy x Fem!Reader) [Request!]

Prompt 21 with Leonard McCoy! ��🏻💙 -Anon

Thank you for your request anon :) Sorry for making you wait! I’ve been really uninspired lately and when I write and I’m uninspired then my work doesn’t have my heart in it. I really want the stories you request to be the best they can be, so I tried to write when my writer’s block was absent there for a minute! I really hope you understand and enjoy!

also heartbreak but that doesn't matter

IMPORTANT!!!! I am going to be going on a quick hiatus to work on a larger fic on my AO3! It isn’t Star Trek, but let me know if you want to read it anyways. I will be finishing all current requests that I have. You can send in a request but just know that I won’t get to it very quickly!! Thank you!!

The next requests are: 1. Kirk 2.Spock

Prompts Chosen: 21. Just hold on… please

Word Count: 1645 Warnings: graphic descriptions of injury, swearing, A.N.G.S.T, sciencey stuff I made up, ending is a little rushed Posted: Tumblr, Wattpad

Leonard had warned you. He told you he had a bad feeling about the away mission. He told you it was a bad idea, but you went anyway and now you were paying the price.

You were the only one to survive the malfunction. You were the engineer, designated to keep the shuttle up and running while the science officers recorded their data, but an Ensign you didn’t know the name of had screwed with some wiring and everything was fried. Everything, including the Ensign, and every other officer aboard the vessel. The only reason you survived was because you were conveniently working in the back rubber-sealed room of the shuttle.

“[y/l/n] to Enterprise!” you shouted into the receiver, frantically trying to steer the shuttle as it plummeted through the atmosphere of Mantilles. “Goddamnit, pick up.”

“[y/n]? What’s wrong?” Jim’s voice came in static and you nearly collapsed in relief.

“Jim, something fried and killed the whole crew. Engines are gone. I’m going down- ugh!”

The shuttle lurched violently as you re-entered the atmosphere, feeling your ears pop and the cabin’s temperature start to rise. You waited until the hot brightness of the flames and the rushing in your ears died away before opening your eyes again.

The comm reconnected to the Enterprise and you could hear Leonard trying to reach you from the other side.

“[y/n]! [y/n], can you hear me?”

“Yes!” you called back, hands flying over the control panel as alarms started blaring. “Shit!”

“[y/n]-”

“Beam me out!” you shouted, panic rising in your chest. “Beam me out! 1,000 meters from the surface!”

Your breathing got faster as you tried in vain to do something, anything to stop the shuttle from falling so quickly.

“Jim, please!” you heard Leonard begging on the line. “Somebody, please do something!”

“500 meters!”

“I’m trying but there’s something wrong with the shuttle’s hull, I can’t get a lock on her!” you heard someone yell.

“200 meters,” adrenaline mixed with fear shook your hands violently as the control panel flashed red in warning, the trees getting closer and closer. Your movement stopped slowly as defeat settled into your bones. “Leonard-”

“Don’t you start,” Leonard choked and you could tell he was trying not to cry.

“100 meters,” you tried not to cry either, knowing all of the crew on the other end about to watch you die. You decided to go down honorably. “50 meters.”

“35. 20. 15.”

You could hear frantic yelling on the other end as the count dipped under 10 and the shuttle started hitting the trees. You quickly activated the safety belt, even though you knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“Leonard-!”

Your line went dead.

Leonard was frozen. He didn’t particularly know what he was supposed to do in this instance. He felt numb as he heard the static coming from your comm and the word TERMINATED taunting him from the screen displaying your zeroed-out vitals. A small part of him pointed out that the tech could be wrong and you weren’t dead but he pushed it away. He knew that it was over.

When he finally noticed how the bridge had fallen silent besides the klaxon sounding quietly in the background and the computer repeating ‘warning’ in a steady rhythm from his medical station, he tore his eyes from the screen and looked around. Uhura was crying, Jim looked like Captain Pike had died in front of him all over again, Spock was holding Uhura, turned away from the rest of the crew, Sulu’s face was paused in an expression of horror, Chekov’s head was in his hands, and everyone else didn’t seem to understand what had just happened.

Even though he was already standing, he made a show of pushing his chair away from behind him, the clash of metal on metal as the chair hit the floor slicing through the silence. Leonard’s sad eyes met Jim’s and suddenly he wasn’t sad anymore. Anger welled up inside him and he rushed off the bridge. He could’ve stopped this. Someone could’ve done something. His feet took him to his office and he stopped when he stood in his doorway. Both his eyes and his hands twitched with rage. The door shut behind him and Leonard snapped. He slammed his hands on his desk before moving his arm in one fluid motion and sent everything resting on it tumbling to the floor with a crash. He stared at the papers, padds, pens, pencils, and various other things littered all over the floor before the tears started welling in his eyes. He never thought he would be an angry cryer, but here he was. He collapsed into his desk chair, head down on the desk, and let it out.

You don’t know what woke you. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe the pain, but whatever it was it sent your eyes flying open. You gasped in agony, feeling the weight of whatever piece of the shuttle was crushing your right arm and legs. It was almost too much and you felt the darkness start rushing back into your vision but you blinked rapidly, pushing it away. You were smart enough to know that if you went under again, there was a good chance you would never come back up.

You tried to survey your surroundings though the pain you were feeling in a multitude of places made it a bit hard. It seemed to be late morning on the planet judging by the way the sun filtered low in the trees, making it a bit easier to see the wreckage of the shuttle around you. From what you could tell, you were under the main control panel and part of your seat. You could feel the belt ripping the skin around your abdomen, and the upper strap had definitely broken your collar bone. You looked around again, eyes settling on a communicator, unharmed and just below where you were stuck. Hope soared through your chest, but only until it suddenly dawned on you that with the destruction of the shuttle, everyone most-likely thought you were dead.

You decided to focus on trying to get yourself out from underneath the piece of shuttle without permanently losing your legs instead of dwelling on the fact that the people you cared about most had already left you behind.

You felt around with your free hand, not feeling any blood, so you figured it was internal bleeding. You were somewhat right.

You groaned as you started to lift the piece of metal off of your body, feeling the blood start to pool under your legs.

Shit.

You were able to heave the heavy steel up and off of you, wincing at the loud crash following as it made contact with the ground. You stayed in your position for a minute longer, allowing yourself to breathe before propping yourself up on your good elbow and nearly passed back out.

Your body was covered in your own blood, left leg bent painfully in an odd direction. When you sucked in a breath, pain seared through your shoulder and you looked down sharply. Yeah, your collar bone was definitely broken.

You refocused on the communicator. You had been wedged between two shuttle parts until you had freed yourself and now you were elevated several feet off the ground. You tried your best to keep yourself braced as you attempted to slide down the bent piece of metal, crying out in agony as your broken leg hit the reddish dirt. You clutched your knee, letting a few tears slip out from your puffy eyes. Something warm and wet started seeping through your ripped dress again, and you noticed that with the impact you had started bleeding from everywhere again. You glanced back up at the rusty-looking spot you were just laying in, cringing at the fresh red streaking through the white hull.

You limped for the communicator, ending up in a crawl, and hastily flipped it open.

“[y/l/n] to Enterprise,” your croaked out, clutching the communicator for dear life. “Please, please...Anyone..?”

__________________

You don’t know how long you lied there, waiting for someone to pick up. Your eyes were bloodshot, cheeks tear-stained, hope slowly dissolving; until your communicator picked up something.

“[y/n]?” came your static reply. You wanted to cry again you were so happy.

“Yes, yes it’s me!” you cried back, gasping in relief. “Leonard... is that you?”

“We’re coming to get you darlin’,” he said back. Your excitement started to wear off as you noticed the blood pooling around you.

“Uh, Leonard?” your heart started to race. You couldn’t die now, not when you had just found your family again.

“Yes, darlin’?”

“I’m losing lots of blood...” you trailed off as your eyes started to droop, fatigue settling in your bones.

“[y/n]! Listen to me, you have to stay awake okay?” Leonard spoke worriedly.

You fought it, you really did, but the darkness was just enough to force you to succumb. You lazily managed to press the tracking beacon on the communicator before going under, hearing Leonard pleading on the line.

“Just hold on...please.”

__________________

You were hazily pulled out of the empty sleep you were in, cracking your eyes against the harsh lights of what you assumed was the medbay. You stirred, hissing in pain when you moved.

“[y/n]!” Leonard said in surprise, dropping what he was doing and rushing to your side. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you smiled up at him, never happier to see his smiling face. “Still hurting a little.”

Leonard leaned in for a quick kiss, trying not to hurt you. “I’ll come to check on you in a bit, okay?”

You nodded, sending him a small smile.

“Also, never do that to me ever again.”

You nodded, smiling wider. “Don’t worry, I don’t particularly like being in shuttle crashes.”

He beamed. “Get some rest. I love you.”

“I will. Love you too.”

#star trek #star trek reader inserts #star trek x reader #star trek imagines #bones mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #bones mccoy x reader #bones mccoy imagine #bones mccoy reader inserts #leonard mccoy #leonard mccoy x read #leonard mccoy reader inserts #leonard mccoy x reader #leonard mccoy imagines

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atomicstardust · 6 years ago

Text

Behind The Trigger (Part 1)

Right, so this thing was supposed to be a short 500 word ficlet for @itsallavengers since they’re having a rough time. Then it kept going, I got near the end, and then finished up with that cliffhanger and a part two planned. I hope you like it! The first thing I saw from you was you spite-writing WinterIron against that one anon, and then I saw you liked the assumed death trope so....this came from that. <3 ~~~

Tony was the flashy target.

He was the one who spun through the air, who taunted the villains, who always got hit but got back up.

Bucky was his shadow.

The steady hand behind the scope, the one who made impossible shots, the one who was never seen.

When you thought target you thought Tony. No one could ever find Bucky, so he wasn’t a target.

Usually.

---

Tuesdays were cursed days.

True, his parents died on a Monday, but he’d been informed on Tuesday. He’d met Ty on a Tuesday, he’d found out about Sunset on Tuesday. He’d woken up in Afghanistan on Tuesday.

Tuesdays were cursed, and that was just the way the universe worked.

Bucky died on a Tuesday.

---

Tony wasn’t there, was on a business meeting in Beijing.

He should have been there.

“Sir,” JARVIS said through his phone, interrupting a meeting. JARVIS never interrupted something like this unless it was life or death. (Later, he’d think back on the irony of that thought.) “There has been an emergency.”

“Go,” Pepper said with a deep frown. “I’ll cover.”

“I would appreciate if you could come along Miss Potts.” JARVIS said cautiously and they both froze and looked at each other. Tony stood, apologizing to the group in Cantonese and explaining there was a personal emergency within the family. Thankfully, they seemed to pick up on the grave tones and agreed.

JARVIS only directed them to the plane, where the crew was speeding to get it ready before schedule. The door sealed shut, ensuring that no one could listen in.

“Spill.” Tony demanded, sitting down with Pepper beside him.

“It’s Master Barnes,” JARVIS said quietly. Sympathetically. “He is…” A pause. JARVIS never paused. “Dead.”

He could barely feel Peppers fingers winding through his, squeezing tightly. Her voice was strangely muffled, even when she was sitting right beside him. The suit was there, folded awkwardly in front of him, controlled by JARVIS.

“Sir, can you tell me what 76 times 8263 is?” JARVIS said, his voice steady.

“627,988.” Tony said, stuttering over the numbers.

“That number divided by 8?” JARVIS continued.

What was the number again?

“627, 988 divided by 8.” JARVIS prompted.

“78498 point 5.” Tony said, feeling the numbers slot into place. Numbers were good, the numbers never lied. He blinked and looked up.

He didn’t bother with denial. JARVIS never lied either.

“Who?” Tony said.

“They’re all dead.” JARVIS said first.

Not good enough.

~~~

“Tones,” Rhodey said. He was waiting, of course he was. He didn’t look at him with pity, like he was afraid Tony would shatter.

Or snap.

He just reached out, JARVIS already pulling the armour off him without a command and Tony would scold him, but Rhodey was there, dragging him into a hug. Every time, he’s fourteen again, Rhodey’s arms always solid and unshaking as he hugs. Tony reached up, tangled his fingers in Rhodey’s polo shirt, because Rhodey’s fashion sense was Like That.

“What happened.” A demand, not a request.

“We don’t know.” Rhodey said, and Tony would draw back but Rhodey wouldn’t let him go. “But they knew he was coming. The entire base was a trap.” A pause. “He’s not coming back.”

~~~

He stared down at the whiskey, swirling it around in the glass.

“You’re not here to stop me.” Tony said, watching the condensation. He stared at it until his eyes blurred and he fell asleep out of sheer tiredness.

It was a sick type of routine, pouring out a glass, but unable to take it, unable to forget because even if he was dead Bucky’s memory didn’t deserve this.

The bots were the only ones allowed in the workshop at first. DUM-E took away the glass every time, and U followed him with the broom for when he inevitably smashed it. Butterfingers tried to clumsily draw a card to cheer him up, and JARVIS always kept piano music playing in the background.

~~~

Rhodey showed up with shitty sci-fi movies, Happy brought apple juice and shot glasses, and Pepper gave everyone her ridiculously amazing hand massages.

~~~

Tony kept working, and didn’t talk as much.

He wore sunglasses everywhere.

~~~

Tuesday was also the day he learned Bucky wasn’t dead after all.

~~~

He was staring at another glass of whiskey. He was not drunk, but he wasn’t working and his mind was loud.

“Sir,” JARVIS said, interrupting him, “Master Barnes is not dead.”

A beat of silence, a rush of hope that Tony ruthlessly quashed.

“Suit.” he rasped. JARVIS would never lie to him, so Tony skipped past denial straight into relief. “Get me Mark 40. How? I thought they were all dead.”

“There was a tunnel, built into an old sewer system. They blew that up too when they fled, so even when we excavated the whole place, it looked like more rubble.” JARVIS said, wrapping the Mark 40 around him. It wasn’t his most powerful armour, but he could move fast. And hit hard. If he thought about it too hard, Iron Man just helped Tony take the power of something like the Jericho Missile, and compact it into something shorter than his forearm.

“The people involved?” Tony said, performing a quick check of the weapons. He wasn’t as loaded as War Machine, but what he did have...hurt.

And hurt them he would.

By the time he’d finished suiting up, his relief had turned into anger.

“I have a location,” JARVIS said, “Colonel Rhodes is calling, shall I con-”

“Block.” Tony ordered. He couldn’t talk to Rhodey. Rhodey would make him wait, to delay him until Rhodey caught up. “Time to test out the new feature.”

The Shotgun armour was built to go up to speeds of Mach 5, but he hadn’t fully tested it yet. JARVIS’ pointed silence was horribly judgmental, but Tony stared at the little red dot on the map in the corner and said nothing.

He was going to get his boyfriend back, and blow everyone there into smithereens. No tunnel was going to save them from that.

JARVIS’ disapproving silence grew as he blocked all the calls and messages, the world hurtling past at 1700m/s. The base came into view, sitting in the middle of Siberia. Considering JARVIS didn’t have an inkling of its existence until however he’d gotten coordinates 20 minutes ago, they wanted to keep Bucky hidden.

They would burn for that.

“Engage retroreflectors.” he murmured. The armours surface shimmered and then the armour vanished from sight. Harley’s suggestion for a ‘stealth suit’ was the only way he’d get into that facility without being found out and he was never so thankful for that.

“Sir, Colonel Rhodes is asking for you to wait.” JARVIS said neutrally.

“I can’t.” Tony said, letting himself freefall into a steep dive. “They could be doing anything to him.”

“Sergeant Barnes would want you to be safe.” JARVIS said. “If you get injured trying to get to him, it would hurt him.”

“Where’s the faith J,” Tony said, blinking away tears. He was so close. “I’m not going to get hurt, you’ve got my back.”

“As always.” JARVIS said, part statement, part promise. He brought up the scans for Tony without further comment, highlighting the best route inside.

JARVIS was the best.

Tony inched in through a propped open door, the only sound the faint whirring from the machinery.

There was no one in the hallway, the base was practically ancient since there was no technology he could hack. His unease grew as he kept going through the back of the base. They were all gathered nearer to the front, facing the only spot the Quinjet could land, but there had to be someone right?

“One heat signature found.” JARVIS said quietly, placing it on the map. “The rooms beyond are lined, I cannot figure out if there is anyone inside. The imaging around shows that they are cooler than most, however.”

“Cold enough to house a cyrotube?” Tony asked rhetorically. He flew down the hallway the other side, just in case of a trap, but there was no one there. He flicked off the retroreflectors, and then kicked the door in full force.

There was a man standing there, holding a bloody scalpel like he was auditioning for a horror movie. Tony didn’t give him a chance to speak, flying straight into him and wrapping the metal fingers of the armour around his throat.

“Tell me where he is.” Tony said. He didn’t ask, he demanded. “Now.”

“You could do whatever you want.” he gasped, scrabbling at the arms of the armour. “I’m never going to tell you.”

Truth. There was nothing but triumph and confidence in his gaze. He could give him to Natasha, she’d eventually get it out of him, she always did.

But he didn’t have time.

Soon enough someone would see the broken door, and since this level was deeper, he’d have to fight his way through all of them solo to get Bucky out.

Tony twisted his head, breaking the spine with brute force and letting the body drop to the floor.

“JARVIS, remaining rooms.” he ordered, spinning and heading for the first one. The lock melted open but there was simply a room with medical equipment.

Some of the blood was fresh.

JARVIS kept scanning, pulling up all the readings as Tony started systematically clearing the other rooms.

The last one, with a red marking on it, revealed Bucky lying strapped to some sort of table.

His breath caught, knees nearly buckling in relief.

He hadn’t let himself hope until now, hadn’t dared to believe.

“Come on sweet cheeks, let me see those pretty blue eyes.” Tony said shooting forward and ripping him free of the straps.

“Sergeant. 32557…” Bucky’s eyes cracked open slightly, staring at Tony blearily. “Tony?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s me.” Tony said, swallowing hard at the lump in his throat. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“You’re not real.” Bucky said, eyes sliding closed again and making no move to get up. “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’renotreal.”

“I’m real,” Tony said, glancing quickly at the scans. No one around, and the others had arrived and were engaging with the other hostiles. He pulled the armour away, grasping Bucky’s hands, metal and flesh. He pressed Bucky’s metal fingers onto the reactor. “Feel the vibrations? It’s me.”

“I know.” Bucky said, letting Tony press his fingers to the reactor as Tony breathed a sigh of relief.

Then his fingers abruptly tightened on the reactor, gripping the casing tightly.

Tony lurched away in panic, the armour starting to close around him, but Bucky’s fingers around his upper arm didn’t let him go far.

With a light click the reactor separated from his chest.

Tony collapsed.

This suit still ran on his arc reactor energy, not its own.

And now it had nothing.

The reactor dangled from Bucky’s fingers. He leaned down, and Tony saw the real reason he hadn’t opened his eyes the entire time.

There was nothing left of his boyfriend in those eyes.

“Hail HYDRA.”

~~~

Tuesday was the day he wished Bucky was dead.

#winteriron #tony stark #bucky barnes #tw:assumed character death #gee #stars writes #gift fics

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dyaz-stories · 6 years ago

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What was the point of kikyo breaking the seal of the kodoku to give naraku a new body?

This is a great question, anon. One I ask myself a lot (along with “Did she really do that, and if so, why do people not care more about that?”). Thank you for asking it! Going to do my best to explain my point of view on it.

My answer is basically “there was no point”, but I do think it’s a bit more complicated than that.

I tried to make it not anti-Kikyo but it is anyway (and probably more than usual), so putting it under the cut. Also, this answer is long.

I mentioned before that I feel there was a huge shift in direction in the story at some point, and that it mostly, if not entirely, revolved around Kikyo. While I know some other people in the fandom feel Rumiko Takahashi just didn’t know where she was going with that character, I personally was under the impression that we really were going somewhere with her until basically this arc (possibly a few chapters further).

Let’s see what Kikyo’s reasoning is, and how the scene is handled first. Kikyo’s reasoning couldn’t be clearer. Sure, she’s telling it to Naraku, so we could think that she’s lying, but this is it:

Basically, Kikyo wanted to see if there was something going on out there. As you do, when there is a dangerous fucking seal that’s going to give a new body to something that’s probably even more dangerous.

This is extremely telling of where Kikyo is, in terms of her evolution and how she feels about both herself and other people. She does not give a shit about other people’s lives. This is a huge deal for her character. It doesn’t make her a bad character just yet, though it does make her a bad person in my book, but it needs to be taken into account for future writing.

(If she’s lying, considering what she’s telling him, she knew it was him, which, not good either, or she did do it without thinking about it to save Inuyasha and now she’s going along with it so she won’t look stupid, which would be funny, but I’m just going to assume she’s not lying.)

I’ve read the “Kikyo had to care so much for others when she was alive that she’s doing to the opposite now” argument, and, you know, maybe. Doesn’t make me feel any better about her, but I know not everyone feels the same way about that stuff as I do, and it’s perfectly fine.

Naraku’s thought about this is pretty much spot on. The only thing is that Kikyo didn’t know what was behind it (-ish, since apparently she’s not exactly surprised it was Onigumo either). But other than that, giving a powerful body to some creature or at the very least releasing this new demon into the wild? Pff. Why should she care.

But, you know, while I think this is horrible, I could actually be into crazy-murderer-Kikyo. I do think she should have become the villain of the story after all.

So, this was “what was the point” on Kikyo’s side. This is why she did it — ‘cause she just doesn’t care.

Storywise? That’s when it gets bad. Like, baaaaad.

The thing is, Kikyo giving a new body to Naraku / letting Naraku obtain a new body has dreadful consequences for everyone in the story. I’m not even talking about giving him the Jewel, or about when she visits him and she has the possibility to kill him but she doesn’t.

Kikyo giving a new body to Naraku means that, well, he stays alive. It means that Kohaku isn’t free. It means that Miroku is still dying. It means that everyone’s lives, but particularly Inuyasha and Kagome’s, are in danger — like looking for the Jewel isn’t dangerous enough on its own. It also stops Inuyasha from getting closure at least on this front.

And no one ever finds out about it. Naraku doesn’t even use it against them again. He does use the fact that she gave him the Jewel though.

He even says he doesn’t know what she’s thinking about, so clearly it doesn’t bother him to use something that she’s done for a reason he doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t bring up again her giving him a body after Kagome contradicted him three seconds despite knowing he was right because she literally confirms it to him.

Why? Why Rumiko? What was the point? I’m so confused.

(Or maybe I’m wrong and when he says that Kikyo’s actually thinking “oh shit yeah he’s right well going with the flow so no one realizes I fucked up at this point” and then that’s her mindset for the rest of the entire manga)

And like okay, she didn’t really know she was giving him a body, but it’s close enough from the truth for Naraku, of all people, to use it against them, right?

Kikyo doing this, and then trying to murder Kagome was the result of an escalation up until this point. She was consumed by anger and had tried to kill Inuyasha with no regards for who was in her path (meaning she had no problems hurting Kagome to do it), then she gives Naraku a body, and finally, she tries to kill someone who’s completely innocent. She had fallen. That was the point.

I mean — I can’t be sure of course, but that’s really how I interpreted it.

And then nothing.

We’re not going to talk about it ever again, just like we’re not going to talk about the attempted murder, just like Miroku or Sango aren’t going to talk about how Naraku will be even harder to defeat now which sucks for both of them, just like we won’t talk about Kikyo’s part of responsibility in all the later deaths, just like we won’t talk about how her plan wouldn’t even have worked.

So, my final answer is “there was no point”. There may have been a point when this part of the story was originally written, but the total lack of consequences for Kikyo made it mostly useless. I mean it did bring Naraku back, but that’s it — and that also makes Naraku’s comeback feel cheap, like the author just didn’t want the villain gone just yet. Even if other people have a better interpretation (which is possible, I haven’t read much about this) the complete lack of resolution at least means it loses much of its purpose.

Honestly, with the insistance of Kagome saying Kikyo did this to save Inuyasha

and the shit Kikyo does in the next arc (trying to murder Kagome, being willing to let everyone die) I can only assume that this was a set-up for betrayal and people opening their eyes on who/what Kikyo is now. (I dislike pre-death Kikyo but it’s a consensus in the fandom that she’s better and I think the author intended for us to feel like this as well)

I also think it’s the reason why RT doesn’t bother going the “redemption arc“ way afterwards. Because if she did, she’d have to go back on that shit… And it’s hard, if not impossible, to forgive. (…okay that’s because I hate redemption arcs and I probably wouldn’t forgive it anyway)

This arc is in my opinion the one arc that shouldn’t have been written, the arc that makes the least sense in the entire manga. It’s not even a bad arc, I would say it’s quite a good one: it sets up an interesting Kikyo and interesting possible consequences and growth for several characters. But it doesn’t fit with what happens later.

So, erm, yeah. Sorry if this was all over the place, I’m confused by this too ^^ Hope this helps or at least that this was an interesting read / helped you forge yourself a different opinion.

#inuyasha #inuyasha analysis #anti kikyo #anti kikyou #inuyasha meta #my analysis

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drferox · 7 years ago

Text

20 Questions with Dr Ferox #19

Hi vetlings! I must apologize for my reduced activity and inconsistent schedule, I feel terrible about it and I am working on getting back on track. But for now, here are 20 questions that have been sitting in my inbox for too long. If you asked on Anon you’ll have to see if your question is here manually, but I have tried to tag those that were brave enough to use their name.

Anonymous asked:just curious -- do vets have any confidentiality requirements like people doctors do WRT their patients/their patients' conditions?

More or less, yes. It's more client-confidentiality than patient-confidentiality because it's the human's privacy that matters, not the animal. That's why when I tell stories from work I don't include photos of the patient, even though I know you really want me to, and I often obscure non-critical details like sex, age, name, breed or time. This way I can talk about a case or a situation without talking about a specific, identifiable person.

Anonymous asked: Hi! I've been reading through your blog, and it's really cool. Do you work with exotic pets as well, such as reptiles or birds? If you do, what was your best experience? Have a wonderful day!

Not very much, and most of the birds and reptiles I see these days are wildlife. We're not very well set up for exotics, we don't even have a heat lamp in the building, and we tell people this when they call for an appointment. The best experience was probably treating a blue and gold macaw for egg binding. The bird was part of a breeding pair and supposed to be worth $30,000, and I treated it successfully.

@theroyalfrogman said: Have you ever worked with aquatic animals, such as fish, salamanders, frogs, etc.? If so, did you enjoy it? (Sorry if this was already answered in the faq, I'm on mobile and the app won't let me see it)

We don't have salamanders down here, and I haven't worked with frogs since I was a vet student. I do keep my own fish, nothing super fancy at the moment, and I desperately wanted to get more into aquarium medicine when I first graduated, but Tasmania is very strict about importing fish so there wasn't much I could do, and I found most of the local pet store owners unusually hostile, so I did not get into it as much as I wanted to. I did spend some of by vet school time at the Melbourne Aquarium, and on placement with their vet Dr Robert Jones.

Anonymous said: I have a question- a lot of people I know that interact with a lot of animals seem like they've noticed that certain cat coat colors have traits that they tend to have- ginger cats are nice, tortiseshells tend to be tiny, etc, etc. Have you noticed anything like this? Thank you!

I have noticed that 'boring' colour cats tend to have nicer personalities, probably because they have nothing else to make themselves stand out for adoption. Most of the time I associate personalities with breed, though tortoiseshell cats having attitude definitely seems to be a real phenomenon.

Chestnut mares also have a reputation for being difficult to handle and 'spicy'. I don't know about riding them, but they do have an increased risk of anaesthetic complications in recovery which is statistically significant and they are notably more likely to injure themselves while waking up.

@mewwile said: what's your favorite coat/fur pattern? it can be any animal, cats or bunnies or dogs or multiple patterns you like!

I'm pretty fond of anything 'wild-type' or wolfy in dogs. I will always have a fondness for the humble tabby cat. I horses I can't help myself, I just love the look of buckskins. I know it's not fur, but I also always wanted to keep a blue marble crowntail betta, but life hasn't gotten me that far yet.

Anonymous said: i recently, literally only a few weeks ago, got my female cat fixed and shes been puttin weight, is the normal and like is there anythin i should be doin about it?

Yes, feed her less. If she's gaining weight then she's consuming more calories than she's expending. Removing the reproductive tract can reduce a cat's energy requirements by up to 10%, so you may need to account for this.

Anonymous said: So, I got a dog about a year ago, and she unfortunately contracted Parvo. She's fine now, but I have sort of two questions. One, what are the long term, if any, affects on a dogs growth because of Parvo? She's significantly smaller than her siblings. Two, is it possible she contracted Parvo from the vaccine? She didn't go anywhere in the weeks leading up to her vaccination except for the vets, and they said it could be a number of things. Thank you for your time, I very much enjoy your blog!

She did not contract parvovirus from the vaccine. Parvo is an extremely resilient virus and it can survive in soil for at least 20 years, and it's also spread by foxes. It may also be spread by cats (I'm pretty sure it is, but the jury's still out on that one). In high parvo areas we often don't figure out how the transmission has occurred, because people could bring it into the house on their clothing, cats could bring it into the yard, or there might have been a previous case at that property years ago. I've written about parvovirus before, but in terms of long term effects pups that were very young when they contracted the infection may have some heart muscle damage, some dogs end up with some intestinal scaring, but most dogs do pretty well if they get over the initial infection.

@friskerart said: Hello :D So straight away I will say this is NOT a request for advice, I have a lovely vet who goes above and beyond to help our senior cat. Eve is at least 18 now and in the last year she started having both seizures and syncope. With the help of anti seizure medication and funnily enough hyperthyroid cream she's gone from near constant fits and fainting to one a week :D Is this something you've ever dealt with before?

Syncope is fairly common with hyperthyroidism secondary to cardiac changes and high blood pressure. The seizures responding to the medication makes me wonder if they were related to high blood pressure also, but I'm no medicine specialist so don't take my word as gospel.

Anonymous said: Hi Dr. Ferox. I was wondering how necessary you think dental cleanings for cats are? I've had some vets say that it's absolutely necessary every year and some others say that it isn't. I know that some cats are more prone to periodontal disease also so I would assume it depends on the cat?

You certainly should have a dental check at least every year, but whether a cleaning under anaesthetic is required or not will depend on the cat. Some cats should be checked every 6 months, which is why many clinics offer free dental checks during their dental month promotions.

Anonymous asked: I've read on cat forums that cats vaccinated for FIV (or maybe it was FeLV?) can test positive for it later. Do you know if there's any truth to that? There was a bit of a fear mongering vibe, recommending against that vaccine, so that if something ever happened the cat wouldn't be in a worse situation for testing positive for a disease with a stigma. (It was awhile ago, might have been in the context of managed feral cat colonies?)

That's an excellent question. It used to be true that cats vaccinated for FIV would test positive on all tests, so it was only recommended for microchipped cats. However in the last few years at least two tests on the market have proved that they only detect infected cats, not vaccinated cats, so this is now much less of an issue. There was always a lab test that could be done to differentiate between vaccinated and infected cats, but it was expensive so never popular.

Anonymous said: Is panting ever good for a cat, or always a sign of distress of some kind?

It's always a sign of distress of some kind. It mighe be just heat or fear, in which case the cat should calm down and stop panting after a minute or two of being allowed to do so, but more than that and I get very worried.

Anonymous said: Hiya, I can't find a current question tax? So have a compliment tax: you are amazing and lovely and have the best blog <3 and anyway I was talking to a friend who is working with dogs and he was advocating for it being a good thing to not feed your dog for a day every now and then? it sounds utterly stupid on the surface (especially as someone recovering from EDs...) and google is giving me nothing but controversy and I just wanted an opinion from someone I respect and trust. :)

Yeah, I'm not a fan of fasting your dog unless it has a GI disturbance from eating something stupid (eg garbage) or prior to surgery, and even then try not to do it for more than 12 hours. Those enterocytes need food in the gut for nutrition, you don't have to fast a dog to keep it healthy, and it's probably super confusing for the dog too. A dog is not a wolf.

Anonymous said: Hello! I hope you've been having a good day! I was wondering your thoughts about the dental treats they make for dogs. I've been giving my 9 year old milk bone brushing chews lately but I was wondering if they really help or if I should do something else to care for her teeth Thanks for taking the time to help me.

If they have a VOHC certification (Veterinary Oral Health Council) then they are probably some use in promoting good dental health, but if they don't then there's no way to prove that they do. Anybody can make something they claim is good for your dog's teeth, but only products with the VOHC seal have proven it.

Anonymous said: Not a pleasant question, but: if a heavily pregnant animal is speyed, is there usually an attempt made to euthanize the fetuses in case they're capable of feeling pain at that stage? If so, how is that done?

Once the uterus and its contents are removed from the animal, the foetuses are generally injected with euthanasia solution one by one. They're usually not removed from the uterus to do this, sometimes you can feel the heartbeat enough to aim. They're often partially anaesthetised when removed anyway, since the medication affecting the mother will affect the fetuses, so they are already slowed down and I would expect them to feel less than they normally would, the injection just makes sure.

@politically-elected-king-of-hell said: Hey Dr! I have seen on the internet that sometimes vets will pack wounds with sugar. Why is this, and what would make you want to pack sugar versus not packing sugar?

I would really only use sugar for something oedematous and prolapsed, eg a rectum or penis which has popped out and swollen up so much I can't get it back in to where it's supposed to be. Sugar is extremely hypertonic, it draws moisture into itself, thereby reducing swelling. Then if I happen to get some stuck on that organ when it's replaced, it wont do much harm, the body is well adapted to absorbing that sugar. That's really the only scenario I would use it. Sometimes I will use honey on grossly contaminated external wounds for a similar reason, but also because honey will stick to the dirt and necrotic tissue, helping me debride it at a bandage change and is so hypertonic bacteria struggle to grow in it.

Anonymous said: Can the flu be spread from humans to cats and dogs?

It's generally not spread to dogs and cats but can be spread to ferrets.

@ladyofthemountains said: Is there a age restriction for catnip? Like should a kitten not play with toys that have it till a certain age?

No, but it shouldn't play with it if it's going to be driving home later.

@gravity-gravy said: You know I've always wondered why the traits that greyhounds have were breed into them, like the dolichocephalic faces and the general body shape that they have. Do these traits help them at all with perform with racing or where they breed into them because of aesthetic? And do we know when these traits first appeared in the breed?

They were bred for function, their appearance certainly assists them in running fast and winning races. The origin of the breed is somewhat obscured, but there are greyhound-like dogs in Ancient Egyptian art, so that's a good start. Dogs that win more races these days are bred more, so there is a slight selective pressure for the longer face too in dogs which win their races 'by a nose'.

@themagickey13 said: I have a habit of trying to get injured wild animals to wildlife facilities. People keep telling me I am not really helping at all because they are just going to put the animal down rather than try to save them. I am a realistic person so I know most of those animals have to be euthanized, but I always say to these people that I would rather be put to sleep peacefully than be left dying on a highway in agony, and I don't own a gun. Am I right to do this or should I let nature take it's course?

If it's a species with a high conservation value (eg something endangered) then it might not be put to sleep, you never know. Your actions might not make much difference to the whole ecosystem, but I don't think that's why you're doing it. You do make a difference to that individual animal, and need to decide for yourself whether you think that's worth it.

Anonymous said: I usually do sanitary/booty trims but I have heard people having their cats get lion cuts instead. I was hoping you could shed some light on what animals can be fully shaved and why. For the QT: if it's still the headcanon thing, then I always thought you must have dark hair. I'm honestly not sure why.

There's nothing super special about doing a lion cut for a cat. We often do it for cats that have trouble grooming themselves, or that have major hairball problems. Some cats can be done conscious, but a lot need to be sedated for this groom.

#20 questions

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stitchcasual · 7 years ago

Note

Empty kiss for Fenhawke?

My dear anon... I love you. This was...a joy to think about and write. Also a challenge, which I loved, so what I’m trying to say is thank you for sending this. I hope you get to see it.

This can function as a sequel to this, this, and this but is just fine on its own, too.

In the end, the Wardens let him stay. Not out of any real sense of hospitality or gratitude, he can tell, but more because he’s claimed a corner of their training yard as his own and none of the Wardens feel like challenging him on it to make him leave. That and their Warden-Commander hasn’t issued any decrees specific to Hawke’s welcome, or to anything really, so the Wardens are in a sort of holding pattern, trying to avoid milling restlessly in front of the stranger. But Hawke doesn’t care about the weaknesses he can trace like fault lines through their command structure: the Wardens mean nothing to him. Or, he’d rather they meant nothing. He can’t fully separate these Wardens from the ones in the Free Marches who coerced his father into using blood magic, magic that Malcolm would then apply to his own son in hopes of gaining a stronger protector for the family, magic that would ultimately bring Hawke to the Vimmarks years later to kill Corypheus, the monster his father helped seal before Hawke was born, so Hawke could be born.

And yet Corypheus is not dead and these Wardens, unmoved by Hawke’s account of what happened at Adamant Fortress and in the Fade, the loss of one of their own, do not stir themselves to the aid of their brothers to the south. Hawke, his message delivery job done as a final, personal favor to Stroud’s memory, itches to leave yet he does not. Instead he pitches his tent in his corner of the training yard, half under the eaves of the battlements, and waits. He hunts his own game and slowly portions out the last of the provisions he brought when he left Adamant, and for that he can tell the Wardens are relieved. Their cook had sized him up his first night at Weisshaupt, the only time he let them feed him, and blanched: Hawke has nearly a full head and twenty-five pounds on their largest man.

“Try to make friends, Killer,” Varric had told him as they stood outside the ruined husk of Adamant after it all. The dwarf clapped him on the forearm and attempted a carefree grin. But even Varric was having trouble with those these days.

Hawke snorted. “All of my friends have led me into violent confrontations I’ve barely escaped from. I don’t need more friends. Just...tell Fenris where I’ve gone.”

And so Hawke waits, unsure if Fenris will deign to show after all that Hawke had done to keep him from following. He has to give it a few months before he knows for sure. Hawke had plotted out the route Fenris was most likely to take from where they’d parted ways, factored in some time for incidents along the road, and then added in another week or two of time that Fenris may take just to make Hawke sweat. He knows about when Fenris should show up if he’s going to.

In the end, Fenris takes another week to show. Instead of allowing Hawke to destroy parts of Weisshaupt with his pacing and frustration, the second-in-command to the Warden-Commander took Hawke’s nervous energy and directed it toward honing his charges. When he’s not out hunting, Hawke faces off against the Wardens, his greatsword flashing in the sun, sending everything he possibly can against these soldiers. Lieutenant Renton gave his blessing for Hawke to hold nothing back, so he unleashes Smites, staggering his opponents back to press his advantage, Devours the life essence of the truly foolish when they slip up, though never enough to kill them, and Sacrifices his own health in order to truly test their limits against his frenzy.

He’d been given a wide berth since he first came to Weisshaupt, but that had been more wariness of strangers. The distance he’s given now is tempered with respect and more than a little fear. They know what he’s capable of, know it takes a hell of a lot to put this Reaver-Templar on his ass...because it’s never happened in all the time they’ve tried.

He hears rather than see Fenris when he arrives, that low, gravelly voice resonating in his bones as he parries a particularly lucky strike from one of the Wardens. The exact words being exchanged are lost, scattered amid the clattering of steel on steel, the grunts of exertion, but Hawke can feel them singing through his body. He nearly misses the blow from another Warden and has to back up, losing ground in order to regain his footing. That move puts a gleam in the Wardens’ eyes, overconfidence in their steps, as they advance on him. He plays along, stalling for time as the thrum of Fenris fades from his muscles so he can concentrate again, and drops one hand from the hilt of his sword to really sell the bit. The Wardens exchange a look, press their advantage...and lose the fight.

One swings high while the other swings low, intending to force him further off balance, to have to choose which strike to block and which to let hit. It's a strategy that would have worked had the upper hand actually belonged to the Wardens as they assumed. Instead it puts them directly where Hawke wants them. He stabs his blade into the ground in front of him, blocking the low strike, and steps forward with one foot, grounding himself as he lashes out with a plated boot, catching the other Warden in the chest before he can bring his strike low enough. The Warden stumbles back and Hawke pulls his sword from the dirt and slashes at the other as she prepares to swing again, catching the nearly useless training armor she wears and cutting a line across it. She stares down at it, gaping, and Hawke shoulders her to the ground, resting the tip of his greatsword in the hollow of her throat. Her hand releases her sword in concession, and Hawke turns, focusing the power of a Smite in a small cone in front of him to halt the remaining Warden’s forward momentum before he gets too close. Hawke charges and presses the length of his blade into the man's throat. He grins, half a snarl, when he hears the man’s sword clatter to the ground.

“Your footwork is sloppy, Aimen,” he says, lowering his blade and extending a hand to help the downed Warden to her feet. “And you,” he levels a finger at the other, “never assume you’ve won until your enemy is dead. Overconfidence will kill you faster than steel.” He doesn't wait for a response from either of them, just shoulders his sword and heads back to his tent to care for his weapon.

The sight of Fenris sitting on the stool Hawke had appropriated from a supply cache stutters his stride. He'd heard Fenris, yes, but that still hadn't fully translated into understanding that he would see him, much less see him in a graceful sprawl atop the stool amid Hawke’s things as though it had always belonged to him and Hawke and the Wardens had simply been borrowing it. Fenris looks up from sharpening his Blade of Mercy, the whetstone's progress down the edge not slowing one jot. His green eyes blink once, slowly, as if acknowledging Hawke’s presence, and then he turns his attention back to his sword. Hawke remains where he is for another few minutes, frozen watching Fenris, before he carefully picks his way around the elf on the stool to grab his oiling cloth from the line and his whetstone and oil from his pack at the back of the tent.

Normally he’d sit on the stool, stretch one leg out, and use it as a support for sharpening. But with Fenris occupying that space, he’s at somewhat of a loss for where to go. He stands behind Fenris for another minute, tools clutched in his hands, before he huffs out a breath, takes a few steps forward, and drops to the ground. The space between them is not vast, but it is large enough to allow a fully armored soldier through. Hawke wiggles a little, folding one leg and extending the other, attempting a parody of his usual set up. He manages something close enough eventually, and he and Fenris sit side by side but on unequal ground as they separately clean, sharpen, and oil their blades.

It’s a comfortable enough routine, something they’ve done together countless times before, only now it drags on Hawke. He can feel the weight of the months he’s spent away from Fenris’s side, the enormity of what he did in order to leave settling over his shoulders and filling the air between them. His hands are sure as he cleans the blade, rubs the nicks out, and files the edges back to his desired sharpness, but his breaths catch in his throat sometimes and his eyes keep trying to look up at Fenris.

Fenris says nothing so Hawke says nothing, and when he's done with his sword, he sets to work on the assortment of daggers he keeps on and around his person. One blade is never enough. Even the greatest warriors can be disarmed. And anyway, what good is a greatsword in skinning game? When he’s finished with those few weapons, he re-homes them, one at his belt, one in his boot, and two in his gear. Fenris carefully sets the Blade of Mercy on the ground and begins to sharpen his own belt knife, still not speaking or looking at Hawke.

It’s becoming increasingly unclear to Hawke what the protocol on this reunion is. All he knows is that Fenris is here, which in itself means a lot. It means perhaps he can be forgiven, in time. It means all is not lost, though it may appear to be. What else it means, he doesn’t know. If Fenris won’t talk to him, won’t give him any indication of his feelings or intentions, all Hawke can do is operate in the dark. He hates the dark.

So he makes an effort to throw himself back into the routine he had fallen into before Fenris’s arrival, sheathing his greatsword and hanging it on a line within easy reach from most anywhere he could go in the little space that belongs to him in this corner. Then he sets to preparing dinner, enough for two, tossing chunks of yesterday’s roast hen in a pot with some water and savory herbs he’d found in the wild lands around Weisshaupt on his last expedition outside of the walls. The pot goes on a flat rock beside the fire he stokes, and he watches it for a short while, making sure the broth starts to bubble satisfactorily and stirring it.

Finally Fenris puts his knife and whetstone away and sits silently, hands clasped between his knees, staring out at the Wardens’ training ground. The firelight dances off his profile in the slowly gathering darkness, the sun just beginning to make its way below the horizon, and Hawke can’t help but stare at the eery flickers of fire against Fenris’s lyrium, ethereal, dangerous, and beautiful. It is a sight he has seen before, yet each time it takes his breath away. His heart longs to cross the space between them and take Fenris’s hands, to sit pressed up against his body as the night comes and watch the stars appear. His head knows that's a fantasy that cannot happen and turns his eyes back to the pot of food on the ground.

When the soup has boiled enough to blend the flavors from the herbs and chicken, he pours half out into his traveling bowl, grabs a spoon from his gear, and steps closer to offer it to Fenris. Fenris’s green eyes widen first in surprise, then narrow in suspicion, and finally settle back into a neutral gaze as he accepts the bowl with a nod of thanks. He slowly scrapes the spoon through the soup, watching the tiny ripples that form and spread, and Hawke goes back to the pot, settling down across the fire from Fenris. While he waits for the thing to cool enough that he can handle it with his hands in order to eat, he strips off the few pieces of plate he'd worn to the practice that day.

Varric had conned the Inquisition's blacksmith into remaking the bits of the Champion armor that Hawke had sold to fund the tour he and Fenris took around the coast as slaver hunters. It had felt strange to wear the full set again after so long, like resurrecting ghosts from his past that he'd believed to be buried. Since arriving at Weisshaupt, he hadn't worn it a lot of it all the time, not needing the protection from either the local wildlife or the local Wardens. Usually he dons chestplate and greaves, occasionally vambraces or cuisse, depending. Some Wardens are more of a challenge than others.

He unstraps the greaves, brushing a few lingering metal shavings off them, and sets them carefully to the side. The armor is useful when he sharpens his sword, performing double duty as a blade rest and a guard against slicing his leg open. His chestplate, once something of a trick to fasten or remove by himself, has become, if not easy, then at least familiar enough over the past months to manage with minimal fuss. Fenris watches out of the corner of his eyes as he eats, and Hawke angles his head away as he focuses on the straps of his armor. He inspects the chestplate for damage and rubs at a bit of dirt before balancing it on top of the greaves.

Only then does he reach back out for the pot, feeling somewhat naked in just his leathers, brushing his fingers against the metal to test the temperature before picking it up and sipping lightly of the contents. He only has the one bowl, only needed one while he traveled alone. Fenris has his own gear. Hawke fishes out chunks of meat with his belt knife in between sips, biting the hen delicately from the newly honed blade. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on him occasionally and only makes the mistake of meeting his gaze once. The expression in his eyes is unreadable, an incomprehensible mask, and when Fenris turns away again Hawke is left to wonder if he’s been apart from Fenris for so long that he’s forgotten how to read him or if Fenris is deliberately hiding from him. Neither option is good.

Hawke collects Fenris’s bowl when he places it on the ground beside him and crosses the training yard to wash the pot, bowl, and spoon in the barrel of water the cook uses for his own dishes. He returns to his little camp to find Fenris exactly where he left him, hands again clasped between his knees, and busies himself with putting his gear back where it goes. Though he's been with the Wardens for a few months now, he still keeps what belongs to him in a tightly controlled camp, everything ready to go with a moment's notice. He has for nearly his entire life, on the move from Templars with his apostate father, even in Kirkwall where he'd arguably made a home and a life. It's just easier that way. Fenris had been the only true home he'd ever had, and he’d set that one on fire as surely as all the others.

But finally, there's nothing left to do but while the time away until he feels like sleeping. Or like pretending to sleep. With Fenris here and the air charged with static tension, he's not sure sleep will be forthcoming. Hawke has never been an incredibly patient man with matters that involve people, for the most part, three years of waiting for Fenris felt like dying each day, but now he waits. And waits a little longer. He paces the camp to dispel some of the energy, reaching out to touch his sword hanging from the line with each pass, and is just about to call it a night and throw himself down into his tent when Fenris stands from the stool.

The sun has nearly set and the only useful light source is the fire burning in Hawke's camp. A junior Warden makes the rounds of the walls, lighting the night torches. For a moment Fenris looks unsure, unsteady, and Hawke is in front of him in an instant without conscious thought, one hand reaching up toward Fenris’s face. He doesn't make contact, just hovers his hand there in the air, scant inches between them, unable yet to back away. Fenris’s eyebrows twitch on his otherwise emotionless face, his lips parting slightly. Hawke loses his breath. Fenris rises a little to put them more on a level, leaning forward with eyes half closed, arms at his sides, and presses his lips against Hawke’s.

Greater than the sense of shock, the wondering confusion, is the sensation of emptiness. Like he’s being kissed by a ghost, a shell of what once was. Hawke’s brown eyes are still open and he stands stock still, not even daring to move his hand down. The gulf between their bodies yaws and stretches, a cavernous pit that threatens to pull them both down. He watches Fenris’s hooded green eyes dart from one side of his face to the other, the furrow in his forehead becoming more pronounced, and sees the frown on his lips when he breaks away, sinking down to flat feet again. Fenris’s nostrils flare and he looks off at the middle distance to Hawke’s right, his lips pressed together, eyes narrowed.

Hawke lowers his hand, grips the leather seam at the outer edge of his thigh, and bows his head. He nods a few times and steps backward once, then twice, then turns and strides to his tent. A minute of rummaging around inside and he emerges with a blanket and a crumpled shirt, which he tosses to the ground near the fire after folding it to resemble a pillow, after a fashion. The blanket he flaps once and hangs over his arm, standing there on the opposite side of the fire from Fenris. The flames are dying, burning low into the coals, and Hawke squats down to bank the fire, collecting the coals into the center of his small fire ring and nudging the rocks closer around.

“The tent’s yours,” he says, not looking up from his task.

Fenris doesn’t move until Hawke finishes banking the fire, and even then he stands for a while longer as Hawke removes his sword from the line and stretches out on the ground, the blanket beneath him, his sword beside him. This far north the nights are temperate and Hawke at least has the shelter of the battlements overhead should it rain while he sleeps. He can feel Fenris’s eyes on him though his are closed. Fenris’s gaze has a particular weight to it, a piercing quality even when Fenris isn’t looking at him with any specific intent. The urge to move grows but he fights it, pretends as best he can that he’s already fallen asleep, that he’s not wound like a bowstring as he waits to hear what Fenris decides to do. If Fenris were to leave, it would be no less than he deserves. If Fenris were to stay, it would be worth more than his life. He’s not sure which he hopes for.

Eventually Fenris grunts, soft and low, and Hawke hears his footsteps retreat toward the tent. He waits until he can’t make out any more sounds emanating from the tent then sits up, hunching over the tiny glowing embers. There will be no sleep for him for a while yet. In the morning, he’ll stoke the fire, gingerly feed it sticks and twigs until it can handle larger branches and logs. It’s a time-consuming process and one that’s easy to get wrong though incredibly satisfying when the flames accept the new fuel, catch and lick up the wood, creating something again from nearly nothing. Even should he accidentally smother it, snuff out the light in the coals, the ashes are useful as an addition to the cook’s garden, tempering the soil and allowing the plants there to grow better than before. Somehow, something survives either way.

#da:i #fenhawke #hawris #fenris #hawke #weisshaupt #angst #all hurt no comfort #seriously anon #so much angst #durill hawke #dai #stitch fic #anon please feel free to prompt me like whenever #cuz this was a great time #Anonymous

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