#Jesus Price I am so fucking dumb

[thechaoticcheese]

JESUS CHRIST IM SO DUMB - For those following me cause of this: I have updated the chapter to have everything in it. I had two drafts going and forgot to check it in my tired state. There's more. Jesus fucking Price I am so so so so sorry.

EDIT: I was a dunce and posted the draft that I was working on - THIS HAS BEEN CORRECTED - YOU ARE NOW READING THE FULL THING I AM SO SORRY AAAAA

A Vampire Wheat Farmer(Ghoap) - Chapter 1 - Meeting the Vampire

Soap was making his way down the dirt path through all of the fields of wheat. He's never seen crops so well taken care of or bountiful. They were taller than he was used to, coming up to his chest and seeming to yield more grains than the usual plant. His blue eyes scanned the field before he spotted a tall figure at the end of one field, looking into the sea of wheat. From this angle, he couldn't tell if it was a scarecrow or a person, but when the hooded figure sharply turned their head towards the Scot, Soap found his answer. He glanced around the field to see if he could figure out where to go to meet the person quickly approaching him, but decided to stay in place, unsure if he even should move. As the figure got closer, he saw their clothes more thoroughly. They were wearing a balaclava with a skull sewn into it, plastic, or some sort of other mesh he was sure. Or he hoped. After all, he was hoping to meet a bloody vampire. The person wore a grey hoodie and jeans, black gloves with bones were worn on his hands and black boots left light tracks in the ground. As he got close enough, Soap noted how the person’s skin was covered by black face paint, or something similar. "What's your business?" His British accent was noticeable, Manchester perhaps, but it felt a bit faded, a bit different. It was slightly hypnotizing as Soap stared into the man's eyes. They were something else, being a dark brown with a circle of yellow around the pupil, a sign of being turned into a vampire.

"Yer da vampur I've ben hearin' 'bout!" Soap said excitedly, coming up more energetic than he expected as he took a few more paces closer to the man who quickly took quite a few steps back. The distance between the two grew faster than Soap could register. "What's it to you?" He growled, voice deepening. If that didn't send a shiver and made Soap's heart skip a beat, he’d be lying. It also made him stop in his tracks.

"Oh! I uh, I'm John MacTavish. People call me Soap." He introduced himself with a big grin, holding out his hand to the mask figure. "I wanna study Vampires and help 'em be apar' of society an' not shunned." The vampire gave a glance over the man's hand, trying to see if there was anything wrong with it. There wasn't though. It was just a normal human hand. Then he hesitantly approached and firmly shook it. "Call me Ghost." He replied before quickly pulling his hand away. He circled the buff Scott, as if sizing up the male. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that Soap couldn't quite place. "Why they call you Soap?" "Oh uh, was a kid tha' ate soap a lot... I-I've grown ou' of it! Don'ye worry!" Soap said, watching Ghost's quick movements. Dang, Vampire were quicker than humans. Part of him wondered if this was as fast as he could go. "Why here?"

"Well... You're pretty easy to access. No one has seen yer face in... well millennia.. An' yew've ben said ta be a pretty good wheat farmer." Soap started to list off the reasons, he soon felt Ghost wrap his arms firmly around his chest, pulling him in close. His back pressed flush against the vampire’s chest. There was a look in his eyes that Soap couldn't quite read, though he didn't doubt that it was an act. “And you’re alone. Humans shouldn’t be alone.” Ghost growled as his mask nuzzled against Soap’s neck. The Scot’s heart pounded in his ears, before he blurted out. “Y-Ye ken ye can drink animals blood an’ survive… R-Right?” Soap stammered out. He hated that he was getting so flustered by a stranger that he just met. Though the nuzzling stopped before a low rumble that almost resembled a chuckle had left Ghost. He slowly let the human go before moving away. “You’re interestin’.” Ghost commented. “I know. Usually humans freak out more. How many vampires have drinken your blood?” “Uhhm… Not sure… I donate my blood ta places tha’ give it out ta those who need it due to their bodies rejectin’ animal blood.” Soap said, quickly gaining his composure despite his heart rushing in his ears. He bet Ghost could hear it too. “Very thoughtful.” Ghost muttered before starting to walk further down the field, leaving Soap behind. He stopped and glanced back. “Ya comin’?”

“O-Oh! Y-Ya!” Soap said, surprised that Ghost was offering him to follow him to wherever he was about to leave the Scot. He jogged to catch up, pulling out a notepad and pen before looking at the masked vampire and smiling brightly, “Ye min’ if I ask a few questions?” “Shoot.” Ghost responded, leading the human through acres of wheat fields. “When d’ya turn?” “Gotta be durin’ buildin’ Manchester.” Ghost replied, rubbing the fabric where his chin is, remembering the night he turned. “Really! Ye help buil’’ Manchester?” Soap asked excitedly, scribbling it down. “Yea. You’re listenin’ to an original Manchester accent… Albeit a lot faded.” Ghost said with a soft chuckle. “Aye…” Soap agreed softly, despite not being alive at the time. “But weren’t it built by da Romans?” “Yea. Was a soldier for ‘em.”

“So yer a Roman?” “In a way, yeah.” “Woahh.. But ye got bit here, so technically you’re British.” Soap glanced at Ghost, not realizing that they were approaching a pretty old looking building. It was built with wood that looked like it was replaced at least 100 years ago. A small stone wall was around it, the pebbles at the bottom suggest its age from the weather years before Soap could be even considered a construct. A stone chimney was awkwardly added to the side of one wall. There were windows with shutters on them, but they were latched shut. “Wha’ever works for ya.” Ghost said with a shrug as he opened the wooden door, ducking inside. Soap was surprised that he even had to duck inside. Though once in, both could comfortably stand tall, though Ghost probably had about 6 inches above his head before he might run into something, like the lightbulb that had a metal covering. Though Ghost seemed to know the layout of his house as he quickly went to an old stove, hucking a few logs in before lighting it with a match and putting a kettle on with water. “Tea?” Ghost offered, looking back at Soap who was awkwardly standing right in front of the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob as he was closing the door behind him, glancing around the home. It was like one big room, a small section for the kitchen to the left, in the middle was a table, to the right was a space for a king sized bed and a desk. Things felt a bit crowded, herbs being hung from a rack above the stove along with old pots and pans that seemed to have just been gathering dust. “Oh uh, ya.” Soap responded, fully closing the door before awkwardly standing by the table. Soap’s eyes drew down to his feet, seeing an old goat skin rug on the ground beneath it, part of it going underneath the legs of the table. His blue eyes then looked to the bed. It had fur blankets on it as well. “Gots lots’a furry 'tings in ‘ere.” He commented before Ghost pulled out an old chair that looked about ready to be replaced, gesturing for his guest to sit.

“Yeah. Got a few more recently… Mid 1900s I think.” Ghost replied. He seemed to want to talk, but yet, something was holding him back. Soap in the meantime had sat, writing stuff down and doing quick doodles of things he saw in the home as the water boiled. Ghost curiously looked over the Scot’s shoulder. “Nice drawings.” He commented before going back to the stove. “Oh er… Tanks.” Soap blushed once more. This vampire was smooth. A lot of them were, but he wasn’t expecting it from a recluse. He hadn’t mentally prepared to be wooed, intentionally or not, today. “Wha’ made ye settle ‘ere?” Soap asked, trying to go back to researching the vampire. “Mmm… Good place to have wheat fields.” Ghost hummed as he thought before responding nonchalantly. Soap wrote it down without a second thought.

“Did ya build ye house?” “Yeah. Sown the fields too.”

“Interestin’...” Soap whispered softly, writing quicker than before. “Ye ever ‘ave a lover?” “Why? Ya lookin’?” Ghost teased, watching as the Scot’s face soon turned a bright shade red, his mouth agape before trying to say something before the vampire chuckled and shook his head. “Pullin’ ya leg. Yeah… Once… In a way. Arranged. No feelin’ towards ‘er.”

Soap took in a sharp breath before nodding, writing down the answer. “Keep track of yer kids after ye turned?” 

“... No.” The slightly warm tone that Ghost had previously suddenly turned cold. Soap tensed, he had hit a nerve. “Oh… Sorry.” The Scot said softly, not writing down the answer and gripping his pen tighter.

“What made’ye stay over ‘ere?” Soap continued, clearing his throat. “Next question.” Ghost’s voice remained gruff and unwelcoming. “Uhh… ever… ‘ave… a dog?” Soap had tried to come up with a different question than his usual ones. The rest were about Ghost’s past, specifics. So, Soap decided to go a different way. Ghost paused at the question. The breath that the human was holding soon left, he hadn’t even realized that he was holding it at first. “Yeah… ‘ad a few during the World Wars, during the black plague… I think the last one was in the 80’s…” Ghost responded before the kettle started to whistle violently, letting the men know that the hot water was done. The vampire took down two mugs, putting a tea bag in each, then red powder in one. Soap could only assume that the powder was dried blood. He poured the water out of the kettle. Soap watched curiously, noting how even the mugs seemed hand made. “Ye dabble in pottery?” Soap asked curiously.

“At one time.” Ghost responded calmly, putting the mug without the red powder in front of Soap before sitting across from him on the other side of the table. “Ye think ye can still do it?” Soap asked, scribbling the answers down.

“Probably.”

“Will ye show me?”

“Maybe.”

Soap huffed softly before grabbing the mug and softly blowing into the tea before testing the temperature against his lips. It was a bit too hot, but he took a small sip. The tea was good, strong and slightly bitter, but strong. “Ye make the tea yerself?” Soap asked, putting his mug down, pen ready to scribble down the answer. “Yea. Basically everything in ‘ere I made. Minus the stove, anything electrical, and a handful of silverware. Those were gifts.” Ghost replied, answering a handful of Soap’s next questions. “Ye write down everythin’ we say like a damn scribe?” “Almost e’rytin’. Want me ta not include somethin’?” Soap asked. He quickly stopped writing as he looked up at Ghost. He didn’t look irritated, but genuinely curious. “Nah. Just don’ ask stupid questions.” He responded with a huff. The two shared a few more simple questions back and forth before an alarm went off on Soap’s phone. “Awe shite.” He mumbled, annoyed at himself for forgetting about the meeting he had in 30 minutes, but that was miles away. If he ran and caught a cab early, he might make it 30 minutes later. But he couldn’t be late. Not for this. “What’s that?” Ghost questioned before sipping his cup of tea. “An alarm fer a meetin’ I’m supposed to be at in 30 minutes. Far as fuck though. I don’t think I’ll make it.” Soap said standing up quickly as he chugged the rest of the tea he so wished he could enjoy. “Let me help out.” Ghost said, standing up as well while Soap pushed in his chair. “Nah, you don’t gotta. I’ll just run an’ haul a cab.” Soap said, pocketing the notepad and pen. “You’ve entertained me these past few hours. Allow me to help.” Ghost insisted. The words he used made Soap tense up a bit before shaking his head, heading towards the door, reaching for the doorknob. Ghost’s gloved hand gripped Soap’s as soon as his skin touched the knob. “Let me help.” Ghost said in a soft voice. “R-Right… Speed…” Soap murmured softly. Ghost nodded before the Scot huffed, “Aight fine.” The masked vampire let go of the human so he could open the door. The two ducked out of the house and right as Ghost finished closing the door, Soap was in his arms bridal style. The rush of movement change made Soap’s stomach churn slightly. He wrapped his arms around Ghost’s neck, holding on tightly. “Jus’ ta the nearest cab area is fine… Thank you, Ghost.” Soap requested before he tightly shut his eyes. Wind hit him as if it was chunks of snow being blown into his face. He could now understand why Ghost covered his body, well, other than the sun of course. “We’re ‘ere.” The soft tone of Ghost’s voice said as Soap opened his eyes, he was standing on a busy-ish street, but Ghost was nowhere in sight. Soap hailed a cab and informed the driver of the location of where he needed to go. The human checked his phone as the car pulled away. Ghost ran for only a few minutes and saved him 40 minutes. He’d be able to make it.

Soap cursed and hit the back of his head against the headrest of the cab. He forgot to leave something to let Ghost know he’d be back. Hopefully at the same time next week. He’d just have to make the trek without announcing his presence, again. That would be next week's Soap problem though. He needed to focus on that meeting today.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Goddamn another 2k words. I am just busting out writings today! (wrote 5k words within my awake time) Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy! This is probably just going to be an every so often work. No set schedule or anything. Just whenever brain says we shall right.

Inspired by this post

[sgiandubh]

I'm interested to know whether you came to enjoy Greek music during your many years living in Greece. Do you have any favorite Greek artists or songs that you'd be willing to share? I always enjoy your posts about Greece and all your travel stories for that matter 🙂

Dear Greek Music Anon,

This is a beautiful question and you have made my day: thank you for asking and come back whenever you want, whoever you are - you are always, always welcome!

If you think Greek music is just this...

... then you are touristically biased, Anon. And that is ok, to some extent and not really your fault, because this is exactly what they will have you listen to, when you make the childish mistake to book that Greek Evening on your cruise or tour. For some unfathomable reason, this is what they imagine foreign guests should be shown. But then there is music for their and their friends' souls, something completely different and a whole universe to discover.

This is Greek music to me, Anon:

The best Greek female voice of all times (Callas does not count, for innumerable reasons, we do not discuss a Goddess), Our Lady of the Rebetiko: Haris (it means Grace, by the way) Alexiou. A true Dame Blanche, witty, warm and rightfully worshipped. When I was first introduced to her, I was so moved I almost couldn't open my mouth in awe. I was stupidly glued to my French formulaic praise and I remember I just mumbled something along the lines of 'eh merde alors, fuck it, I just wanted you to know that to me, you are not only the voice of my teenage years: you are the Voice of Time itself'. She laughed and the rest is, as they say, history.

This happened in November 2018, after one of her concerts at the Gazarte hall in Athens: a dificult comeback for her, after a cancer scare. We were very moved and fangirling AF, my Culture and Press colleague (remember her from the Mycenae story? Greek music made us instant friends - I was the only one to know what she was talking about) and I:

I have blurred my former colleague's face. I am not sure she wants to be seen on Tumblr, LOL. And see, Anon? I really look like an overwhelmed twat, in this pic. Chances are I'd look the same at Landcon 2025 (what was the last price, 149 euros? Sweet Baby Jesus, the results).

Haroula's one time lover (speculation is still rife and many shipped those two during the late Eighties and early Nineties, unaware it was completely true) and probably the Greek equivalent of Sinatra is George Dalaras. A., my colleague, is absolutely nuts about him and as such a big, boisterous presence in this man's fandom. She follows him just about everywhere (I didn't understand her and residually still don't, to be honest), so it's not a surprise I quickly got to meet the guy, after one of his extraordinary stunts at the Klimataria, a well-known tavern and rebetiko joint smack dab in downtown Athens (I think it was one week before I met and befriended Haroula, funny that):

Now, he looks like a banker. But back in 1993, he looked and sang like this:

This is his greatest hit, if you ask me. Βαμμένα Κόκκινα Μαλλιά (Dyed Red Hair) is the score of a very successful Greek TV series during the Nineties (don't ask, it's very syrupy) and legit one of the most beautiful Greek love songs ever written. But unlike A, I am completely chilled as far as Dalaras is concerned and I think it showed, when we met. He offered an autograph and I said no, just because I am completely dumb, like that. The trouble is, he gently remembered me and he always brought it up every single time we met (at a couple of events and receptions) - how's that for totally embarrassing, eh?

And then you have the opera divas, among which is my dear friend Sonia Theodoridou, one of the best Greek sopranos after Callas. Sonia came back to Athens after a rich career in Germany right in the middle of the economic crisis turmoil. Things were not easy for her and I have to say, bless her heart, she is not an easy person, either (which opera singer is, mind you?). But her voice is magical and she loves to play with it. See what she can do with a really meh song, written and successfully performed by Pandelis Pandelidis, the one-time local Justin Bieber (he unfortunately died in 2016, in a motorcycle accident):

The strange instrument you see in the clip is a Cretan lyra, by the way. I hate it with a passion. But I still love Sonia, no matter what.

We shared a lot of things, Sonia and I. Here is our first pic, together with her ex-husband, Theodoros (still a friend):

These people are those I personally know and like/love. I haven't told you anything yet about the formidable, mythical Maria Farantouri, Mikis Theodorakis' muse or Vicky Moscholiou, another diva (different niche, though). Nothing about Miltos Paschalidis, either, the mathematician turned singer or Alkinoos Ioannidis, perhaps the best Cypriot voice after George Michael. The only reason I won't, for now at least, is that I don't really like mammoth posts. And this is quickly turning into one of those.

But I digressed. You asked me about my favorite Greek song, Anon. It's Manos Hatzidakis' Kemal - a masterpiece with a strong, subversive political message in the guise of an Oriental cruel parable:

Do I know it by heart? Of course I do (and I always, always cry, because I am a sentimental idiot, like that). Singing along with the locals at concerts, in taverns, in your car, on that bus ride, is a mandatory part of the Greek experience. And the most heartfelt homage you can pay to all those wonderful men and women who make our world a brighter, better place.

[cin-cant-donate-blood]

You actually DO have to give credence to Hamas to criticize Israel. A lot, in fact, because those dumb fucking mongrels on their stolen patch of land are why Hamas exists in the first place, and it’s their own fucking fault October 7th happened. They funded Hamas because they didn’t want Palestinians to have socialist leaders, and now they’re paying the price.

Long live Hamas and viva Palestina libre, liberal. May your country collapse next.

Ladies and others: an average or even unusually smart tankie.

Do I even have to list what's wrong with this? First of all, do not fucking call Israelis "mongrels", Jesus Christ. The problem with Israel is not that its people are of mixed descent, or their descent at all. I will attribute your heinous words to ignorance rather than malice, since I assume you're rather young and didn't actually know what "mongrel" means. Either way it's a bad look.

Next, there's something about socialist leaders in Palestine? While the accusation that Israel broadly and Netanyahu specifically have funded Hamas has not been proven, it hasn't been disproven either, so maybe I should give you a pass on that. It is certainly true that Netanyahu benefits enormously from Hamas being the only powerful pro-palestinian group. The twist that there is some particular vendetta against socialism is quite funny, though. I've not heard that one before, though it is a natural consequence of replacing your understanding of geopolitics with red fash buzzword miasma. The CIA couped socialists in Latin America, therefore all the bad shit that happens in the world is motivated by anti-socialism in particular. Or something.

Next, there's the simultaneous acknowledgment that Hamas is a consequence of the monstrous behavior of Israel (and the additional claim that they are funded by Israel, again, not proven) and an endorsement of Hamas. Which way is it? Is Hamas part of Netanyahu's master plan or are they the legitimate freedom fighters who will bring peace to Palestine? (Spoiler: theocratic fundamentalists do not bring peace with their victory, but tyranny.)

I think the "liberal" at the end is the cherry on top. The venom is tangible. I'm sure you thought it sounded very edgy, but I mainly associate that kind of use of the word with teenagers whose main political motivator is desperately needing to be more radical than their parents. I'm not a liberal, for what it's worth.

Anyway, I hope you'll be as embarrassed about what you just said in a few years as I am to read it. Here's to a genuinely free Palestine – under secular democracy (socialist democracy, preferably, but anything is better than the current status quo).

[tagetesxd]

here have some incorrect quotes im to lazy to draw anything for

oh also if you´re wondering who ´Bewinged spear´ its Wings sister but i´ll prob change her name-

Btools: When I said bring me something back from the beach I meant like a conch shell! Wing: *Struggling to hold a seagull he tamed* Fucking say that next time!

Btools: I know you love him. Blackhole: I am not in love with Wing! Btools, staring at Blackhole: I never said who… Blackhole: realizes Blackhole: Shit. Well, anyways-

Bewinged spear: You’re mean! Wing: You’re meaner! Bewinged spear: Yeah, well, you’re ugly too! Wing: You’re uglier! Bewinged spear: You’re a dumbass! Wing: You’re a dumberass! Bewinged spear: You think “dumberass” is a good insult!

Bewinged spear: *shatters a window and climbs through it* Bewinged spear: *turns around and helps Wing through it* Breaking and entering is wrong Wing. Wing: Okay.

Squid ink bomb: Onion rings are vegetable donuts. Btools, used to Squid ink bomb being dumb: Sure… Squid ink bomb: Your stomach thinks all potatoes are mashed. Btools: Okay? Squid ink bomb: Lasagna is spaghetti flavored cake. Btools: Squid ink bomb: Lobsters are mermaid scorpio- Btools: Jesus, that one is a little- Blackhole and Wing, interested: No, no, Squid ink bomb, keep going.

Blackhole: I'm bored. Wing: Wanna commit first degree murder? Blackhole: Sure! Btools, hearing them: No- Stop, don't do that! Put that knife down! Put Squid ink bomb down!!

Blackhole: Did you ever have like a pet run away and find it or anything? Bewinged spear: I had a lizard that I burnt.

Wing: Christmas is cancelled. Blackhole: You can't cancel a holiday. Wing: Keep it up, Blackhole, and you'll lose New Year's too. Blackhole: What does that mean? Wing: Squid ink bomb, take New Year's away from Blackhole.

Bewinged spear, to Squid ink bomb: You know, Wing can be really aggressive, so it's important to take all the necessary precautions when approaching. Bewinged spear: blows airhorn at Wing GET FUCKED!

Wing: I stand for the birds. Put them down I´ll snap your neck

Btools: How would you guys deal with a toxic friend? Squid ink bomb: Tell them how you really feel. Blackhole: Slowly distance yourself from them. Wing: Engage in a 1v1 sword battle and if they lose they have to stop being toxic or pay the price. Btools, being handed a sword from Wing: …well heck.

Wing: Fight me! Bewinged spear: Ha, look at your size! What are you gonna do, kick my ankle? *Later* Squid ink bomb: Why is Bewinged spear crying? Blackhole: Wing kicked her really hard on the ankle.

Wing: Blackhole and I are no longer friends. Blackhole: WING THAT IS THE WORST WAY TO TELL PEOPLE THAT WE’RE DATING!

Btools: The joy of hanging out with Wing and Squid ink bomb. You look away for 5 seconds to make sure something is set up correctly, and they bite the tip of some markers off.

[personwhowrites]

Okay uh― I am quite new here and I saw that ypur requests are open (I hope)

But, I LOVE your writing with Self-Aware 141 TF with Player!Y/n ！Especially the ones with Ghost's and Price's mocking - I swear, they wpuld totally do that.

Can you maybe do 2 part or just Platonic one with them hanging out (somewhat) with Player!Y/n that just accepted that they are aware amd just rolls with it?

There will be no part 3! ~maybe~ I will be catching up on requests! My inbox is now close for a short while -E <3

Aware Part 2

You nervously bit your lip as you debated turning your PC on. Slightly regretting the choice as your eyes fell upon their character.

John “Captain” Price

At first, you hesitated deeply to turn your PC on. Your mind was filled with dark thoughts of what could be waiting for you if you switched it on – a hacker, or even worse, a stalker. You were about to give up until you heard a voice coming from your screen.

“Nice to see you, kid," Price said, causing you to jump out of your chair in surprise. "Easy now."

"Fuck this is so weird," you mumbled, eyeing the screen warily. "Jesus, so you all can actually see me?"

"And hear you, so watch that fucking tone," Price said with a low chuckle, causing your body to freeze in fear. "Took you long enough to come back."

"Well, it’s hard to come back when a fucking game character is talking to you!" You hissed back a response as you tentatively sat back down. "Hell, I was thinking about throwing my whole PC away."

“Well, aren’t you glad you didn't!" Price said, sitting down on a log. "So, what made you come back, kid?"

"I...uh...I don't know," you replied, averting your eyes from the screen and grabbing your phone. You started to record the conversation. "I guess I needed some company?"

"Company?" Price said, crossing his arms and looking at you. "I may be ones and zeros, but I'm not dumb, kid."

You remained silent and sighed. He was sure smart – smart enough to soon point out that you were facing the camera the wrong way, making you blush in embarrassment. As you and him talked, slowly it hit you – you liked talking to ones and zeros.

"So, you all just hang out or something?" You asked Price, taking some notes down on your phone. "Like, none of the stuff ever happened?"

"Pretty much, kid but we practice our aim.” Price said in a teasing tone before turning to look behind him. "Looks like I gotta go back to my code."

““Wait!" You yelled, slightly as you put your hand up to the screen as if you could actually stop him. "Wait wait...I uh...want to know more about you."

Price stopped for a moment then looked at you. His eyes slightly softened as he tossed his head back slightly, laughing. He nodded and stared at you for a long time.

"Very well, kid," Price said with a smug smile forming on his lips. "So, what’s your name, kid?"

"Y/N," you said softly, moving your hand away. "You guys always been...aware of this...world of yours?"

"Of course we have! Every single character in a game is!" Price said with a small laugh. "I'm surprised you humans didn't figure it out faster."

"Why expose yourself to me?" You asked, making his laughter stop and his stare become tense. "Why me?"

"Well...Y/N," Price stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. "We... felt some sort of welcoming with you."

You stayed silent as Price took off his hat. You couldn’t help but smile and shake your head in amusement. You may have been a little out of your mind for talking to someone from a video game, but it felt so good to have someone in your life who would listen to you. Price looked at you with a gentle expression as you deleted the recording from before and threw your phone somewhere he couldn't see.

“Tell me how it feels like to be code!" You said excitedly, taking out your pen and notepad. "Please..."

Price laughed and shook his head. He seemed to be enjoying the comfort of someone that isn't code as well. He looked at you with a kind expression, like he was trying to understand what it was like for you. "It's a strange thing, being code. I'm not really alive, but I'm still here. It's like I'm connected to a world that I can't see, or touch, but I can feel it. It's like I'm a part of something much bigger than me."

Kyle “Gaz”Garrick

You eagerly turned on your PC as soon as you woke up, hoping to talk to Price again. Your excitement only grew when you saw Gaz waiting for you, with a warm and welcoming smile on his face.

“Well, well, so you really are back, huh?" Gaz said, making you quickly nod. "Wow, you seem excited to actually see me and not scared."

"Well, I had a good chat with Price," you responded softly, reaching for your notes from the night before. "Gaz, I wanted to ask you something."

"Go on, Y/N," Gaz said, making your heart race. He already knew your name. "What? Surprised I know your name, kid?"

"I can guess Price told you all," you said, looking back at the screen. "He did, didn’t he?"

"Mhm, he sure did," Gaz responded, nodding his head. "Now, you seem like a talkative person."

"I guess I am?" You said softly, making Gaz sit down. "Hey...I already asked Price this, but...why did you guys pick me?"

"Pick me...that's one way to put it," Gaz said with a chuckle. “Well Y/n, like Price said. You brought us some sort of welcoming.”

You gave him a smile and look at the time. You were late to work, late for your real life experience.

“I have to go..” you say getting up from your PC. “I have work in thirty minutes and the bus ride is fourteen.”

“Do you have actual good aim at work?” Gaz asks making you roll your eyes. “Come on! It was a joke!”

“Very funny Gaz..” You say shaking your head. “I will have better aim after work.”

You waved goodbye to Gaz and reluctantly turned your PC off. You stared at the blank screen for a moment, slightly worried that they could still see you. You sighed and shook your head, feeling a bit silly for worrying. You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, feeling a bit lighter knowing that you had a friend to talk to when you needed it.

After a long day at work, you finally make it back home and turn on your PC. Much to your delight, you see Gaz still waiting for you like before. You eagerly sit down in your chair and give him a warm smile. He notices you and responds with a friendly smile of his own. You lean back in your chair and take a deep breath, feeling a sense of comfort.

“So how was work?” Gaz asked, his voice filled with concern. You let out a sigh and looked down at your dirt-streaked uniform.

“It was alright,” you said with a shrug. “But I had a few problems.” You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Gaz, do you guys even eat?”

Gaz laughed. “No, not even in the game!”

“That’s strange,” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief. You looked back at Gaz and smiled. “Video games sure can be weird, can't they?”

You sighed and leaned back in your chair, your mind drifting back to the long day at work.

“I guess I should have known you guys didn't eat,” you said with a laugh.

You hadn’t meant to, but before you knew it, you were lulled into a deep sleep by the sound of Gaz's voice. His gentle words were like a lullaby, and it wasn't long before you drifted off into a peaceful slumber. It felt like only seconds had passed, but it must have been longer, for when you awoke the sun was peeking its head through the curtains, signaling the start of a new day.

John “Soap” MacTavish

It had been a while since you last touched your computer. With work, personal issues, and other distractions, it was easy to forget about it. But one day, you finally decided to turn it on, and the game loaded up by itself. You watched as Soap loaded in, and his face was filled with worry as soon as he saw your tired eyes. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, and he knew you had been through a lot lately. He wanted to make sure you were doing okay and that you weren’t pushing yourself too hard.

Soap spoke sheepishly as you leaned back in your chair, “

The last time we talked wasn’t so great... Where have you been, Y/n? It's been a while..." His voice was filled with worry, and you could tell he was concerned.

“Busy..." You murmured under your breath, closing your eyes slightly. "God, I’m so tired..." You could feel the weariness weighing down on you, and you wished you could just take a break.

“Then why don’t you sleep?” Soap says watching closely. “It’s good to sleep! Hell we even do it when you turn the PC off.”

“I can’t sleep now.. I gotta count how many hours I worked the past week.” You mumble rubbing your eyes. “So I will have to exit you out and get on Google Docs.”

“Couldn’t you have me on your screen, just on the side?" Soap said, getting closer to the screen. "I could help you..."

You sat upright, opening your eyes and considering the idea of splitting the screen.

"Maybe... but how could you help me?" You asked, curious as to what Soap might be able to do. “Or do you just want to chat?”

“We can chat while you work.” Soap says as you move him to a bother screen. “Nice! Hey I never knew your PC was this colorful.”

“Me ether..” You respond with a yawn and rub your eyes. “Better get started..”

Soap started to ask you some basic questions, like what your favorite color, food, and things to do besides work and gaming were. Everything seemed to be going well until you suddenly passed out headfirst into the keyboard, making him worry. He stayed there for a few minutes, only to discover you were asleep. Work and your life seemed to be in a state of disarray from his perspective, and he was concerned for your well-being.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

You took a seat in your chair, turning on your PC. You held a steaming cup of tea in your hand as the game loaded. You were slightly surprised to see Ghost and Price there, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach. Were they there to make fun of you again? Was it your lack of progress in your work that had drawn them in? You tried to ignore the feeling, focusing on the game ahead.

“Looks like the brat is back.” Ghost says looking at you. “Got better aim this week or what?”

“Very funny..” You say rolling your eyes. “Never knew two of you can be here at once..”

“Well, we can be if we want.” Price responds looking at you. “Heard you passed out talking to the other two..”

“Work..is slightly overwhelming.” You respond taking a sip from the tea. “Hey, you boys been doing good?”

“Mhm, but I better get going.” Price says leaving you with Ghost.

“So, you gonna pass out on me?” Ghost says changing the background behind him. “Seems like you are kid.”

“It’s y/n.” You hiss in response, Ghost shakes his head and laughs. “How come your not acting your character?”

“Well, it gets boring acting like a low level person.” Ghost says with a slight shrug. “What want me to just stare at you? Because if that’s what you wa—“

“Your British accent is stronger..” you say interrupting him. “Why?”

“Why ask so many questions?” He snapped back making you roll your eyes. “Is that all you do? At least the questions have better aim than you kid.”

“Look! I’m good at gaming! I swear it’s just the control messed up!” You day setting your cup of tea down. “I’ll prove it! I bought a new controller.”

Ghost watched as you grabbed a new controller, a hint of amusement in his eyes. You started to load a mission with him, and he waited patiently as the game booted up. As you settled into your seat, you were aware of his gaze on you, but you tried to focus on the game ahead.

You slumped in your chair, a feeling of defeat settling over you as you surveyed the scene. Ghost had been roaring with laughter when he loaded in to see your performance, and now you were both in fits of laughter. You shook your head and covered your face with your hands, still chuckling at the absurdity of it all. You looked up at Ghost with a rueful smile, his laughter slowly fading away. You sighed and put your head down on the table, your cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

“Think that controller is messed up too.” Ghost says calming down from the laughter. “Might need to buy a new one.”

“Whatever.” You say wiping a tear from the laughter. “Fuck..I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”

“Maybe same time next week.” Ghost says leaning against a tree. “Or what, too busy?”

“Maybe..” You respond as your phone buzzes. “Shit, I forgot I had movie night with some friends.”

“Better get to it.” Ghost responds with a slight sad tone. “Hope to see you soon Y/n.”

Before you could say bye to him, the screen went dark. Your PC had shit down by itself, you sigh and got up from PC. Why did you feel some sort of connection with him?

Alejandro Vergas

You were listing to music at the time, not seeing him loaded on your other screen. Watching you sing to the songs that played loudly around you.

“Mi Amor, you got a beautiful voice.” Alejandro says making your fall out of your chair. “Shit! Sorry didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright?”

“Fuck.. ow..” You murmured getting up from the floor. “Bloody hell.. that hurt..”

You glanced at Alejandro, noting the worried look on his face. Then you looked down at your hand, which had taken a hard hit when you fell. It was still throbbing with pain and you winced as you tried to make a fist.

“Please don’t just appear in another screen.. I forget I have more than one.” You mumble looking at your hand. “Thank for the compliment..”

“Are you alright?” Alejandro asks again hoping to get a response to his question.

“I will be..” You finally say sitting back down. “How you been Al?”

“Al?” Alejandro says confused looking at you. “New name for me?”

“You deserve it.. you were the only one that wasn’t on my ass about my aim.” You mumble looking at him. “Is Al okay?”

“It’s perfect Amor.” Responds quickly. “Please tell me about your day..”

You smile at him, he was kind hearted. Sweet and elegant with you, it made your heart flutter each time he would laugh at funny moments in your life. You yawned and rub your eyes not noticing how long you been talking to him.

“You better get some sleep.” He says looking at you. “Go on now and get rest.”

“Right.. I have work in ten.” You mumble rubbing their eyes. “Talk to soon..”

You look back at your screen to see it’s black. The PC has shut down by itself once more, you get up from your chair and rush to lay down down on your bed. Closing your eyes you hear Alejandro voice the back of your mind, comforting you and loving your smile.

?

“Test seems to to run well.” ? Says looking at you through a window. “Make her more tired, see how long it takes her to realize.”

The scientist nodded in response to the order and quickly walked away towards the cameras that had been pointed at you in the room. You were completely unaware of the life you had been thrust into, but the scientist pressed a button on a nearby table and suddenly gas was released into the room. You groaned in pain as the gas filled the air and you felt a prickling sensation in your lungs and throat. You tried to move, but found yourself unable to as the gas started to take effect.

“Enough, we don’t want to kill them.” ? Says making the scientist release the button and walk back to them. “Check on her on every hour.”

The scientist nodded once more and watch at ? Walked away. Leaving them to watch over at your tired weak body. You were their experiment, their fun, their..lab rat. You had no choice, no voice to it.

————

{Tag List} @emtynessinmyworld @angi61400 @lenasvoid @thatanonymouschocolate @astrologhoul @smolmoonbabey @agspgrwasb @uwu-i-purple-you @bbygirlformw2 @euovennia

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Intimidation Tactics Oneshot: The Bet

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!Reader x Dave York

Rating: E (smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: multiple orgasms, like a LOT of that, oral sex (f receiving, fingering (f receiving), blow jobs (m receiving), lots of teasing, dumb machismo, references to MMF, banter

Summary: Unbeknownst to you, Marcus and Dave have a bet going...

A/N: idk whose fault this is but it happened in the Dave York discord and I blame @pedropascalsx, my love, my life, my worst enabler. I love this ridiculous community SO FUCKING MUCH. Thanks as always to @leslie-lyman, who I am functionally incapable of writing a fic without.

“What’s this?” Dave frowns down at the pamphlet Marcus hands him in the kitchen.

“For the honeymoon,” Marcus explains, as if that answers everything.

“Sandals, Saint Lucia,” Dave reads. “Fucking Sandals? Really, tiger?”

“It’s all-inclusive,” Marcus says, sounding defensive.

“I’m not going to Sandals,” Dave scoffs. “That’s such a cliche. Besides, I’m sure the three of us will cause quite the scandal with all the little newlyweds, fresh from their big church weddings on their first trip out of the country.”

“Read the damn brochure,” Marcus insists, elbowing Dave in the ribs. “It has private villas. We can enjoy the beach undisturbed.”

“Jesus,” Dave remarks, seeing the price tag on the ‘All-Inclusive Luxury Private Bungalow’ option. “This is obscene.”

“It’s inclusive,” Marcus says again, pouting. “C’mon, think about it–a week in paradise, chef-prepared meals, in our own private villa.” He winds his arms around Dave’s hips playfully. “Our girl, wearing the skimpiest bikini I can find.”

“For that price, she better be fucking naked,” Dave growls. 

“Oh shut up,” Marcus groans. “Think about it,” he croons, pointing at the luxurious daybed on the brochure, “laying her down on the sheets, watching her fucking writhing on the bed while I make her cum over, and over, and over again with my tongue, with your cock buried in my ass.”

Dave snorts. “You’re really trying to sell this, tiger.”

“Yeah? It’s been fucking ages since I’ve been on a real vacation.”

“You really think you could make her cum that many times while I fuck you? The only thing you can do when I’m inside you is whine my name,” Dave says smugly, tossing the pamphlet on the counter.

“I’ve made her cum like, six times in one night,” Marcus protests. “I don’t think you have any room to question–”

“Ha!” Dave barks out a laugh. “When was that?”

“You think you’re so good, huh?” Marcus growls, grabbing Dave’s belt loops and pulling him so that their hips are flush. “God’s gift to women, is that right?”

“God’s gift to anyone, apparently,” Dave smirks.

Marcus dissolves into quiet laughter, finally giving in to Dave’s ridiculous boasting. “Oh, sure–” he presses a gentle kiss to Dave’s lips. “You’re just–” kiss “–the absolute most, is that right?”

“I certainly leave you two satisfied,” Dave rumbles. 

“Maybe,” Marcus teases. “But I’ve still made her cum more times.”

“Maybe you have,” Dave admits, “but whatever you think your record is, I could beat it easily.”

Marcus laughs loudly. “Oh, okay. Fine. How about this–whoever doesn’t make her cum more times in one night buys one week in the ‘All-Inclusive Luxury Private Bungalow.’”

“Fine,” Dave hums. “Enjoy that little charge on your credit card.”

Marcus crows triumphantly, grabbing the pamphlet from the counter. “Yes! We’re going to fucking St. Lucia!”

Dave’s smug smile falls, realizing he’s been played. 

“Dammit,” he mumbles. 

– – – 

You gasp in surprise as Dave walks in the door holding a bouquet of roses. Marcus is the flowers guy, not Dave. Dave shows his affection through quiet acts of service. Marcus's affection is much more… loud. 

"Dave," you squeal, "what's the occasion?"

"Do I need an occasion to dote on my girl?" Dave asks, kissing you on the cheek.

That raises suspicion.

"What are you up to?" you ask, squinting at Dave.

"Nothing," Dave intones. You miss the way Marcus rolls his eyes.

Dave continues his unusual seduction of you all evening–little touches serving to work you up, doting on you, praising you, teasing you, until finally he has you in his lap, your legs spread wide and his hand inside your underwear, both of you still fully clothed while you writhe for him. Marcus watches the two of you intently but doesn’t join in, staring at the way Dave’s hand moves underneath your clothes.

“Show him,” Dave whispers in your ear. “Show him how good I can make you feel just like this.”

His fingers press down harder on your clit, grinding back and forth, and you gasp as you break for him, arching against Dave as he hums in satisfaction.

“Count it, pumpkin.” 

“O-One,” you stammer.

“How many do you think I can give her?” Dave asks Marcus teasingly. 

“Sounds like we’re going to find out,” Marcus says with a smirk. “But what are you going to do for me, hmm?”

“Oh, don’t worry tiger, she’ll be sucking your cock for at least two of them,” Dave remarks lightly, and you moan loudly. “Aww, you like that? You like cumming with a cock down your throat, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” you reply, laughing breathlessly.

“What do you like about it?” Dave asks softly, nipping your earlobe. 

“I-I can’t really breathe,” you answer, “and it makes it… better.”

“She’s so nasty, isn’t she,” Dave murmurs to Marcus. 

“She’s perfect,” Marcus replies with an affectionate smile. 

“Well, pumpkin, since you like it so much, why don’t you get on your knees."

You obey, kneeling down and looking up at Marcus through your eyelashes. 

"You look so pretty like that," Marcus whispers. "On your knees for me." His hands come to his belt buckle, undoing it and slowly sliding the zipper down. 

Dave kneels behind you, caging you between his thighs. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue, pumpkin," he whispers into your ear, making you shiver. "Feed it to her," he says to Marcus. 

Marcus grips your chin in one hand and fists his cock in the other, sliding it slowly into your mouth. "Gonna take it all like a good girl?" he asks softly. 

You nod around him. 

"Of course she will," Dave rumbles. "Now come on, pumpkin, you're giving me two more before he cums down your throat, aren't you?"

Dave's fingers find your clit again, rubbing small circles into your clit as you choke on Marcus’s cock. 

"She's soaked," Dave teases. "She gets so wet with a cock down her throat. He's always so gentle, isn't he? He won't fuck your face until you cry like I do."

"Fuck," Marcus groans above you. "Shut up."

"Then fuck her," Dave grits out. "I want to feel how wet she gets when you use her like that."

"Can you take that, baby?" Marcus murmurs, softly stroking your cheek while you gag on him. 

When you nod, Marcus strokes the hair back from your forehead. "Good girl," he whispers. "Now be good and cum for him, okay?"

Marcus’s grip around your neck hardens, and he starts to thrust in and out of your mouth. Almost immediately, tears spring to the corners of your eyes and your pussy throbs. 

"Oh, that's it," Dave murmurs. "She's clenching all over my fingers. C'mon, pumpkin, cum for us. Show us how much you love being used."

You sob as Dave brings you over the edge again. Marcus doesn't let up, fucking your face over and over again as the waves of pleasure wash over you. Dave doesn't give you a moment to recover either, rubbing your clit faster and faster until you're arriving at a second peak, barely a few minutes after the first. Your body convulses, but Dave holds you steady from behind, and Marcus’s fingers dig into your neck to keep you impaled on his cock. 

“Cum for her, tiger, she’s worked so hard for it,” Dave croons into your ear. 

It only takes a few more thrusts, and then Marcus is spilling down your throat with a soft groan, and you hear Dave hum in appreciation behind you. Marcus pulls away and you swallow, breathing heavily, drunk on two orgasms and dizzy from the lack of oxygen. 

“Count,” Dave reminds you. 

“Three,” you whisper hoarsely. 

The next two are from Dave’s tongue, lapping at you while Marcus holds you still in his lap. You’re dazed; you have no idea what has gotten into Dave tonight, but you can’t say you mind it. The word ‘five’ has barely passed through your lips, and Dave is pulling you off Marcus’s lap and pushing you onto your belly on the couch before mounting up behind you. This position makes you crazy and he knows it; the way his entire weight presses down on you, taking what he wants while his cock stabs at that perfect place inside of you never fails to make you cum in record time. 

“Again,” Dave growls in your ear. “Give me another one, give me number six. You know it’ll feel so good, cumming around my cock.”

“Jesus, Dave I don’t think I can…” you grunt.

“Yes you can, baby, you’re so close already,” Dave husks. “I can feel how tight you are. Just let go for me,” he urges, his hips snapping down into you. He works his hand underneath you and rubs back and forth on your clit and you keen into the couch cushions. Everything pulls up tight again and you wail as you fall off the edge. 

“Count it,” Dave commands, his own voice rough with pleasure as he takes what he needs from you.

“Six!” you sob. “Six, six, six, fuck–”

Dave’s cock is punching down into you, hitting something deep and devastating, and all you can do is grip the couch cushions and take what he gives you. You’re overly sensitive and each punishing thrust he gives you makes you cry out into the room. Just as you feel Dave’s hips start to stutter, you’re taken off-guard by another crest, and you squeak as you bear down on his cock just as he lets go. 

“Shit,” Dave hisses. “Fuck, baby.”

“Seven,” you murmur, slurring the word tiredly as you slump on the couch.

“That’s my girl,” Dave says with a smirk, smacking your ass playfully as he pulls out of you and sits up. 

Marcus is on you in an instant, one hand gently wiping you clean with a few tissues while the other rubs up and down your back. “Shh, sweetheart,” he whispers to you. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” Dave scoffs. “She’s just cockdumb and drooling on our couch.” 

“Hush,” Marcus scolds him. “Don’t I always take care of you both?” 

You roll over and blink up at the two of them with a dazed smile. Dave is slouched back on the couch, still completely naked, watching Marcus tend to you with an affectionate look. 

“Dave,” you pout, making little ‘grabby hands’ but not otherwise moving.

"Oh, stop," Dave chuckles. "Come here, silly thing."

It's Marcus who picks you up from the couch and deposits you in Dave's lap, where you immediately curl into him with a little sigh. Marcus tucks in beside Dave, his hand still smoothing up and down your spine as he nuzzles the other man's neck playfully. 

Finally, you speak. 

"What the fuck got into you tonight?" you murmur, and Dave chuckles, patting you on the butt affectionately. 

"Just like seeing you like this,” he rumbles. 

You don’t see the smug smile that Dave shoots Marcus over the top of your head.

– – – – 

A week passes, and then another week, and the evening where Dave made you cum seven fucking times get buried in a chaotic sea of ballet lessons, softball games, and many more passionate nights, the three of you wrapped up in each other every night. 

You’ve never had sex this good, and you’re insatiable for the two of them, wanting Marcus’s sensual touches and Dave’s ruthless strokes every time the three of you have a moment to yourselves. You love everything about it: the way the two of them seem to trade off controlling your pleasure, and the way they effortlessly trade dominance back and forth between the two of them. One night, Dave could have Marcus at his mercy, pounding into him while you stroke his hair and murmur sweet praises into his ear, and the next, Marcus could reduce Dave to nothing but whimpers underneath him. The only thing sweeter than their ferocious love for each other is the all-encompassing love the two of them have for you. 

You’ve never felt more spoiled, and not just because the two of them seem to treat giving you pleasure as a sport, at times, but simply because having two people care about you is just overwhelming, after so much time on your own. They both care so deeply, even if they do it in different ways. Not only having Marcus and Dave around, but combined with having Molly and Alice every other week, you sometimes feel completely overcome with love. It’s chaotic in the best of ways, each day challenging and exhilarating in new and different ways. 

And then, one night, after taking the girls out to a very rowdy dinner and dropping them off at Carol’s, Marcus pulls you onto his lap on the couch, facing outward with your legs spread, and murmurs, “Let’s give Dave a little show, hmm?”

You giggle and nod, looking over at Dave, who’s watching the proceedings with obvious interest.  He raises one eyebrow expectantly. 

"Better make it a good one," he drawls.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Marcus shoots back, full of that ridiculous sense of bravado he sometimes gets when the two of them are locked in some silly power struggle.

“Marcus,” you whine, wanting his attention to be on you, the person in his lap. 

“Okay, okay,” he whispers. “Are we feeling needy tonight?”

You help him as he slowly removes your clothes; you glance at Dave as each new inch of skin is revealed. Dave’s eyes are dark as coals as he stares back; his face gives nothing away, but you can tell he’s hardly unaffected by the sight of you, completely naked, on Marcus’s fully clothed lap. 

Marcus’s fingers trail aimlessly down your chest, making you shiver, your nipples pebbling with goosebumps, before he arrives at his destination, gently dipping one finger into your cunt to gather your slick and then starting to rub gentle circles on your clit.

Marcus has an uncanny ability to move exactly how you need him to. While Dave’s fingers are brutal, working you until he pulls your pleasure from you and you have no choice but to follow, Marcus plays you with precision, coaxing your peaks out of you with a gentle ruthlessness.

He can work you up quickly, or he can use that weird sixth sense he has when it comes to your pleasure to edge you mercilessly until you’re begging. He doesn’t do the latter much–you know that Marcus likes to indulge, giving you and Dave everything he has to give–but on the occasion that he’s in the mood, he can reduce you to tears by pulling away at the last second over and over again. 

At first, you think that’s the show you’re giving Dave. After all, Dave takes an almost sadistic pleasure in withholding orgasms and controlling your pleasure. But when Marcus quickly works you up and then throws you over the edge without stopping–commanding you to “Count them” and mimicking Dave’s speech patterns so eerily well that you find it a little disconcerting–you know exactly what he’s going to do with you tonight.

Marcus works you up two more times just like that–with just his fingers, leaving you sprawling and naked on his lap while Dave stares. The third time, you can’t take it any more, you close your eyes and slump against Marcus’s chest.

“No, no–keep looking at him,” Marcus murmurs in your ear. “Keep your eyes on him, keep them open. Let him see you fall apart.”

You try. You really do. But the sensations Marcus is pulling from you are too overwhelming for you to focus on something like eye contact. You can’t concentrate on anything. Before you know it, your head is tipping back and your eyes are pinched shut as you take everything Marcus gives you.

They startle open when you feel fingers gripping your chin and forcing your head back down.

Dave has moved–no longer on the couch, he’s crouching in front of you, his eyes boring into yours. 

“Thank you,” Marcus murmurs. “She’s being a naughty thing tonight, not listening to me.”

You groan in frustration–you love to hate how the two of them gang up on you. 

“I don’t think she can cum again,” Dave murmurs, looking at you with an almost-clinical disinterest that you know is feigned. “Look at her. She’s too fucked out.”

“‘m not,” you argue. “Marcus–”

“I know,” Marcus croons in your ear. “I know you can cum again. It feels so good, doesn’t it? You want to fall apart in my lap again.”

“I need–” you whine. “I need–”

“How is he supposed to know what you need if you can’t use your words, Pumpkin?” Dave teases. 

“Oh, stop,” Marcus tuts at Dave. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you can tell me. What do you need?”

“Can I have your cock?”

“How can I refuse, when you ask so nicely?” Marcus smiles and reaches between the two of you, unbuckling his belt and shucking his pants and underwear down just enough that you can sink down on him. “Don’t move yet,” he instructs. “Just keep it warm–you aren’t done yet.”

“Marcus,” you whine softly as he stretches you open. It’s always a stretch, and you love it. Marcus keeps up the soft, precise circles on your clit, and he’s hardly even buried to the hilt yet before you can feel the next crest approaching. 

“Marcus,” you warn him. “Marcus, it’s gonna–” It’s gonna be too much, it’ll be overwhelming, it’ll–

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers. “Let it happen.”

You cry out as you clench around Marcus’s cock for the first time. Your head tips back, but Dave grips your chin harder and forces you back down to his eye level. 

“Count,” Marcus reminds you, a smile coloring his tone.

“F-Four,” you whimper. 

“Good,” Marcus praises you. “More.”

“Marcus,” you protest quietly, but he’s already rubbing your clit again. With his cock spearing you, it’s easier to build you up–it takes a matter of minutes, and you’re doing it again, convulsing in his lap, trying to shy away from the sensations he’s pulling from you. 

“Shh, good job,” Marcus murmurs. “You’re doing so well.” He finally starts to move, fucking up into you with slow, undulating thrusts. “Hey–you forgot to count it again.”

“Ugh! Five,” you groan, and Marcus chuckles. 

Marcus fucks you gently at first, then growing in speed in intensity, never taking his hand off of your clit as he does. He doesn’t stop when you whimper “Six,” fucking you harder and faster until he reaches his own end with a deep groan. 

You’re about to slump against him in relief, when you feel him pulling you off of him and laying you down on the couch. 

“Mmm?” you question wordlessly, but your nonverbal inquiry is answered when you feel Marcus’s tongue lap at your pussy, and you squeak in surprise. 

“One more,” Marcus murmurs, muffled by your clit as he eats you out. “Again for me.”

It takes time, because fuck, you’re fucking tired, but somehow you do, cumming on Marcus’s tongue with a wordless cry.

“Tiger,” Dave cautions softly. “She’s had enough.”

“Mm,” Marcus comments, before slowly thrusting one finger inside you and crooking it upwards, his mouth not leaving your clit. He finds that spongy spot inside you with no hesitation and starts rubbing back and forth, eliciting so much pressure and feeling that you–

“Oh, fuck–” you gasp, and you gush around Marcus’s fingers.

“HA!” Marcus pulls back triumphantly. “Eight!” 

You squint your eyes in your delirium. “Wha–?”

“You fucking cheated, you went after me, so of course you could just beat–”

“Oh, you’re just sore because–”

“Next time it should be a blind test. Your ability to see me go before you gave you a bias that–”

“‘Next time?’ I fucking won!”

“What the fuck!” you cry out, interrupting Dave and Marcus’s bickering. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you want to go to Saint Lucia?” Marcus asks nonsensically. 

Your eyes flick to Dave. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

"Pumpkin," Dave starts, but you interrupt. 

"Don't 'pumpkin' me," you snap. "Are you two betting on me?"

Dave's lips part, his mouth forming an 'O' as he apparently debates how to answer. 

"So–" Marcus says, looking chastened, "...yes?"

"What the fuck!" you shout again. "I am not a pawn in your stupid macho games!"

Dave presses his lips together for a few moments. "Did we mention Saint Lucia?"

You blink at him in disbelief. 

"It's all-inclusive," Marcus pipes up helpfully. 

"With a private luxury bungalow," Dave adds. 

"Mmhmm," you mutter, frowning at the two of them. "And are there couches in this luxury bungalow?"

Marcus pulls a brochure from underneath a stack of books on the coffee table and squints at it. "I think so?"

"Good," you say, picking yourself up off the couch and grabbing your underwear with a flourish and walking, hips swaying, to the bathroom. "Because you're both sleeping on one."

– – – –

Two months later…

"This is incredible," you say with a sigh, tipping your head back to feel the sun on your face.

"Mm," Marcus agrees beside you. He kicks his foot, causing ripples in the pristine, clear water. 

"Does that mean you forgive us?" Dave rumbles with a little smirk, not looking up from his book.

The three of you are crammed into an oversize lounge chair that was almost certainly meant for two. You're lying between Marcus’s spread legs, both of you with one foot intermingling in the water of your own private beach. Marcus is resting on Dave's shoulder, alternating between reading over his shoulder and dozing in the gentle sunshine. Dave is the only one fully seated on the lounge chair, book propped up on one knee and his free hand resting on Marcus’s leg but close enough to touch yours as well.

Marcus was right–this place really is paradise. 

"Mm, I dunno," you comment lightly. "I think turnabout is fair play."

"How do you imagine that will go?" Dave asks. "We're not exactly built for multiple–"

"I was thinking the opposite, actually," you say sweetly. "I'll mercilessly tease both of you, and whoever comes first has to bankroll the trip."

"And how do you plan on enforcing that, pumpkin?" Dave murmurs, amused. "What's to stop me from rolling over and taking what I want?"

You boop him playfully on the nose–a gesture he pretends to hate but you know he doesn't–"I'll just tie you up," you inform him in a sing-song voice. "And I'm sure Marcus would agree to help if you're feeling particularly resistant to the idea."

"Mmhmm," Marcus agrees. "I'd pay money to see that." "You'll get your wish," Dave says, "because there's no way you're winning that bet." His hand curls possessively around your leg. "Where do you want to go next, Pumpkin?"

[wonderlandleighleigh]

19

Midge nods as she downs another shot of vodka, settling the shot glass down heavily on the bar. "Yep."

Joel stares at her. She's too drunk to figure out whether he's shocked or horrified or both, standing there frozen in place across from her.

"I had sex," she repeats her. "With Lenny Bruce. And Joel. Joel, it was-"

"Why am I listening to this?"

"Joel, it was so fucking good," she keeps going, too drunk to care. "His fingers alone are worth the price of admission."

"Oh fuck's sake."

"And did not know anyone could do that with their tongue," she whispers loudly. "I swear, it's been three weeks and I'm still thinking about it."

"Wait- three weeks? You haven't done it again?" Joel asks, though god knows why.

"He's in California, visiting his family for the holidays," Midge explains. "He called last night, though. It was nice. It was so nice to have someone - someone call me. Someone...care about me that much. Like me so much that they just wanted to hear my voice. Say goodnight to me. Tell me a dumb, dirty joke. I really missed having that in my life, you know? Because that used to be you, and then you didn't want it anymore. You didn't care anymore, and I thought it might be Benjamin, but he's terrible at telling jokes anyways, and not nearly as good in bed as Lenny anyways."

"Midge, jesus."

"Jesus is not here, and I doubt he's any good in bed," Midge quips. "Son of god, probably had a big dick but didn't know how to use it."

"You're cut off."

She snorts. "You're cut off," she counters. "Pour me one more."

"I think you forgot the meaning of 'cut off,'" Joel drawls out. "no more booze. In fact, I'm gonna get you a cab and send you home."

"Nooooooo, my mother is home, and if I walk in this drunk, she'll ask questions, and I don't want to answer them."

"Could have fooled me," Joel snaps. "Considering how much information you've shared with me."

"I don't care what you think of me," Midge tells him. "You stuck your dick in a woman who couldn't- couldn't sharpen a fucking pencil. Your opinion means fuck all."

"Gee, that's nice."

"If she couldn't figure out the pencil sharpener, how did she figure out the sex?" Midge asks. "Because it's the same principle, and-"

"I'm calling you a fucking cab."

"Fine. But your new name is pencil sharpener dick."

"Fuck."

[organizationhimself]

chrono cross remaster first impressions

WHAT I LIKE: -the starting image is cute -you can revert to the old graphics thank you god and also jesus -i do actually kind of like that the��“press start to game” menu switches around to lurk in different locations.  idk.  i saw some complaints about that as a thing but i think it’s nice, and it’s too short a part of the experience to bother me -they’ve definitely cleaned it up to the degree that it like looks good on a switch screen (from what i’ve seen anyway), it looks better on a CRT but this still looks better than i was expecting -uhhh i like the part where it’s chrono cross

WHAT I DON’T LIKE: -for fuck’s sakes why did they update kid’s in-world model to be even less modest?  i get that they’re going for synergy with the battle model, but the battle model is already the occasional unfortunate victim of unlucky camera angles, and there are sustained camera angle changes in-world!!  must i never know peace?! -the new graphics in general are kinda...eh.  the new art has a weird feeling to it for me personally, i’m sure it’s just taste.  but also, the classic art is just better for the speech portraits and the new ones where they’re trying to fit as much of the character in the shot as possible just defeats the purpose, plus the colors are too bright.  i’m not sure why they did it this way -i listen, of my own free will, to a lot of chrono cross remixes of dubious quality.  but the samples i’m getting on the intro menu...excuse me but what?  that version of “sailing” just, what was happening to my ears.  mr. mitsuda are you okay??  blink twice if you need help -settings are really bare-bones, i don’t really get why you can’t switch freely.  new backgrounds but old models?  new models but old portraits?  like, why not NITPICKS: -some of the sounds are different and i don’t like it, abloo -did they put the new version of orlha in the classic’s menu screen or am i just dumb and her official art and character portraits have always looked like different people?  (probably that second one) -auto-battle doesn’t appear to use elements or select different hit types, so that’s still useful as a substitute for mashing x to get out of battles late-game, but only for that purpose -the text moves too fast, but i’ve admittedly only played the intro so far to see how different characters look, and i seem to remember the text moving faster around then.  there are certain story beats where it NEEDS to be slower though, so i hope those are intact. -some of the text is kinda ugly and i think they could’ve done more to make it blend in (just like, artifact it a little, it’s ok!!  it’s an old game!!)

end result, i knew i was going to buy at least one version of this full price to send the message that I Will Buy Chrono Merch, so no regrets.  but i dislike enough changes thus far that i’m not going to just out and out buy the steam version as well, unless it’s at a steep discount (and i see some cool mods manifesting).

[passivenovember]

Reach Out and Touch Faith.

Harringrove April, Day Sixteen : Nostalgia.

--

Steve knows he’s got a stick up his ass about the whole thing. 

Feels it wiggle around, amused, when he comes home early from work to find Dawn and Billy dancing around in their PJs to the opening chords of Personal Jesus. 

They don’t see him.

Too preoccupied with the music, Dave Gahan’s voice pushing through windows and bursting through walls until Billy’s hips are moving in a way Steve hasn’t seen them do in years. 

And Steve isn’t a betting man, but. 

He knows that if Billy turned and zeroed in, hips moving like that with Dawn headbanging to dark wave like some sort of hybrid, the perfect combination of the two of them, Steve would be unable to rain on their parade.

His first reaction is to unplug the stereo.

And it’s a crime. To cut the Gretsch short like that, right in the middle of such an iconic riff.

Billy turns, out of breath from doing the limbo under Dawn’s black feather boa. “Oh, here we go.” He says fondly.

Steve ignores him, strictly business. “What the hell are you doing to my living room?”

Dawn’s still going. Arms win milling as she hop-scotches her way across the room toward Steve, forehead slick with sweat. 

“I like that song!” She hollers. Right in his ear when she climbs into Steve’s arms like a twelve year old monkey. He sets her down immediately, trying to play it cool.

Dawn and Billy start jumping up and down together, obviously high on adrenaline and Steve feels like shit. For having to be the bad guy all the time. 

He sits gingerly on the couch. Tries to tack on his best let’s have a serious discussion face, even as Dawn and Billy continue humming the chorus together. 

Billy breaks away, pumping his arm. “How sick is that synth track, kiddo?”

“So sick.” Dawn says. She collapses onto the floor, exhausted. “I think I like that better than the one on Dangerous.”

Steve gapes. “That’s hardly appropriate.”

Billy scowls, indignant. “You’re the one who let Aunt Robin sneak in the first album we ever fu--”

"Bill.”

He shuts up, sighing. “Babe. You’re gonna be cool about this, right?”

“I’m cool!” Steve insists, leaning back on the couch. “I’m the coolest, ask anyone.”

Billy grins, cheeks flushing pink. “Really? ‘Cause you’re acting pretty uncool.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” Billy teases. “Coming in and unplugging the stereo like that. Right in the middle of the riff, too.” Billy whistles low, shaking his head. “Gotta be one of the seven sins.”

“What, cutting a Depeche Mode song in half?” Steve deadpans. “I just would’ve preferred she start out with. Like. Speak and Spell. or something.” 

Dawn beams. “What’s that? Can we listen to that one next?”

Billy ignores her, honed in. “Dawn’s twelve now, that’s like. Practically a teenager.”

“Yeah, Dad.” She says smugly. “I’m practically a teenager.”

“Exactly.” Billy triumphs, pasting himself to Steve’s side. “And as a practically-almost-teenager, it’s about time she hears some good music.” 

“Hey, you said good music is whatever makes me feel something,” Dawn accuses, sitting bolt upright. “Good music makes your skin all tingly and your tummy do backflips and your heart--”

“I said real music makes you feel something. I never specified what makes it good.” Billy says smugly. “Everything you’ve heard before today is real music but it’s not good music.”

Steve lets Billy fuse their bodies together, wincing as his arm touches miles of sticky skin. 

Dawn shrugs her shoulders. 

Unbothered.

Unapologetic. 

“What you said before, kiddo, about your heart and your tummy. Does this record make you feel like that?” Steve wonders, and Dawn’s nodding her head before he’s even finished. 

He sighs. “Go get my cassette case, then. We’ve got some work to do.”

--

With her Walkman turned up as high as it will go, muttering along to the words as if in prayer, Dawn grows up before their eyes. 

Two new copies of Violator are purchased before the year is out. Once because it’s played so much the wheels fall off, and again because Joey steals the new one.

Billy gets a phone call from Max the day after it goes missing. “The World Wide Web is an evil, disgusting place.”

Billy snorts. “Pretty sure kids are calling it the Net these days, grandma. Keep up.”

“I don’t want to keep up.” She snaps. “Four years. A whole kindergarten age child ago I force Joey to sit down and listen to my cassettes--”

“Your cassettes?” Billy mumbles, alarmed. “No wonder the kid’s purging himself on Steve’s shit.”

“Oh fuck off. That’s where he heard them?”

Billy plays dumb. 

Max catches on instantly. “He’s been locked in his room, listening to Policy of Truth all day. I just don’t understand what’s so appealing about a bunch of sad boys--”

“Be nice.”

“Do you really think the kids are old enough to listen to that shit, man?” Max sounds like she’s coming apart at the edges. Scattered to the wind. “I mean. He left his room twice. Once to make a sandwich and again to borrow one of my skirts.”

Billy grins. “Ah. So he got his hands on some pictures of Martin Gore, that was fast--”

“He tore the thing to shreds, Billy.”

And Billy doesn’t get what the problem is, many of Joyce’s tattered Sunday skirts hanging in his closet even now. 

He shrugs. “’S more punk that way.”

“God. Name the kid after his freaky uncle and the kid will deliver.” Max retorts miserably. She takes a deep breath. “What the fuck am I gonna do?”

“Dunno. Remove the stick from your ass?”

“Ha-ha.” Max spits, but. It sounds like she’s smiling. “Speaking of sticks up asses. Did Steve have a cow?”

Billy shrugs again, wrapping the phone chord around his wrist. “Whole barn, more like. But I think I convinced him.”

“Of what? That the perversion of our youth is okay?”

“No, that the kids are getting older.” Billy says. He doesn’t get it, why he’s the only one in touch with reality. “Joey’s Fifteen, Dawn’ll be thirteen in a couple months. They’re not little kids anymore, Max, they’re teenagers.”

She sighs. “So we’re supposed to let them listen to whatever they want.”

“Within reason. Susan and Neil would’ve bought the barn at full price if we hadn’t snuck around.”

Max makes a noise. “I never listened to--”

“N.W.A?”

“Fuck you, they have an incredible social commentary on the issues faced by disenfranchised people in the--”

“Check mate.”

Max falls silent. And then, glumly, “I hate you for always being right.”

Billy leans against the wall, chuckling. “I’m your big brother. Comes with the territory.”

--

When they get Dawn’s birthday list, only one thing is circled in red. 

Joey and I want to see Depeche Mode live.

Steve wonders if he can make that happen.

[sorio99]

Deltarune Chapter 2: Live Thoughts

So, since the new chapter of Deltarune came out, I've played it all the way through, so, here are my thoughts as I had them. Basically a live-blog, but, not live anymore, I wrote these in my notes app before.

NOTE: Obviously there are going to be ALL THE SPOILERS for Deltarune Chapter 2 in this, as well as Chapter 1. Reader discretion is advised.

Wow, okay, so I was wrong about it being immediately explained.

Various descriptions have changed, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the change to a new game, or the one to a new chapter.

I feel like Berdly is definitely a m’lady guy.

Okay, so, we’re not skipping class this time.

I really wish we could call Toriel and tell her we’re gonna be late again, but I couldn’t see an option for that. Maybe Kris told her on the ride to school.

Okay, so, Noelle is definitely adorable, and a huge lesbian.

Susie seems lovestruck too, kinda.

SHE HAD CHALK, AND SHE DIDN’T TELL ALPHYS BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT SHE AND SUSIE COULD GO GET IT TOGETHER OH MY GOD

Okay, honestly wasn’t expecting the closet to work again.

Fricking LOVE the new transition.

Okay, so, Ralsei knows about, the real world? How, why, and what?

Oh, that, makes, a little sense? But also, if we hadn’t brought the toys over to the closet then, would they all be, dead?

AND WHAT IS RALSEI IN THIS CONTEXT?!?!

Okay, but I love the new town.

Holy shit, save points have storage, AND a spare list? Hell yeah.

So, we’re all level 2 now. I guess they moved from EXP based (or, execution point based?) to Milestone.

Love the basement for bad guys, with K. Round standing guard.

Bitch said “Child abusers live in Hamster Cage”.

Wait, he uses the hamster wheel?

I don’t know if I believe the king about his “bluff” or not. I think not, but, I don’t know.

I can see the “Susie moves to Ralsei’s castle to escape her abusive home” fic already.

RALSEI GAVE KRIS A TRASHCAN, AND SAID IT WAS FOR THE MANUAL IF HE GIVES US ANOTHER ONE OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY MY SWEET FLUFFY BOY

And of course, the moss call-back.

Oh god, Susie just said “My own room, huh.” and my heart is ready to shatter.

This girl has one actual food item in her fridge, and it’s just salsa

Oh, scratch that, there’s ice, crumbs, and jawbreakers in there too?

Oh, okay, Ralsei did give her actual food.

Entering Lancer’s room gives the cartoon Splat sound effect from Chapter 1, and his bedroom is identical to Chapter 1.

Perfect.

And the sound effect, plays in reverse when leaving? Okay.

So, explore until we’re ready to leave, huh? Seems, suspicious.

Oh my god, I just realized, the LightCandy is literally the chalk Noelle gave Susie. What the fuck.

So, for giving the Top back his cake, we get regenerating SpinCake that heals everyone for 140. Nice.

Battle challenges, huh? This should be interesting.

So, we can get a ClubsSandwich, $100, or…Jigsaw Joe’s entire life savings. Okay.

Aw, Clover has separate heads in their dialogue box!

Just realized this “dojo” also has their bed. Odd.

Alright, let’s take these challenges!

Oh, so if we act with Kris, than spare with Ralsei or Susie…got it!

He has a mercy meter. There’s a mercy meter now. I love this.

Oh, of course his life savings is exactly one dollar.

I can already tell the Graze challenges are gonna be the biggest bitches.

Okay, so, being able to rematch bosses, with different gimmicks and attacks, but based on the same logic? Always amazing.

I love the little cut-ins from the other characters with certain lines, like Susie and Lancer revealing “for a price” means zero dollars.

“Cookie and Wife”?

The Blacksmith runs a bakery where he can fuse items…okay.

Imma get a Silver Card.

What the fuck, Mr. Society?

Okay, so, we’re “leaving” through the way we came in, so “surely” we’re going back “home” to the “real world” and our “family”. Sure.

LANCER was added to your key items.

Oh was he now?

And so was Rouxls, “even though no one wanted that.”

Oh, we, actually went back to the light world. Huh. Actually wasn’t expecting that.

Jack of Spades, and the Rules Card. Makes sense.

Still LV 1 here, thankfully. No murder yet.

Okay, thankfully I can call Toriel now.

…Undyne, what the fuck?

Also? This, car horn music, I guess? Is, um…interesting.

Oh, the, computer lab. Where Toby was in Chapter 1. Okay. Makes sense.

“Guess this means we can’t start our project.” I’d say the biggest obstacle is more that we have no clue what the hell this project is supposed to be.

Hmm, we could use the computer at my house, or we could have a fun Toby Fox adventure…

My house!

I knew Susie wouldn’t allow it, also, you always wanna jump in big pits? That’s, worrying.

Computer lab time!

So, computer themed, maybe?

Rouxls jumped out, apparently. According to Lancer.

Okay, this build up is creepy, where’s the fluffy boy?!

Who is SHE?!

Was

Was that Noelle’s chatter sound?

Asking for help?

OH MY GOD

ITS THE REINDEER LESBIAN

SHES BEEN TAKEN

NOOOO

And, I suppose, this must be, our queen.

Q5U4EX7YY2E9N. Sure. I’ll stick with Queen, yeah.

Oh, she’s a computer! That…that’s probably not, great?

Oh, those plugs are bad, brainwashers. Okay.

Okay, they’re both tired…but Ralsei isn’t here. Fuck.

Aiming at moving targets is hard.

2 Werewires spared, only 4 to go, I guess!

RALSEI IS BACK, YAY!

Fun Gang, back together, working to save Susie’s soon-to-be-girlfriend!

Rhythm game to start a new bumping song. Nice.

Might live blog less from here, since, you know, the game is starting proper.

God, I love Deltarune’s look and sound, it’s so clean? And expressive, and AAAGH, I just love it!

I love angry Ralsei.

First lose control laughing moment: Kris and Susie squishing Ralsei like a toothpaste tube, to play an arcade game.

Did, did I just play Punch-Out inside an Undertale?

Curing computer viruses with Syringes…sure.

Sweet is the rhythm guy! Nice to meet you, Sweet! You and Toby are great at this music thing.

Hey, Susie can act now! Awesome!

Ralsei too, because of bullying! Yay!

Now the whole gang’s dancing!

(This is where I took my first real break, to process stuff and relax, and also to sleep)

In between thought: it’s kinda interesting that, in Chapter 1, Susie basically had to be forced to care about Kris, Ralsei, and Susie, but as soon as Noelle is in the slightest bit of danger, she’s immediately like, “We have to save her or die trying”, huh?

“Reverse diss-tracks, where the vocalist puts themselves down and praises Queen…or noise music.” That’s some, interesting taste in music.

“All our songs are only 4 seconds long!” Damn, so you’re, like, Vine musicians?

So, the Knight is opening alternate fountains, that create dark worlds out of, more mundane places? Interesting…

So, someone new is leading the rebels. This, can’t go well.

Smorgasbord 2.

Oooh, a TP raising Item! Nice!

Oh, the guy who was already working for Queen is a Werewire now. Okay.

66 up arrows. Hmmm, I wonder if I can retry at some point…

Oh boy. Here’s the queens…wait what?

Oh my god.

Go kart time.

Noelle, you traitor! How could you!

Oh, okay. Berdly I believe more.

Also, “beloved”.

I love how Queen apparently didn’t even ask him.

“Light Nerds” Good one, Queen.

That’s one weird Check for Berdly.

Berdly, for God’s sakes, Noelle is a lesbian, you idiot.

You know, given this villain rant, I think I hate Berdly more than I do King. And I’ve dealt with both bullies AND abusive dads.

Oh god, Roller Coaster Tycoon murder (also Berdly is dead)

Garbage! Saved by it again.

Oh, this place looks glitchy.

Also, Susie, you’re not the king of the trash pile. You’re QUEEN of the trash pile.

Oh god, please don’t tell me she’s dying.

Okay, good, she just needed fluffy boy hug.

Fork in the path, advantageous to split up, huh? But there’s three of us, and, two paths probably.

Okay, I can either go with the Fluffy boy who might secretly be evil, or the mean girl who might get lesbian scenes…hmmm…

I’m flipping a coin.

Okay, Ralsei it is!

Oh, Susie is upset at me getting to pick.

Oh, they’re going together.

Oh, this can’t be good.

If I had a nickel for every indie game with a cat themed metropolis on my pc, I’d have two nickels. You can finish the meme.

I swear I just saw Noelle on the right. Something big in the streets, hmmmm…

Okay, definitely saw Noelle that time. Shame the Poppups, popped up.

…I get it, Toby, but I’m still mad.

Blocked 10 ads…okay, I still love this game.

God, I’m already missing my party members.

Okay, so I still have Lancer, but, I’m really hoping Noelle listens to reason, because Lancer is, not.

Oh god no, don’t fight me now Queen. And please don’t join me.

Alright, nobody likes Berdly. Figured.

God they’re so dumb.

“G-got any room for another truce?” Noelle, I would do a No Mercy run for you, of course I’m going to help you.

I can’t believe “No Triple Trucies” is even an option.

Yay! Noelle in party!

“LV1 Snowcaster. Might be able to use some cool moves.” She’s got Heal Prayer, a more powerful (but more expensive) Pacify, and a damaging Ice move for only 16% TP.

I love her.

I don’t know what a sugarplum is myself, actually.

Noelle, you have a one track mind, and I like it.

Lancer, she’s not a cream, and we’re not making her a bad guy.

Oh, and she’s scared of mice, I love it!

Ah, she’s never been in battle before, let’s see how this goes.

See? That wasn’t so bad, Noelle.

Oh, she’s a natural!

“Needles aren’t scary…” Tell that to anyone under 20, Noelle.

Also, “subtle” pro-Vax message?

Oh my god, I just love her animations.

So, the virus and the syringe are fighting…hm…

Okay, so, first, Noelle’s defend animation, also perfect.

Second, so Ambyu-lance’s bullets block and destroy Virovirokun’s…hmm…

Have I mentioned how much I love Noelle? This funky little Christmas Lesbian can do no wrong.

Oh my god, she can’t even confidently say we’re friends, and hearing Kris say it makes her happy, I love her so much.

Okay, so, Queen drinks Battery Acid. Makes sense for a computer.

Kris is so done with this shit, I can tell.

I am both scared of and loving Queen.

Oh Jesus Christ Berdly what the fuck is that.

That is not greatness that is…I don’t know. I’m pretty sure even tumblr isn’t horny for you, Berdly.

Christ, he’s gonna break Queen by being an idiot and then he’ll be the Chapter boss.

Her eyes say lying. Of course.

“I Did Not Know You Had… Nipples” that’s, a good point.

…Berdly, you disturb me.

Second lost control laughing moment: Noelle’s cardboard robot face, and Queen just saying “Wow Cool Face”

Lancer, what is the “illusory nipple technique”?

Oh, of course the music bots built the statue. Berdly would never do manual labor.

Oh, and, they built the next “big” thing…hmmmm…

Why are we, flavors of tea???

Okay, that should be all the werewires for now.

The, clothing store, sold me, a useless mannequin, for $300. Of course.

I am going to touch the cheese.

Maus!

Cheese maze, purposely ruined to spare more Mices.

Hmm, Berdly talks about Noelle’s crush. $20 says he actually thinks it’s him, or maybe Kris at a stretch.

Noelle is now immune to mice! Yay!

Oh, CD Bagel, Seedy Bagel, just got that.

Okay, sacrifice pacifist run to kill Berdly…I’m tempted.

Uh, Berdly, Noelle just one shot both your allies. I’m not alone, you are.

Jokes on you, buddy, I’ve been dodging A+ for years!

“(He hit me in the face with a tornado…)” Yes, Noelle, and I have papercuts on my eyelids. He do be an asshole.

Oh good, they both made Battery Acid Pies. Now we’re in a car together. Perfect. This is exactly how I wanted things to go.

Potassium

Who is this trash man?

Spamton, huh. Oh boy.

Oh god, this song has lyrics.

Oh joy, a mini boss on my own. Just what I wanted.

Oh, new game over screen! Nice.

Anyways, I hate this guy.

Okay, just one more deal, I think. I wonder what’s next.

I’m not giving you my credit card info, dude.

Oh damnit, 1% more.

Okay, I’m very scared now.

Oh, I lost $51. That’s, fair.

Okay, back in the car.

Oh my god, Queen loves Noelle too. Perfect.

Lancer took the mixtape! Nice!

Oh, he ate it…nice!

DECEMB…

Oh god she’s a little kid.

December.

I’m so sorry, Noelle. I really hope you’re going to be okay. We’ll figure out what to do.

Queen, why does everything you have explode?

Now the prize is on my head.

Susie and Ralsei! You’re back!

She can slightly heal me now…cool!

And she taught him Sarcasm. I love them all so much.

Uh, Susie! You can have it!

Okay, so, now Susie is both gay for Noelle, and suspicious of her. Amazing.

And Noelle is turned on by the threat of being killed. Have I mentioned I love these dorks?

The gang’s all here!

Uh, just got past fireworks, and, where’s Noelle?

Oh, okay. She was just watching Fireworks.

Oooo, catching mice minigame!

Oooo, more elaborate but simpler to control mice minigame!

Oooo, bucket hole!

Also, nice gay Noelle moment noted.

Oh no, please don’t take the perfect girl away from us!

Okay, so, I don’t like Berdly, but, Acid river? Bit much…

Oh, okay. He was never in danger. I hate both of you. GIVE US BACK NOELLE

GOD DAMNIT NOT THE CAGE AGAIN.

Oh, great, now we’re captured too. Except possibly Ralsei.

She only plays mobile games. Burn her.

For once Berdly is correct.

Queen, you are dumb.

Is that the super Mario world fade?

I don’t, next question.

No looking at my Search history!

Oh, hey, we can chat in here.

LANCER TIME!

YES I MISSED YOU YOU DOPE

Lancer, never say Pants hole again, and never say you were inside it either.

Lancer, do you still not know our name?!

So this is how they lampshade the tutorial-Toriel thing, huh?

Oh no, Lancer, please don’t die in here.

Um, are there rooms for all the kids at school?

Asriel…

Puzzle time!

Plot twist: Susie is not Susan.

Berdly is dumb.

Admittedly, I did brute force that second one a bit…

Okay, now Susie has outsmarted both me AND Berdly. This is sad.

Oh god, he’s gonna cry now.

Oh, my god, that’s what December meant. That’s why Berdly cares about Noelle. That’s why…oh god.

Oh wow, Susie’s a gamer. This is incredible Lore.

Oh wow, first Lancer’s face returns, now Berdly is Anime. I love this game.

Oh my god, Ralsei in a tux. I love him.

Alright, so, Lancer needs to go back to Castle Town, and we need to get the heck to Noelle. I hope Berdly’s plan actually works…

Aw, I wanted him to stay tuxedo…

Color Cafe, huh?

Oh god, Rouxls came here. I am terrified.

I love this hype manor song!

Toby Fox, why is there so much 3D Shenanigans in this 2D Top Down RPG???

Note: from here, I end up going to the secret of this chapter. Do not read if you don’t want to be spoiled on that plotline. Skip to where I say Pancake Batter.

Okay, I’m going back, and I’m gonna find this third blue check mark.

Okay, found it, now to get back to the guy…

Yay, fireworks, again!

East treasure’s hallway leading to Basement on 1F…

Oh dear.

So there’s a secret here after all…where is…

Found it!

Okay, how to open this lock, now…hm.

Well, one thing was in the field, so, maybe in the city?

Oh Jesus it’s Spamton.

$28, not a penny more.

KeyGen, huh…

If this is as hard as Jevil, I’m gonna be pissed.

Oh, great, just Kris going in. Again. Fantastic.

Oh what the fuck.

Oh Jesus Christ I hate this build up.

Oh, and I died on the elevator. That’s fun.

Okay, so I hate this elevator. A lot.

Okay! Took like six tries, but I made it past the elevator! Now, let’s see what’s waiting for me…

EmptyDisk…hmmmmmmmm…

Maybe take that back to Scamton or whoever?

…Ralsei, Susie, what are you two doing?

Okay, trash man, you better like this.

Oh Jesus Christ.

Okay, this is not what I expected to follow Jevil’s lead. But, let’s see what happens when I turn this disk in.

Oh, nothing happened. Sure it did. Just gonna walk away then…

Oh, wouldn’t you know it, something happened!

Okay, so big puppet robot man. This is terrifying.

THANK YOU SUSIE!

Roller coaster boss! Again! Oh good!

YELLOW SOUL!

Can’t write notes, gotta kill.

Spamton, oh my god. And it’s Neo’s outfit. How the fuck did I not realize before?

Im terrified, let’s GOOOOOO!

Holy shit is that the Undertale Game Over message??????

Many tries later

Okay, I think it’s actually Ralsei and Susie talking…

Quitting the game so they can get their healing items out of storage and buy some good ones extra later

Okay, third turn, and I’ve only been hit once! Granted, it did almost 50 damage to Susie, but, still, doing better this time!

Even more death later

Did he just, attack himself?

Is he surrendering?

I…I did it! I did it in one sitting! Minus quitting so I could grab healing items that did more than 40 HP!

Oh, he killed him by freeing him…….okay.

Dealmaker, huh? Let’s see what this bad boy is…

+4 defense, +5 magic (even on Kris?), and $+30%…”and…?”

Okay, Ralsei, you get that, Susie get’s Jevilstail, and I get many questions.

Alright, now back to the actual plot!

Oh…Kris has goosebumps, and Susie’s asking if they’re okay…no. I’m saying no.

I love these two so much. Now let’s save the adorable lesbian.

Pancake Batter. Alright, we’re good.

Sorry, Noelle, got distracted.

Mouse wheel!

Tasque manager helped!

Man, this room is big and empty, with an odd exit door and screens on the north wall. Hmmmm…

Toby!

Thank you annoying dog!

Okay, I still love this music. Just wanted to say that. Anyways, PROGRESS!

We’re tea covered now. Except Susie. She’s tea filled.

Oh god, I don’t trust Berdly with Susie.

God, Knight teased.

Duck ride with Fluffy Boy.

Okay, so, puzzle time, methonk.

High Five!

More duck ride!

Ralsei, do you wanna do the kissy?

Oh boy.

Oh jeez.

Oh damn.

Rouxls.

Ralsei, you read my mind.

Oh Jesus it’s the tank from the first game.

Okay, so, we, take houses? Okay.

I can’t believe some people thought this dork was Gaster.

Wow, I beat him in like 3 and a half turns because I blocked him in.

Another God Dammit because SOMEONE didn’t pay attention to what happened to Lancer.

His head is still blue…

Hey, Camera! Peace signs and hugs!

Mostly hugs.

Yay, more Susie and Noelle time!

Oh my god, my heart is breaking.

Okay, I love these adorable girls.

Oh boy, this is, weird.

“Point and hearts come out” or “Eat moss”. The choice of a generation.

Fair point, Susie.

She likes scary things, huh.

Kinky

Have I mentioned how much I love these two? Because I do.

Susie and Noelle are best girls ever, no objections.

Oh good, Berdly, don’t ruin this completely, okay?

I fucking knew it.

Noelle, you’re going to kill him, and that’s okay with me.

Susie, stop squishing him like toothpaste!

Oh boy, I get big “final boss” energy right now…

Werewerewire?!

Okay, so I just stole from Noelle’s room.

Okay, boss time.

Shit, I should’ve healed up.

Okay, so, I died, but, I can fix that!

So, this boss is calling back to how the town’s internet has gone out, a fact I didn’t even learn until watching other content last night when I should have been sleeping, because I forgot to talk to Alphys during the brief chance I had.

Also, now both she and Ralsei have made reference to the real world outside…hmmmm…

So I guess the plot is about Google search being evil…yeah that checks out.

Bitch, did you just funny runny way?

Hmm, I’d say 50/50 odds of him being a drama Queen vs. him trying to trick Susie into caring about him.

Yep, he’s trying to score a kiss. Berdly…get a job.

Alright, let’s save Noelle, and possibly the whole town.

The “Roaring” Knight?

Oh god, the determination…who is this Knight, what is going on, and how involved are we?

Wait wait wait wait wait wait WAIT

When she described the Knight making more darkness, she said they took their blade, and showed an image of a knife. Was…was this…

HOLY SHIT IS KRIS’S NIGHT SELF THE KNIGHT?!?!

Oh. It was a giant robot. Not a statue.

Susie’s dancing!

Oh yeah, he can fly.

Resistance! Yay!

Okay, so, we sentai up in this bitch.

I wonder how the hell this story would go if we didn’t go pacifist then? Because in Chapter 1, all that really changed was how the boss was defeated in the cutscene, and like a couple details later. This is, a lot more than that.

Okay, so, three rounds of HP, punch out for her turns, just keep attacking. Got it.

Two rounds down, one to go!

Yes, eat your own Baseball, bitch!

Oh, suicide attack. Well it was just a robot.

Oh. She still has us.

Oh fuck the robot is Noelle’s mom. Fuck.

Okay, so, Queen is dead.

Oh fuck, don’t take over the world with darkness all of you, please.

The Roaring?

Oh fuck, new legend lore.

Titans, Fountains, enveloping the land in devastation. Oh jeez.

Lost eternally in an endless night…that’s not paradise. That’s hell.

QUEEN IS ALIVE?!?! AND DIDN’T KNOW ANY OF THAT?!?!

Thank you, Susie!

Okay, that’s a good ending for a second chapter, it’s dark fountain time!

Susie, please don’t turn evil.

…

And, we’re in the computer lab!

Wait, Ms. Boom? Does, does Gerson have a daughter, or wife?

Lost control laughing #3: this

I love this game so much. Time to explore town again.

Okay, Alphys does crush on Undyne still, at least.

Oops, I just let all the prisoner dogs out.

Awww, Undyne likes Alphys too!

Napstablook, I love you.

Oh shit, Asgore used to be a pig?

Oh god, this Rudy storyline is gonna be depressing all the way through, huh?

Susie, can we steal the tower of the gods?

Hey, we can actually go back to Ralsei’s dark world?!

Okay, this is gonna be interesting.

Oh thank god, we can save in the epilogue now, cool.

Oh cool, King and Queen together.

Oh my god he calls her Queenie Beanie. I love this.

So, a card and a computer fucked to make Lancer, who is a card. Okay.

Okay, so Lancer DOES know Kris’s name! Just not Ralsei’s!

New battle challenges! Yes!

Might save “Ch. 2 All-stars” for another time, though…

Perfection is the mannequin reaction.

Oh my god there’s a dedicated room for listening to music I love this

Alright, time to skedaddle back to the real world.

Okay, so Alvin is Gerson’s son, and he’s depressed. Fun.

Oh, MK and Snowy are by the creepy bunker. That’s…fun.

Okay, so, Susie scared them off after they insulted Kris, because Kris said something about the bunker…hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

Hey, Nice Cream Guy is one of the Ice-E’s employees! Nice!

Ah, PizzaPants. Never change.

Oh hey, it’s the little guy, who’s clone is a Gaster follower. And the bird guy’s still in the library, and the donut guy is still in his car…

Hey, Catty and Bratty are becoming friends again! Cool!

Omg, Sans’s store is open. Do I…go in?

Hell yes I do!

Okay, so, Grillby’s music still, but, different interior. Interesting…

Sans, a day and 2 years in this game are not equivalent. It’s a day and 3 years.

The trousle grows further away.

Oh jeez Susie’s been drinking the milk. Oh god.

Cool, Susie’s seeing Onion too!

Oh, never mind.

A song is coming from deep under the water…either Shyren is involved, or this is gonna take a turn.

See you, Su-

Oh! Hey mom! Meet Susie!

Pie for all!

Oh my god, Susie, my heart is breaking.

Okay, so Alphys and Toriel know about the chalk. That, kinda makes Susie thinking she’d get expelled for it, really depressing.

Okay, so, Toriel and Susie are gonna make Pie together, that’s cool. Still, pretty worried about, Kris.

Uh, I just ran the sink, and, uh…

WHAT THE FUCK

OKAY SO MY SOUL IS UNDER THE SINK, KRIS WHAT ARE YOU DOING WHY IS IT BLACK OUT THE WINDOW WHERE ARE YOU GOING

WHAT THE FUCK

…so we get a cute scene with Susie and Toriel, then Susie asks where Kris is and…they do this sometimes?

I’m very concerned.

Okay, Toriel is concerned too, enough to say “hell”. Even Susie is shocked.

Okay, so, they’re coming back, uh, okay, this isn’t good, right?

Stopped the faucet, opened the drawer, and…we’re back?!

Kris what the fuck are you doing

And why couldn’t we find Asgore in the town?

Okay, so, we’re all sleeping in the living room. I, guess tomorrow’s the weekend, probably? I don’t know?

Susie, doesn’t have caring parents, I guess?

Oh god, Susie wants them to come to our world, but, Lancer is a playing card, he can’t…I don’t know. I’ll say it’s “far-fetched”.

There’s a festival, apparently. This seems…suspicious.

I’d take Ralsei, so you could take Noelle.

She’s asleep.

That, might not be good, in this context.

Okay, so, we’re asleep too, I think?

Oh god, Toriel’s tires are slashed, that can not be good, in any way.

Okay, night time, Toriel and Susie are asleep…now what are you doing, Kris?

That, knife…

Okay, so, yep, they’re the Knight, and they just opened Darkness in their living room. This is, not, good. And, the tv’s on, and the door’s unlocked…

What the fuck is happening?

Ending credits song sounds, techno? Is this more of Don’t Forget? Or a remix? I hear the lyrics at least.

“To be continued in Chapter 3” OH IT BETTER BE, TOBY

So, yeah, that's Deltarune Chapter 2. In conclusion: this explains nothing, raises 120% more questions, and overall is still an incredible, wonderful game. I also like how each Chapter so far has been almost as long as a full play through of Undertale, and yet we're still somehow only 2 sevenths of the way through. Oh yeah, did I not mention? After completing it, it brought me to a chapter select with SEVEN DIFFERENT CHAPTERS, only two of which were available. So, you know. THAT'S FUN!

In actual conclusion, please play this game, it's free, it's amazing, and also buy the soundtrack on Bandcamp so Toby can make some kinda living.

[dramarising-replacement]

User 'J' here (please, call me JH ;) ), regarding the XXY one off. Just here to set the record straight because this newest 'account' of what happened is even more lie riddled than the first one. We'll go point by point.

I'm not in my late twenties and definitely not in my late thirties (???). (would love to see this 'confirmation').

I am not in plague flight, I am in electric flight.

The user that was 'scammed' (hereafter referred to as user L) has been here since 2016. I have been here since 2019, but only a month or two of that has been actual playtime. No one 'just joined' and both of us were effectively new.

I did not buy the dragon from L. A friend of mine did (also inexperienced in the value side of FR) at a price L set for them to buy.

I did not lie. I've been VERY transparent about everything that has transpired (there is a thread up explaining everything that happened). You guys are the ones throwing the tantrum, because you want me to be the bad guy so badly. I don't feel bad calling any of you stupid; you are for just taking what people say at face value.

L was chill about the mis-sale of the dragon and did not seek it's return. They only expressed an interest in getting the dragon back after seeing the shitshow it's sale had caused with the expectation that them owning it might shut you all up. They accepted my reasoning when I told them I would not be capitulating to mobbing and harassing behavior by giving it to them. They furthermore came into my inbox on my tumblr with the express purpose telling you all to pipe the fuck down. They never wanted to be white knighted and want this to be over and done with (they even went so far to change their username, delete the original sales thread, and remove comments on their den pitying them for being 'scammed'.).

No one is being traumatized or harmed over a dragon they chose to sell at a price they chose to sell it at, jesus fucking christ.

At this point, the story is just a game of telephone now and as a person who comes from a community where we only believe stuff after its sufficiently capped and proven, it's wild to me you guys are just accepting whatever comes out of some anonymous person's mouth.

L is not getting the dragon. It was given to me and I was not apart of the original sale, so I have no reason or responsibility to return it to them and I will especially not be doing it after being threatened with ToS breaks, ostracization, being mobbed, being harassed, ect.

I'm glad you're not me either. The type of person who gets THIS up in arms over a pixel animal? Days after the fact? The fact that you're a real person who un-ironically typed this out, who's upset to this degree over a dumb brown dragon? Creepy.

The XXY-one-off is set to be bred on the 21st (yes i'm aware this lowers his value; no I do not care). Maybe I'll give L one of his descendants, but the dragon itself is out of the question and that's due in part to everyone harassing me about it. I hope everything turned out the way you wanted. 

[personwhowrites]

Could I ask for a super young soldier on the 141 team that lied about their age when they first joined the military and it gets found out by the 141 men 😋???

Hi! I’m so sorry it took me so long to respond to your request. I took a break for a week I was feeling unwell. I’m hopefully back now! Thank you so much for your patience. I did change it slightly to fit the reality of military laws. (Where I live) -E <3

Little lair

You stare at the registration paper in your hands. One section that made you stop in your tracks, a deadly stop that would make you reconsider your decision.

In big black bold words was displayed “Age”. The law on how old you need to be to join, it seem stupid to you. How only a certain people can join since their age is well to join.

“Bullshit..” You mumble looking at the paper. “I’m seventeen I can join well enough! I don’t have to be in my damn twenties to join.”

You set the paper back down on your table. Then sigh in annoyance as your roommate comes into the room.

“What has you all burned out?” They ask grabbing a glass cup from the cabinet. “Oh you finally realized you can’t join them?”

“Shut up..I can join them! If it wasn’t for that dumb law passed down a couple years ago.” You say crossing your arms, then look over at them. “Any possibility you know…”

“Oh no no no.” They say quickly setting the glass cup on the counter. “I am not making you a fake identification! You know how that went last time!”

“But.. I really want this!” You say standing up from your chair. “Please! I live for the military! I can follow my mother footste—“

“Leave your mom out of this! God bless her.” They responded quickly shaking their head. “Y/n, it’s dangerous.. you can get jailed if you turn in a fake identification..”

“Okay then let me play off as you!” You say grabbing their hand. “Please you’re able to apply! I can pass off as you.”

“Hell no! I don’t want that y/n just figure out something yourself.” They say shaking their head angrily. “Stop looking at me like that!”

“..Please! I’ll be out of your hair! Hell I’ll be away” you say holding their hand tightly. “Please, Ill do any—“

“Fine!” They yell moving their hand away. “You can pass as a twenty four person.”

“Thank you thank you!” You say happily hugging them. “Thank you!”

“Come on..let’s get you my information..” they sigh and looks at you. “..your such an idiot.”

“A soon to be in the military idiot!” You say with excitement.

—

“..So..” A man says looking a you. “You want to be a sniper?”

You nod your his words and seat still. Then close your eyes, your heart is racing. Could this even work? Don’t they have to do a background check? A million questions rushed in your mind. What if you couldn’t get in? What if..

“I’m afraid we can’t let you be a sniper.” The man says setting your paper down. “You don’t seem to.. appropriate for it.”

“Excuse me sir?” You say opening your eyes. “What.. I..”

“We can let you try other fields as you.. train under us.” He says setting his right hand on the paper. “Just for a while, your skills seem useful.”

You remain silent as you process your dream being crush. You can’t be sniper.. not like your mother. You stand up from your chair and someone else burst into the room. You and the man that was settling you in turn over to two men.

“Kyle! John!” The man in front of you yells making you sit back down. “I said no interruptions!”

“Sorry Captain, but Kyle stole my fucking food!” John yells shaking his head. “He has done this for the past week!”

“I did not! Pr—” Kyle says stopping mid sentence seeing you. “What’s a kid doing here?”

“Kid?” John says now looking at you. “The hell, Price why is there a kid here?”

“They’re twenty four.” Price says shaking his head. “Jesus.. you all are idiots.”

“I’ll excuse myself.” You say quickly getting up from the chair again. “I will.. think about what you said sir.”

Kyle shuts the door and John looks over at you. Then Price eyes tell you to sit down, which you do. The environment started to get tense as Kyle sat next to you and John lean against the desk. Price cough and grabbed your paper again.

“Soap? You think that they are really twenty?” Kyle says looking at you. “They don’t seem like it.”

Soap? You thought looking at the man leaning on the desk. Must be a code name, a name that seems foolish to your ears. Soap began to speak, it sounded like mumbling to you as someone else enters the room. Your whole body shivered as Price called the man over.

“Ghost, good you came to join us.” Price says as Ghost stands behind you. “Do they seem like they’re twenty four?”

Ghost looks at your back for a memory then walks over to Price. Getting a better view of you, he stands there crossing his arms. Your whole body went into panic as eyes met.

“..No.” Ghost repainted in a husky tired voice. “Not at all.”

“Listen, kid..we get that you want to join the army.” Soap says crossing his arms. “But lying about your age is bad.. especially in a situation like this.”

Your whole body freezes with their words. Price hands the paper back to you and smiles.

“Come back in a few years kid.” Price says looking at your shocked body. “Maybe then you can be a sniper.”

You give a nod and get up from your chair. You bump into Kyle and apologize. Then leave the room, closing the door behind you.

“She got guts..” Soap says looking at Price. “Think they will be back?”

“I’m sure they will be..they’re a little lier..” Price says with a small smirk forming on his lips. “Check other records, and make sure to keep her name on the watch out list.”

—

You sit once more in front of Price. Years passed, he can’t even recognize you until he reads your name. His eyes glisten seeing your name, then he looks up at you.

“If it isn’t.. the little lier of age..” Price says with a dry laugh. “You sure that you’re twenty two?”

“Positive..” You say with a small laugh. “Need an identification?”

“No no.. I think this time you’re telling the truth kid.” Price says looking at your application. “Look at that.. you change your mind on being a sniper.”

“Mhm..medical field interested me.” You say crossing your arms. “Or what.. I’m I not qualified for it?”

“Oh your more than qualified little lier.” He says with a smile. “I actually need one on my team..”

“Offer already?” You say with a laugh. “I don’t think you’re qualified for someone like me.”

Price smiles and stares at you. Your eyes meet, this time.. you’re not as scared like before. You’re more brave, strong and smarter. He expands his hand to you.

“Welcome to task force 141.” Price says with a smile. “Little lier.”

[himbeaux-on-ice]

Can I just say that Habs “fans” who act like Carey Price’s contract is somehow patient zero of all this team’s problems drive me absolutely fucking insane? Seriously. Buckle up. This is about to be a rant.

Now. First things first. Is it ideal that the $10 million goalie is currently uh, not doing very good? Fucking NO! I am disappointed as shit with that and I don’t like seeing him struggle. I know he can be better. He has to be better. Obviously.

However. That being said.

Do I think it’s an incredibly stupid look to spend several tweets complaining about all the issues Habs defence have been having, and then also griping that they haven’t started Jake Allen enough for how he’s performing, only to then for some inexplicable reason state that the FIRST THING, the first thing that needs to be dealt with after the new coaching staff have had ONE GAME (and zero practices) to work on things, is somehow “well, the ten million dollar man in net is weighing them down, that contract has gotta go!”?

Yes! That’s stupid!!

I think that’s a very ice cold small-brain take, and not just because Price is my favourite of favourites for as long as I’ve been a hockey fan! I have reasons, dammit!! I put THOUGHT into this!!

Here, dear ppl of Habs twitter who will never read this, are some reasons why this narrative you’re concocting is dumb, and why management/coaching are unlikely to think of trying to ditch Price mid-season to fix the current problems:

1: Time. It has been one (1) game under Ducharme. He has been able to run zero (0) full practices on off days with the team. We just changed up a major piece on the Habs chess board — why don’t you give it a minute to see what fresh eyes and minds can do with this roster before you decide we are fucked? This season is fast-moving, sure, but there is time for us to ride out some little bumps here and still make a playoff spot in this Canadian division. Have patience. Do you remember what patience is? Dom is a new head coach, not a wish-granting fairy godmother. Chill. Do you remember chill?

(rest of this under a cut because I actually LIKE Habs Tumblr, and I want to be nice to you all by not making you scroll past all of it if you don’t want to)

2: Jake Allen exists. There are a couple of things I like for what this means for the Habs. Firstly, for basically the first time in his NHL career, we are not in a situation where if Carey Price is in a slump, we have to go “Ah, shit, so now our options are let his stats tank while he tries to get the groove back in net, OR throw whoever the poor backup is out there to get murdered while we plummet through the standings.... 😬” We don’t have that problem right now, because the backup is... actually good? Oh my god, the backup is actually good! Thank fuck! We’re not doomed. If I’m Ducharme, I put Allen in net for a few consecutive starts to put a solid backstop behind all my fun experiments I’m probably planning with the skating roster (to catch their slip-ups, while also giving Carey lots of time and rest with which to work hard on sorting out whatever his issue is along with the goalie coaches).

2b: Jake Allen exists and is competition. Hell, if I’m Ducharme, maybe I even play a little hardball and say “Look, Carey, I don’t want you to be an expensive benchwarmer, but if things don’t pick up soon I am going to start whoever is doing best and you will have to compete for that net.” Related to my last point, when was the last time Carey Price had to push himself to compete for net time against anything other than his own injuries, and wasn’t simply always the default starter? Has that EVER been a thing? Honestly as much as I love the idea of him being The Goalie for the Habs, I also kinda like this idea a lot because I think it could really push him to a higher standard of performance. Maybe that kind of high-pressure situation (given how much he thrives in the pressure-cooker of the playoffs) could be what he NEEDS in order to Be Carey Price again. Worst comes to worst, he doesn’t respond to that challenge, and I am very sad but the Habs have a good goalie in net anyway, because Hallelujah, Jake Allen exists! God, isn’t it nice to have Jake Allen? Bless him.

3: Money. Guys, this league is so broke right now. Seriously. Seriously. Nobody has any fucking money. The Habs probably have more money than most teams, and that does not help when it comes to offloading large contracts. Trades are a NIGHTMARE both because of the flat cap but also because travel is complicated (especially cross-border) but also nobody wants to trade within their division if possible because all your games are against them. Who in the name of fuck do you think is jumping at the idea of taking the $10 million per through 20-lots-and-lots-of-years-from-now contract of a goalie who is currently struggling, impressive past record aside? What kind of astral plane of fantasy hockey are you on to think there’s a trade out there for that within this season. Shut up. And no, don’t bring up the expansion draft, this post is a rebuttal SPECIFICALLY to the people who think that Price and his contract are the biggest problem that needs to be dealt with RIGHT NOW and first on the list of ways to immediately remedy the team’s struggles.

4: Spite. Specifically to piss you off, bud. You personally.

5: Knowing how to troubleshoot properly. Fellas, if my computer is running slowly and freezing up a lot, do I immediately decide the first step to fixing it is to crack open the chassis, remove the hard drive, and try to sell that hard drive to someone to see if I can enough money back to somehow get a better hard drive for less? No, dipshit. That’s not how troubleshooting a complex system works works. It’s the same with hockey teams. Ah, my star goalie is not performing great. This situation is deeply less than ideal. If you’re actually good at troubleshooting, the first thing you do is not “WELL. I GUESS WE’LL HAVE TO THROW THE WHOLE GOALIE OUT. HE’S TOAST.” The first thing you do, if you’re a smart coach, is you say “Okay, what are my defence doing in front of him? What are they doing to reduce the amount and quality of our opponents’ scoring chances? Oh. Oh, they’re taking a lot of penalties, and... oh, uh, some of this is very not great. Yikes.” And then you start your work by trying to make the defence actually work instead of running the same Pairs That Everyone Is Very Much Over And Tired Of, because your goalie is actually supposed to be your Last Line of Defence. And maybe during that time you give more starts to Goalie Who Is Absolutely Slaying It, so that when you start trying new D-pairs and they inevitably have some mistakes, it doesn’t immediately turn into an Oh God Holy Fuck moment every time, because that last line of defence backstopping them is solid. The reason you need to deal with defense first is because a) You know you have a reliable goalie (Allen) in your pocket right now if you need him. What you don’t have is a whole-ass proven and tested and practiced Backup D-Core you can swap into the roster in front of your goalies to make their lives easier. Fix your defense and it WILL improve your goalies, even marginally. Defrag the hard drive before you ask why it’s not working. and b) If you need to go looking for any new D-men to solve the issues, those are WAY easier and cheaper to find than top-tier goalies, and you always want to start any troubleshooting process with trying the simplest solutions first to hopefully save time and money. The better that D-core is, the less it fucks your team over if the goalie isn’t feeling themselves, because the D is going to stop more of those pucks before they ever even become the goalie’s problem. FIX. DEFENCE. FIRST. Then try to train your goalie back into top form. THEN explore your other options.

6: The vicious cycle. Guys. We literally do this once every year or second year. EVERY time Carey Price has a slump, this fanbase gets into a tizzy like the Bell Centre is burning down and he was the one with the matches. And what ALWAYS happens literally within the year, every single time? He gets his mojo back like he did last summer in the bubble and goes on a heater and everybody goes “JESUS PRICE!!!! 🙌” and is ready to name their firstborn kid after him. Until eventually that performance becomes unsustainable, and he becomes mortal again, and suddenly he’s The Real Problem With This Franchise once again. I know he’s the guy they chose to build the team around instead of a superstar forward, but oh my god folks. You’d think he was the only player on the team. Guys, I feel like fucking Sisyphus pushing a blue blanc et rouge boulder up Mont Royal once a year with this shit. This man’s entire career has been a constant seesaw narrative between “Carey Price is our saviour!” and “Carey Price should be exiled to Nome!!!!” from parts of this fanbase, I swear. Look, slumps suck, but for once we are actually lucky enough to be in a position where this team, for the first time in YEARS, does not solelylive or die by the inscrutable magical cycles of Carey Price’s goalie powers — because when he has to step back and work to get back into his groove, there is FINALLY a SECOND GUY who is GREAT. Honestly, given that the state of this team for so long has been “they will go as far as Carey Price can take them” and he has put in a pretty fucking decent job of it despite all of the team’s other struggles, I feel like it is owed it to the guy to be like “Okay, well, we have somebody else solid to fill the net right now, and a chance to really figure out our defence and special teams with this new coach. Why don’t you take a step back and work your ass off at trying to get back into the form I know you can still perform at, and we’ll go from there?”

Anyway. Some parts of this fanbase have been waiting for a fresh excuse to claim Price is overrated, washed-up, and to blame for all of this team’s flaws and ills ever since he signed that contract, if not since the start of his NHL career. Just unreal how nasty some of this fanbase is willing to be about a player who is ON. YOUR. TEAM.

Am I saying he is beyond critique of his play and can do no wrong and his contract is perfect? No! I want this team to have the best goaltending it can get, and I want them to kick ass and take names. The difference is, I still believe Carey Price is a part of that winning formula, and I also think Twitter is overflowing with idiots who just repeat what everybody else says. He’s still a better goalie than your ass would be if I stuck you out there to stop shots from Mark Schieffle, for crap’s sake.

“The first thing that has to go is Carey Price’s contract 🤪”. Shut the fuck up. You are actively making other people stupider by talking. Go eat sand. Good day.

[gaming-thoughts-by-an-idiot]

Fallout76 again:

"Ok but like, if you dont lock your stuff, it's free so like?"

"Oh my god... three... wE ARE THREE ASEXUALS AT THE SAME TEAM YOOOO! LOOK AT THAT??? THREE FLAGS, WHAT ARE THE ODDS??? YAAAS PRIIIIIDEEEEEE✊🏻✊🏻"

"Leave me alone, I'm shopping"

*tame mirelurk king walks around* "... ok that's just freaky"

"I've done so many quests, so fast, so many daily quests.... and now I have three left, and then I'm changing character and I just... hhhhhhh"

"Someone is waving at me, I'm in pip boy, go away??? Hhh what are they doing?? I hear the ?? Sound"

"Camp hopping, I'm tired of the over priced stuff.... just coman, I never go above"

"Hehe, sloCUM"

"I feel so bad for just going to their camp, and not buying"

"Someone is buying things from me! :D"

"... I think I need like four characters to get all the endings... should I make a new one?"

"Ok ok, interesting camp"

"What??? Where, what?? Its like a maze? And a race track and and?? I got stuck xD I just wanna buy stuff what is going on"

"Fuck.. I missed"

"Xxflo fr... you genius"

"I bet the shop isnt even at the end"

"They can see me when I enter their shelter, they know of my mistakes"

"I'm checking the other shelter"

"Fine, fine, fiiine! I'll make it"

"I'm gonna film this place"

"What a ride this is"

"This bothers me xD I want a jet pack, I wanna cheat"

"I just sent them a message 'Please, where's your vendor?😭😭' I'm stuck in a hole... for the forth time😭😭"

"Its outside! I'm screaming"

"Hell no, they're level 300??? Fuck that, they showed up on the camp, I'm not staying around high levels, ik its dumb, but I get so angsty.. yes I am 270, but I'm an idiot"

"I sent them a reply that said 'I'm a fool😭' "

"Help help help. A power armour ran towards me"

"Just saying that, normally when its night where I live, that's when people get mean to me"

"I generally dont wanna go down to peoples shelters if they have the vendor there... I was here since the beta. I have bad experiences"

"Power armour people are ✨scary✨"

"I should get like a watch that checks my pulse, so I can show when my pulse spikes whenever i see a high level player around me"

" :c i was just removed from the team... it's a glitch ik that but still :c "

"Oh... it wasnt a glitch... they just threw me out..... ;-; i thought we were strong aces.... I'm sad now"

"I'm all alone on a team"

"That's fine, I'm done here anyways so fuck you ;;;;-;;;;;"

"I have to do daily stuff with Jesus too, so whatever"

"I'm sad"

"... I'm on the same map... how why what no why?????"

"No wait, I think flo just jumped map too?"

"What just happened"

"Oh, ok, enemies took care of the quest, cop a squatter thing, so yay"

"Why wont anyone be with me"

"I joined team with flo, spooky"

"Ok, I'm now suddenly doing a quest?"

"This weapon is shit... lvl 45"

"Yay! Someone bought stuff from me🥰"

"Omg its flo"

"I have to remember that is is a good character, Jesus is here for good things. This is not my main where I'd see a scavenger, and even after they give me things, I kill them... no cuz this is a good character and they're not a raider, gotcha"

"A hunt for magazines, they cannot escape me"

"Fighting with my cat, I say 'no, u cant sleep my lap, that's where the controller is', and the fucking moment I wrote that, the fucker jumped on my lap. What an asshole"

"No magazine, but a bobblehead"

"Ok, flo isnt home, let's go"

"!!!! They showed up"

"Ok, flo got a female character, which means nothing, but for some reason it's like 'phew', and that is very sexist of my brain, I am sorry"

"Omg they're approaching me ;-;"

"Oh, waving, yeah hello bye thanks for selling stuff to good prices byee"

Me: oh they're not so scary after all

Them, approaching me, prob with no ill intentions:

Me: STRANGER DANGER😭😭

" but that's just me with any high level or power armour person so"

"Ok ok, I went to get Beckett, and then I have to get his shit, but i went back to my camp first to fix shit, and blood eagles followed me????"

"People left the team... now it's only me😭😭"

"Joined a new one"

"And someone right away started to buy from me, omg thank youuu"

"... here we go again... let's build stuff again, wow a new house woo -.-"

"Jesus.. *heh* I've gamed waaaay too long"

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 3

 chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.  

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those  birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh.  And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?  

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you  lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.  

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

[evilmortys]

“Well, it’s great to have you back here in our chambers again. And by that, we of course mean that it’s literally the worst to have you back here in our chambers, C-136.” There’s a definite familiarity in the way Riq IV utters his indicative numerals that rings almost personal, but understandably, there’s little fondness behind his severe greeting. Jesus Christ, he thinks to himself sourly, this fucking Morty again. “You know how this goes, so let’s get right to it. State your name and dimension number for the record, turd.”

“Yeah, well, here’s somethin’ for the record: I’m not- I’m actually not too jazzed about it myself, y’know? Every time I get hauled here, I gotta- I gotta look you guys in the faces for like, an hour. And they’re really ugly ones.” Morty rebukes, arms folded over his chest defensively. His insides quiver like jelly. Deep down, he’s actually really not so good with this confrontation stuff, believe it or not. What Morty is? Still, he can’t half pretend to be unflinching when a situation calls for it. Nerves sufficiently steeled and outward appearance nothing short of done with this shit, he obliges the demand. “Mortimer Smith, Earth Dimension C-136. No additional numerals applicable.”

“Watch it.” Another council member snaps suddenly, already infuriated by the blatant lack of respect, and Morty’s gaze drifts to the secondary speaker. Hazel eyes rest upon the decrepit figure boredly, and he inwardly debates whether it’d be worth it to point out he doesn’t even know the name of any of these other assholes- that’s- that’s about how relevant their input is to him right now. Probably shouldn’t, he concedes grudgingly. Don’t bite the bullet when it comes to spitting snark, y’know? Employing restraint now leaves wiggle room to get away with saying more once this discussion inevitably goes to shit. He looks back to their spokesperson wordlessly, gaze expectant.

“Yes, Rick Prime, you’re absolutely right. He says what we’re all thinking! Now... let me see what you’ve gotten up to this time, C-136. While I’m reading the report over, why don’t you go ahead and tell me: who the fuck do you think you are? And why do you think you can get away with this shit? We’d all love to hear it.” Riq IV gathers up the loose-leaf before him and taps the papers against the imperial desk he sits behind, neatening the stack before beginning to look them over.

“I don’t think I’m anyone- anyone... look, I didn’t do anything wrong,” Morty protests defensively. “There’s nothing I’d even be getting away with! That’s- whatever’s written there, it won’t- it’ll all be a bunch of bullshit!”

“Really? Because let me tell you, this is all lining up very well with what we’ve come to expect of your character.” Riq IV heaves a world weary sigh, bracing himself for what’s to come (this particular turd, and the circumstance of his Rick being such a generous contributor, always makes everything so difficult), and passes the report along for the other council members to peruse. Can’t effectively threaten this one, really. But like hell he won’t try. “Here’s our working theory, turd. You believe that you’re special, and brave, or some shit, and- and you think that because your Rick happens to donate to us often that we have to tolerate this kind of shit from you and take it on the chin. That your actions here don’t have consequence. Am I in the ballpark, C-136?”

“Not even close!”

“Then do you want to tell us what the fuck happened?! Do you want to, oh, I don’t know--- clue the council in on why you saw fit to push a Rick to the ground, stamp repeatedly on his ballsack, and punch him in the face until... he- cried---? Jesus Christ, in- in hindsight- this geezer’s not reflecting on us well. How does this even happen? He got fucked up by a Morty? I mean, at that point, you pretty much deserve whatever happens, right? What the fuck was I even reading there, y’know?” 

Riq IV isn’t quite addressing C-136 come the end of that impassioned order for an explanation, and is instead glancing at the other members incredulously, brow knitted indignantly. The other four Ricks murmur heatedly in irritable agreement, though they’re keen to point out Mortys should never possess the balls to lash out at a Rick violently regardless. With a nod of his head, the spokesman looks down upon the yellow-shirted bastard beneath him, and snaps, “Whenever you’re ready, C-136. Take your time! I know you think this Citadel bows to your goddamn whims either way. Go ahead and phone a fucking friend- why not? You’re- you’re a little monster.”

“Oh, I’m ready, you stupid haircut having- you’re a- dumb ass motherfucker,” Morty spits vehemently, gritting his teeth, before catching himself. His gaze briefly averts, as if in wordless apology for his blunt outburst. He draws himself up slightly, gesticulating with his hands as he attempts to get across his reasoning. “Look, I know it sounds bad. It was bad! It was! I know. But that Rick, he- he was, he was pushing this Morty around, being such a dick, making fun of him, and- there was... he didn’t even have a reason! That Morty was mute, y’know? He’d- he’d had his tongue cut out, or- or maybe ripped out by some sorta alien... I don’t know. He was making this awful gurgling noise, he was frightened, and- what, was I just supposed t- to walk on by? Pretend I couldn’t see that happening?!”

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.” Riq IV says pointedly, as if affronted he has to clarify the obvious at all. “We can only assume that Morty was behaving in a way to make him deserve that, just as you should have assumed, turd. Besides, I’ll have you know that tongueless Mortys are in, uh- pretty high demand, for the more morally ambiguous Ricks. In fact, I’m pretty sure we offer services for a humane snip of the tongue. We do that, guys, right? ... Maybe it’s more of a black market thing? Yes. It’s- it’s just an adjustment that can be made to you little bastards, for a price, much like implanting chips into your spines and weaponizing you for efficiency. And let me tell you something: it’s one that I plan to recommend to your grandfather if you continue to push your luck. Our tolerance only goes so far, no matter how much of an asset Rick C-136 is to the development of our Citadel. We won’t exactly crumble without him.”

“Fuck you! Wh- what the fuck is WRONG with you?! Y- you wanna know something?! You wanna know what I think?! Don’t answer: I- I know you don’t, but fuck you, and listen up anyway! Every single one of you BASTARDS are DEFINITELY gonna die with each other’s dicks in your throat from how much you suck each other off! How can you sit up there, and say shit like that, and- and not hear how fucking awful you all sound?!” 

His gesturing hands have long since returned to his sides, and his arms are tensed where they rest- C-136 is acutely aware of the fact that he’s trembling, shaking with anger that has never felt more well founded. Despite himself, he curls his fingers and balls them into fists, as if- as if he could swing for those smug motherfuckers up there from all the way down here. Morty has to jut his chin just to regard them with all this fury, and there’s nothing to goddamn do with it- his breathing quivers from his lungs tensely, and there’s a challenging look crystal clear in his blazing eyes. Can’t do anything about it, the reminder bangs in his brain. The Guard Ricks posted all around don’t even motion to grip their guns tighter, because they fucking know it, and the council fucking knows it, and they know he’s painfully aware of it, too. 

Their broad, shit-eating grins say it all--- at least, they do, until Ricktiminus Sancheziminius sees fit to glance upward briefly by chance, and winds up visibly starting, and fixing his gaze on something else entirely. Somebody else. Somebody other than the spectacle of that notoriously difficult Morty having an outburst. Ricktiminus Sancheziminius nudges Riq IV sharply in the side, and upon gaining the other’s attention and irritable acknowledgement, indicates the new arrival to the spokesman. He soon sobers, flashing the figure at the entrance to their chambers a bemused look- and the others are quick to follow his lead. Morty’s brows knit, and he glances over his shoulder- heart sinking---no, outright dropping---deeply into his stomach the very instant he’s processed it. 

Fuck.

“Ah, your keeper’s here, C-136. Rick Sanchez, earth dimension C-136! We presume our message reached you in a timely manner... and yet, enough time has passed for your grandson to spit vulgarities at us for quite a while. I certainly hope we didn’t pull you away from anything important...” Riq IV smiles strangely, almost as if simpering. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there is something deeply false to the curve of his mouth. Belching, he waves a careless hand, as if to dismiss his own backhanded, apologetic sentiment before the other can even respond to it. “... Though it begs the question of what could be more important than the Citadel. We both have this society’s best interests at heart, after all.”

“Yeah, y-eeeuurgh-eah, what-the-fuck-ever.” Rick replies, sweeping into the chambers and standing at Morty’s side, flashing him a deeply vexed look. He probably heard that whole last part, and out of context, it doesn’t really reflect well on the flicker of patience he's been trying to maintain all the while. “I was balls deep in the concept of time when you motherfuckers called me, so ex-cuse me if I’m not particularly chirpy about being called over this time around. He- he better have at least killed someone, is what I’m saying. I was getting action. Literally fucking with time. I- I don’t wanna fucking be here for anything less.”

Morty’s mouth falls open as he hastens to try and explain himself, ready to trip over his own spluttering words until Rick comes to understand that he was just trying to help- before he realizes, dully, that it won’t even matter. Huffing, the teenager simply looks askance, knowing full well Rick won’t take his side on this. Almost can’t take his side on this. Though it’s not like the other ever strives to have his back anyway. 

This train of thought is a bitter one, and it rattles through his head so loudly, all the biting reminders that he’s in a room full of people who don’t give a shit what he has to say in the slightest, that he briefly tunes out from the exchange between the council and his disapproving grandfather. Their words are little more than buzzing in his ears, but he doesn’t miss much. They’re just filling his companion in on what shit trick he’s pulled this visit. A sharp flick against the side of his head soon bumps him back to reality, and a deep scowl curls the sixteen year old’s lip as he rubs it, fighting the innate urge to bitch. Rick scoffs at him, before turning his attention back to the six alternates perched up there.

“See that? Not even listening. Look, this time last year, Morty was all over the Citadel, just like I am. Nobody’s saying anything about taking issue with this place. Nothing but support in the C-136 household. He’s just going through a little phase, in case you can’t tell. You ever had a sixteen year old Morty? Nightmare. Rebellion, he’s all- all stick it to the Ricks, y’know? He’s just being a c-eeeuurgh-ontrary little shit. Christ, the whole reason he’s here is to pick some crap up that I ordered- did you even fucking get around to grabbing that, Morty? Before you started swinging for Ricks?”

“Yeah. I got it.” Morty says shortly. “Laruxion ore.” 

He finds himself physically biting down on his tongue, as if to chastise it prematurely as it twitches to run away with him about what a nightmare even just grabbing Rick’s shit was, too. The shopkeeper glared down at him, and asked a few dozen hostile questions about what a Morty was doing picking up something so volatile, so potentially dangerous, for his Rick. If it were up to me, he’d declared, unwillingly bagging the package up all the same, you wouldn’t be running around with something like this. Taking it to your Rick or otherwise. Guy can’t pick up his own shit?

“Aw, jeez. Well,” Morty had shot back, unable to help himself, “don’t you all think we’re too stupid to do anything smart anyway? Either you think Mortys are capable of falling the entire Citadel with this ore, and you won’t fork that shit over to me because of that, or you think we’re dumbass, i- incapable, um, y’know- sidekicks. In which case, there’s- there’s no harm in handing it over to me. Right? Just saying, y’know. Y- you guys should pick a lane. Aw, jeez.”

Suffice to say, Shopkeeper Rick was not impressed with his take on the matter, and all but threw the bag across the counter into Morty’s fumbling hands, before angrily shooing him off.

“Might as well have done it myself. Can’t even run an errand without getting stirred up in shit. Look, council,” Rick grouses, pinching the bridge of his nose in a show of utter annoyance, “Let’s just call this square. We all fucking paid for his shit trick today, right? I got blue balls, you had to, uh... rightfully bitch at him, waste your... precious time on a dumbass Morty. And he’s gonna get a fucking earful. I’d- I’d say it won’t happen again, but, Christ- is- was he even entirely in the wrong? If a Rick can get taken out by a Morty, he’s not exactly a valuable member of this society. The society I funnel a lot of fucking cash into on a monthly basis, might I add. G- g-eeeUURGH-etting pretty sick of the same old bitchfest about every toe my moron puts over the line when he’s here. Do you guys do this for every Morty that acts out? I’m just sp-eeEUURGH-itballing over here, but- I kind of thought I was donating to people that had slightly better shit to do than pull my Morty up for being a little- a little angsty, or whatever the fuck, right now.”

“... We do this for Mortys that repeatedly cause issues within our citadel. Which yours does to the point of notoriety, C-136. If you’d only rein in your Morty, this wouldn’t be an issue to begin with---”

“Oh, my God- shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck UP---”

“Morty, YOU shut the fuck up. Sorry for him, as usual. Are we done here?”

“... Of course. We, uh, we’d like to reiterate our gratitude for your contributions to maintaining the-”

“Yeah, yeah, leave me another f-eeEUrrrgh-ucking voicemail about it. Come on, Morty. Y- you’re gonna- I’m gonna fucking kill you when we’re outta here,” Rick chastises, and reaches out to grip his forearm and pull him along as he paces away from his six alternates, muttering darkly under his breath all the while. Visibly nettled by the threat, the sixteen year old bitches top note and makes several efforts to wrench his arm free- and easily manages it once they’re back in the sea of alternates that is the main hub of this hellhole as Rick reluctantly eases his hold.

“Don’t grab me! And- and y’know what, don’t bust my balls about this, either. Would it kill you to be on my side? Like, ever? Wh- why would I beat on anyone for no goddamn reason, Rick?!” Morty explodes, and his grandfather rakes a hand through his tufts of blue hair and glares.

“You know exactly why, Morty. Besides. I’m not exactly in the business of backing you up- not sure if you’ve noticed. Because you’re never actually in the right. You’re just taking everything to heart and poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, as usual. Got that?” 

There’s a certain bitterness behind his words. How the hell do you think it’s going to reflect on me if they know I’ve never been able to put a lid on your shit, Morty? Rick sets off walking, and for a moment, Morty hangs back- hesitating to follow, eyes narrowed fiercely at the other’s retreating back... before he groans, and hastens to scramble through the thick crowds and catch up, demanding an explanation all the while.

“Why do you even put up with their crap, Rick? I- I don’t get it. You’re throwing money at a bunch of dicks, t- to support something you don’t even- to support the fucking Shitadel?” Morty gesticulates wildly, hazel eyes narrowed and gaze intent as he regards his older relative, forearms raised and fingers splayed out in a demonstration of utter bewilderment. “I’m just trying to understand why- why the fuck you would do that! Y’know? Y- you don’t even like this fucking hellhole! The people who live here don’t even like it! I just, I- I don’t---”

Rick’s shoulders slump under this bout of badgering, and, if only to quieten the idiot down, he caves. Lowers his voice and mutters quietly, so as not to be listened in on by anyone around them. 

“You don’t g-eeURRGH-et it? Yeah, I heard you the first time. Look, M-Bomb, if I know those assholes---and I am those assholes---being, y’know, blatant about hating their fucking guts isn’t the way to go. If I say what I think, tell ‘em to suck my balls and shove their society up their ass, how- how exactly do you see that playing out for me?” 

Rick pauses, as if awaiting an answer. Bewildered, the teenager beside him blinks a tad owlishly, and at long last, opens his mouth in preparation to fumble for some sort of answer. The very moment he begins to speak out uncertainly, his grandfather purposefully presses on with his point, much to the boy’s visible aggravation.

“I’ll tell you how it’s gonna play out for me. I- I know it’s a little beyond your, uh, limited understanding, Morty. They’re gonna scout for a new paypig, come in the night, haul us outta home, take my portal gun, and make me a fucking janitor, Morty. Meanwhile your dumb ass is gonna- you’ll end up in that shitty Morty School, taking classes on how to bark great idea, grandpa, like- like some mindless little moron who can’t think for himself. They’d parade you around as an example of how well they break you little bastards down into yes-man sidekicks, since you’re such a stubborn piece of shit. And that’d be if y-eeEUrgh-ou’re lucky, by the way.”

“... Ha. Yeah, well, don’t- don’t talk like you wouldn’t like that. The last part, I mean.” He snorts, and a brief flicker of amusement brightens his companion’s resigned expression. Rolling his eyes, Rick rolls his shoulders into a shrug as they walk, moving through the sea of yellow-shirted teenagers and lab-coated fossils.

“Only if you don’t talk like you wouldn’t get a fucking kick out of seeing me scrub a toilet,” he snipes, and they exchange a glance. 

There’s a brief, strange moment wherein something shifts between them- all the unspoken anger, the seething temper, the typical wariness that clings to the air that hangs between them seems to all but ebb away. 

Morty cracks first. The corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly, a fit of snickers rises in his throat... and the second Rick clocks that he’s going to burst out laughing, he cracks up, too. They laugh, and they laugh, and just when it seems that they’re going to calm back down, they catch each other’s eye and lose it all over again. The other Ricks and Mortys waiting in line for a return portal to their dimension cast them strange looks as they all but giggle feebly beside each other, adamantly refusing to meet each other’s gaze in a fervent effort to recover, now; letting things lapse back into their norm. 

All good things eventually draw to a close, and sure enough, this temporary, shared moment of reciprocal sentiment is one of them. The teenager can’t help but push it, however. Let it last just a minute longer. I won’t hate you again, just for a fraction more time. Don’t hate me again, just for a bit longer. While Rick moves to procure his silvery flask from his pocket, amused grin easing in the corners as his expression becomes idly impatient once more, Morty inhales, picking at a loose thread on his sweater if only to busy himself with something, too.

“Hey, Rick?” His tentative broach at conversation is met with a grunt while the old man slugs back his potent alcohol supply. Casting his grandfather a tentative smile, he fidgets with his fingers. “... Thanks. And- sorry. I- I know you hate, y’know, this whole- paying off this shithole, so we don’t wind up here, and stuff. And seeing those motherfuckers, and their stupid haircuts, more than you have to.”

... The sentiment doesn’t quite have the effect he wanted. Rick doesn’t smile back, once he’s finished downing the last drops from his flask. His brow narrows as he shoves it back into the pocket of his lab coat, and he shakes his head dismissively, refusing to take the attempt to uphold their good mood at face value. Disdain creeps right back into his tone- that distaste and disapproval over Morty’s every choice today rearing it’s ugly head with a vengeance, it seems.

“Yeah. I do. So I guess you owe me b-eeUURGH-ig time, Morty.” 

He returns simply, and Morty’s heart sinks upon registering the snippy edge to Rick’s tone... before he soon finds himself frowning deeply, annoyed with himself for even trying; consumed with that aching anger once again. There’s a certain, undeniable comfort to be found in how familiar the feeling is. Losing the moment of enjoying one another’s companionship, of things being how they were some two years ago again, stings. Undoubtedly. But it’s better not to dwell on them. 

Part of him always wonders if it’s his fault they are the way they are. Keeping each other at arm’s length. Essentially communicating through picking fights over nothing, and bickering over absolute bullshit, with terribly occasional, painfully rare warm moments interspersed amidst all of their resentment. If he were only more wide-eyed and naive, Rick wouldn’t be like this with him. Right? Rick thinks that Morty doesn’t know precisely what his fucking problem is, but it doesn’t exactly take a genius to decipher why he’s so harsh with him most days. Read between the lines of his grandfather’s unspoken resentment. 

No. It takes a smart, capable Morty, unafraid to call him or anyone, really, on bullshit, and injustice. And he never wanted that. What sort of Rick fucking does? The entire point of a Morty is to stand beside you, go along with whatever you say despite their own rightful apprehensions, to freak out and struggle and be impressed, awed, and horrified by the shit you pull. They’re sidekicks, but they’re never supposed to be all that competent. That’s the role of the Rick, after all. C-136 was fearful and clueless when they adventured in his youth, sure. There was a time. But he outgrew it far too fast, picked up on things far too quickly, keen for approval he didn’t want to give purely because of how actually deserved it was. Jesus, even as a kid, he was perceptive. Intrusively so. Full of cutting observations--- with alarmingly poignant outbursts over how Rick conducted himself, dripping with disdain for his behaviour, being plentiful from the tender age of eight.

Rick speaks.

“... Quit pulling this shit.”

Morty snaps.

“Quit being shit, Rick.”

They fix one another with a long, lingering look. It feels like a game of chicken- daring the figure across from them to be the one to break the prolonged staredown they’re locked into... and in turn, out himself as the coward ultimately too afraid to face up to the other. It ends in a perfect draw; grandfather and grandson tear their gazes away at the same moment, scoffing over how stupid it was at all, deliberately shuffling to sit a few more inches apart from one another. 

Distance from it, the duo both decide sullenly. Never as different from one another as they like to insist, unbeknown to the two of them. All you can do. He can’t be told.

Rick and Morty, Earth Dimension C-136, await their assigned portal back home in silence; the balance restored in their uncaring world, and dynamic decidedly chilly once more.