#Social Nix

[confetti-cat]

Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

[itsyveinthesky]

Nicht das die AfD groß Wahlhilfe braucht im moment wenn ich die Prozentzahl der Wähler in MEINER Altersklasse sehe die für sie wählen würde. Mir ist schlecht ey.

Wundert mich aber auch nicht, diese Generation ist so dermaßen politisch nicht involviert es ist echt zum kotzen.

Derzeitige Zahlen der U18 Wahlen in Bayern:

[f1ghtsoftly]

I know everyone is doing it but I am so serious please stop going online and wishing Trump dead like

[thenixkat]

Me: [racking my brain to try and figure out ethical superheroics]

Me @ Ted Kord: You've been tasked with restructuring society from the ground up in yer tristate area

[nixotinix]

More G3 Holt art because I have problems and I love this design!! Last one is a lil outfit meme hehe

Anyways, him!

[nix-letras]

Hola!

Se que salud mental es importante y lo difícil que es acceder a ella. Si necesita atención psicológica, o capacitaciones con una corriente más psicológica puedes escribirme por WhatsApp, o al correo.

Incluso, si eres estudiante de psicología y necesitas tutoría igual escríbeme, encontraré una forma de ayudarte.

Nix

[phoenixdaneko]

Me, going into my fave creators ask boxes and complimenting them and then skedaddling away:

also me: is this the equivalent of a cat bringing you a gift and then leaving again???

[racxnteur]

The problem with deplatforming a person as a form of social/political action is that what that actually looks like, and how to achieve it, can be frustratingly unclear.

Defenestration, on the other hand…

[godzexperiment]

the foolish behavior i exhibit makes me incredibly charming

[phoenix-eclipses]

Sometimes I intensely stare at someones account and the lil messages icon because I wanna talk to them but I am also so fearful of doing it so I move away

[familiaanteomnia]

cosmic hiccups my beloathed  *shining light of activity is happening but also- i seem to have awakened bot activity the most*

[gummycolachief]

Mhm yeah cool video and all but

THAT AINT STYX?

Got no fingers in the pie

Styx, the "owner" of Mozzerella Styx Pizzeria, is making a pizza… for the first time?

[nixnephili]

Fyo!Atsushi A.U. - The Underground Casino

"Turning his gaze forward again, he walked after Sigma through the glowing lights of the casino. The place was typically crowded, and it was in moments like these that he was thankful for his ushanka's ear flaps. All the patrons were caught up in a loud, overbearing, and idealistic world of their own. Most barely noticing the 3 of them pass by, which in heighnsight wasn't a big deal when looking towards himself and Nikolai..as whenever they would hang around here, it wasn't to socialize with the addicts at the roulette tables. But Sigma owned the place, on the other hand, though it seemed to be inconsequential to most of the players at this hour of the night. What a waste of time..."

-Atsushi, fragment from chapter 3

-Nix🌙

[mayakern]

hiiii it's me! devin! ur favorite!

maya is still banned from doing big business things on social media while she takes time to rest and detoxify from the poison that is running social media full time for ten years. everybody clap! yay!

i'm here to share some info on our button-up shirt and dress preorders!

as many of you already know, i lost my anti-preorder campaign due to the high minimum per design. there's been some confusion and uncertainty. carsyn's doing her best but preorders are overwhelming and i have some time today

SO TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS:

how close are you to hitting the minimum goal for the button-up shirts and dresses?

not close lol. as of 4/26 we're at about 8% funded. i refuse to panic until after may 3rd

why the funeral design?

the funeral design won our design poll

initially we were going to run preorders for two designs: funeral as well as astronauts. when we got news that the minimum would be 400 garments per design (we're able to spread that across the button-up shirts and dresses) we decided to cut back to one design. we're really not big enough to expect 800 orders on an $80-90 item

why not another design?

another design did not win the design poll

what would have been chosen other than funeral or astronaut?

deadly florals, hiss from a rose, microorganisms, and hands were all the top placers in the design poll after funeral

can you do solid color?

yes

why didn't you do solid color?

you can buy a solid color button-up shirt or dress from anywhere. the plan has always been to introduce these garments in solid color after their initial introduction

...so can you do solid color?

we will consider doing solid color preorders if these preorders bomb

how much would solid color cost?

probably the same. it's not much cheaper. it's faster to make tho

how much would the ecovero viscose cost instead of cotton?

maybe like $10 cheaper

it's really soft tbh but it's a different weave from the viscose for the skirts. it's my number one fabric for the button-ups but alas the cotton fandom won for now

what happens if preorders bomb?

we cancel and refund all preorders.

maybe we'll try again with a different design or with fewer features after we have some time to decompress from the nightmare that is running preorders (can you tell i hate preorders). if they bomb bad enough we may completely nix patterned button-up shirts and dresses. we don't know yet!

does that affect the picnic top?

the picnic top is completely separate. since it's made out of a different fabric it has its own minimum, so it will not be affected by button-up shirt and dress preorders

and like, to be totally honest, it's way cheaper to produce. we can eat some of the cost and just make them. they're small enough to store easily and they're at a lower price point so we can expect to sell them after we receive them, like the wrap tops

btw, we have other ready-to-ship things already in production. we've been working on a whole secret project. surprise!

why did you launch preorders for the button-up shirt/dress at the same time as the picnic top?

the picnic top sample came in with the button-up dress sample and it needed very little alteration. also maya liked it. also we may be developing an entire line inspired by the picnic top so keep an eye out for that next spring

why is the new button-up shirt more expensive than the old button-up shirt?

it's more expensive to make

why is it more expensive to make?

this is a different factory from the one we used before. it's more expensive because they pay their staff a higher wage and likely have other costs

this is a different fabric from the one we used before. it's a stretch cotton with a GOTS certification

this is imported from a different country from the one we used before. turkey has much higher import fees to the US

what is a GOTS certification?

the short version is the fabric itself is more environmentally friendly and produced with more fair labor practices than standard cotton

you can read the long version here here

can you do fulfillment from somewhere other than the US?

we're working on it. it probably won't lower prices tho, since fulfillment centers also cost money

anyway...

none of this is to shame someone for not preordering. groceries are expensive and things are tight, plus it kinda sucks to spend on a tight budget and not get what you ordered for a few months

(can you tell i hate preorders)

i think there's a lot of surprise since we've never done preorders on a single design before, and that's fair! we debated on doing a kickstarter but a) i hate doing kickstarters b) kickstarter takes a percentage of sales and our profit margin on these is already lower than we'd like it to be

i'm tired and i can't remember anything else i wanted to say. i may answer any additional questions from my own tumblr (@punchyemblem and now i'm gonna get a notification that i'm gonna be jumpscared by) but carsyn will be handling most questions

also don't worry, when you say nice things we still show maya. also she's fine, she's just in her (forced and highly necessary and possibly permanent) limited social media era

[georgiapeach30513]

Your Mark On Me, Part 5

Summary: Bucky and Shy Violet

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Shy!Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, depictions of anxiety/panic attack, depictions of social anxiety, mentions of child abuse, mentions of death of a parent, arson, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 5.9K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*Bucky Barnes edits by Nix Akimbo

*Dividers by @firefly-graphics

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

You inhale deeply. Exhaling as you take another step forward. This was a bad idea. It hadn’t been long enough.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Blinking away the tears as much as you can, you look at the aisle in front of you. Grocery shopping shouldn’t be so difficult. And it shouldn’t hurt so much. You drank coffee. You needed things to make the perfect coffee, and it made you think of your father all over again.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

You’re not a particularly claustrophobic person, but the aisles are closing in on you. It is becoming difficult to breathe. Just reach out and grab the milk. It was right there, and you needed it. You were told getting out would help you. It wasn’t.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

There are eyes all on you. They are judging you. Whispering about you. They hadn’t seen you out since before your father passed. They were talking about his death. You hear someone even whisper something about a mercy kill.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Your lip trembles as you reach into the cooler. Grabbing onto the milk. You did it. Now to put it into the cart. Inhale. Exhale. One movement at a time. This would have to be all you got for for today, you are already exhausted thinking about checking out. A cart crashes into another, and you flinch, dropping the milk loudly onto the floor. Exploding the carton everywhere.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Dropping onto the floor, you hug your knees to your chest, counting to six way too many times. You messed up again. You failed again. You were being laughed at again. You were hated again. You were a joke again.

“Hey,” his voice is soft as he places your hand over his mouth. “Feel my breath,” you look up at him confused as he deliberately breathes onto your fingers. His silver eyes look at you with the utmost tenderness.

“There ya go. Just like that,” your breathing starts to regulate, and you feel your ass soaked in spilled milk. “Uh uh, keep feeling my breath,” his voice is soothing. Caring. You hadn’t heard a voice like that in years, if ever.

Your body slowly stops rocking as your breathing finally gets back normal, “There she is. Do you need help standing?” You give him a nod, and he pulls you up right along with him. “You want me to get you some more milk?”

“No,” you answer suddenly. He doesn’t question you. Just nods gently. “I’ll just make a grocery order, and pick it up later.

“Okay,” he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you walk towards the exit. You didn’t even thank him. You just walked away. You couldn’t turn back now. So you tell him thank you in your mind, and hope that with enough conviction, he will be able to feel it.

Bucky’s mouth turns up into a smirk as he follows you. Not close enough that you will notice him though. He had to make sure you were okay. Had to know that you would make it home safely. He’d even provide you with milk if that’s what you needed. But something tells him that approaching you would be too much.

He’d find out where you lived, and then find out more about you. It wasn’t weird, it was his duty to make sure you survived making it home. A panic attack could be dangerous. And he wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing that you weren’t okay.

Close enough to watch you, but far enough away that you couldn’t see him. That is his goal.

Bucky leans his body up against his motorcycle. His eyes are focusing in through your window. He worried about you. You had left in such a hurry, and your driving had much to be desired. Dusty old truck. No way it was yours.

You pace around in your living room before sitting on the couch. Bringing your knees up to your chest, you start rocking back and forth. Whatever had caused your panic earlier still was causing havoc on your mind. He knows there’s nothing he could do without making you even more uneasy, but he can’t leave you unattended.

What if something were to happen, and you needed him? It’s a risk he wasn’t willing to take. So instead, he watches you out of the corner of his eyes, while he searches around for your story. So much was put out on the internet for people to find with very little research.

A few clicks and he discovers your veteran father had just passed away recently. Survived only by his daughter. You. Judging by the state of the house, you were the sole caregiver. A few more clicks, and he sees you are quite the prolific writer. You had taken a sabbatical, to care for your father, and you wrote under the pen name Violet Anne Bailey.

It wasn’t your real name, but there is something about Violet that suited you. A shy Violet whose power was in her words. He goes ahead and buys all your books, just to understand your mind a bit more. You are celebrated. Loved. And no one knew or cared that you had a tornado of emotions being worked out in your head.

It’s a shame to see someone who is able to weave and create worlds have her own world in shambles. He needs to know about your father. What was your relationship like? Was he a good man to you? Bucky would kill him again if he wasn’t.

His eyes scan over his phone, determining he was definitely going to have to kill him again. How many domestic violence charges were made and dropped against this man? How many CPS visits were made to this very house. No wonder you were inside of your head, you were still living in your own personal hell.

There were no convictions. Bastard. No one in your life ever put you first. Once upon a time you even had an apartment on your own, but it was short lived. Your dumb ass father had you crawling back here to care for him. He hates him. You had spent his dying days caring for him, but no one cared for you.

Bucky would. Bucky would stay right here just to make sure you were okay. Bucky would do whatever he could to ensure you made it out of here. And could finally relax. Could quit living in turmoil. You deserved better. You deserved freedom.

You slam your computer shut, and rub the back of your neck. Three words. Three insignificant measly words. This place ruined your creativity. You lost your apartment. And nothing was available to rent, and now you sit on a stinky couch with cigarette burns all over the cheap fake leather.

This house smelled musty. Holes in the wall, light fixtures broken, the useless house phone was pulled out of the wall, leaving creepy wires hanging out of the sheet rock. Who even knew where it was. His bedroom was locked on the outside. It was your first act of defiance. Removing the latch from your own bedroom, and placing it on his. Even his stupid padlock was placed there. It stayed locked. His mean self would probably haunt you in your sleep if it wasn’t.

Sleep you hadn’t been getting. You catch your face in the broken mirror, and turn away. Haggard. You had never looked so rough. He was dead, and still you knew no peace. His final abuse of his power was to make sure you never forgot him. In death he still controlled your thoughts. You still tapped on doors three times before opening them. You still could only leave the sink faucet running for ten seconds at a time.

And the worst part is no matter how neurotic he made you, it didn’t matter how many times he shouted at you, or threw things beside you, you didn’t hate him. You made excuses for him. He didn’t throw things at you. He always missed. His words of anger were more directed to your mother who left him. And you. She couldn’t handle his PTSD. Or apparently you.

You wanted more than this crappy house. It received the brunt of the abuse. He never even bothered to fix the damages. How it didn’t burn down with him passed out on the couch, you’ll never understand. His liver. Of course it was his fucking liver. You got to see an alcoholic choose his death of withering away from his addiction.

You didn’t ask for this. And neither did he. War is not kind to anyone. Especially survivors or their families.

You slap your own hand out of your mouth, and stare down at the gnarled skin. Just how long had you been chewing on your finger? The cuticles were dry and ripped to shreds. You needed a manicure, but the thought of another human touching you, while everyone else giggled about their lives makes you sick to your stomach.

He was always going to control your life. You hated him, and pitied him, and still you are the one that suffers. This house wasn’t even worth selling. Perhaps the land would be. But this place was trash. It was begging to be burnt to the ground.

You wondered how many times your father’s cigarette fell on this couch that the walls of the house smiled in glee. Fire would cleanse this place. Fire would cleanse you.

Placing your hands on your knees, you push yourself up to a standing position, and look down the hallway. His bedroom door still had the padlock on it. The key was on a chain around your neck. You didn’t even trust your father’s ghost. He’d be pissed if he knew you locked his spirit up where he slept. You did care.

Taking a deep breath, your shaky hands lift up to place the key in the lock. Twisting it slowly before you push it open. Nothing had changed. And you didn’t try to work on improving anything here. You wanted a cleanse. Your wobbly legs carry you to his bedside table, and you pull out the matches. Your body locks in place as your father’s ghost screams inside your mind.

He is pissed. He knows what you’re doing, and you just didn’t care.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Taking a deep breath, you strike a match, and lay in gently on the bed. Lighting a few more, and repeating the process. His liquor. Cheap Canadian Mist whiskey was still hidden in the closet. Grabbing it out, you pour the remains onto the bed, watching a burst of flames that darken the ceiling. It is beautiful.

Some people describe fire as biting and evil. These tickled the air. Rejoicing right along with you as it eats up vile memories that your father left behind. You go back into the closet, and pull out the other bottles of whiskey. Pouring them onto the floor, and creating trails to other parts of the house.

You needed it all gone. Every bit of it. You didn’t want any more ties to this damn house. Finishing up in the living room you pick up your laptop, and hold it tight to your chest. The crackles from the fire feel almost cozy. Leaving you with a beautiful memory before you say goodbye.

You watch it as your fiery friend starts to travel to where you are. Greeting you with a big smile as it engulfs your surroundings. You whisper a silent thank you as sleep starts to cloud your vision. It will be a divine ending for this house. One it didn’t deserve.

Bucky bursts through the door, and you’re too enraptured by the cleansing of your childhood, you don’t take notice. “What the fuck!” He grunts, stomping over towards you. Grabbing onto you as he pulls you out of the house.

The further he takes you the more you start to focus again, “No! I wanna watch it,” you sob, trying to wipe the tears away from your face. You need to see this. It would heal you. “I gotta see, please!”

The figure behind you never removes his hold, but he stands still, allowing you to watch the house be swallowed up by hell. Just like it deserved. A sad smile creeps up onto your face when you finally hear the sirens. It was too far gone. They couldn’t save it.

An old high school boyfriend turned firefighter gives you a nod before rushing with his colleagues. There is nothing left but the bones of the house, and even those were slowly turning to ash. He was never going to be able to haunt you again. You gave him away to his demons. Right along with his favorite thing. Canadian Mist.

“You got somewhere to go?” Your ex says your name, but you’re too busy watching everything start to crumble. “You her boyfriend?”

“Not exactly,” Bucky extends a hand out to the man, “Bucky.”

“Jake. She uh…she started this didn’t she?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders. He assumed you started it. It happened so fast. He barely even finished pissing when he heard the blazing death trap. “I’m the one that investigates this. She talked about it being her dream for a while. I don’t want charges brought against her. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand, and if you need some monetary compensation for making sure she doesn't get charged, I can make that happen.”

Jake shakes his head. He looks down at you, but you are in a complete zone? Shock? None of the words seemed to fit. He supposes it's all the above. “She needed this. She’s cleansing. It’ll be wiring or something. That house has had its fair shares of small fires that the old man put out with an extinguisher anyways. No one will question it. I’m also pretending to be taking her, well your, statement. Just trust me. Can you tell me where you're taking her?”

“Are you her boyfriend?” Bucky’s eyes narrow at the younger man, but he shakes his head no.

“I’m just a friend. She’s a good one. Didn’t deserve these past few months. It’s…it’s changed her even more. Uhh…you’ll make sure she’s safe tonight? That she’ll be okay?”

“I’m the one that got her out of that house. She was standing in shock in the living room.”

“She’ll need her medication. Last I talked to her the psychiatrist prescribed some things. She told me therapy was helping. But she needed this. Just give me the address, and I’ll come by in the morning,” Bucky nods to the boy, and Jake jogs to his truck. It was a lost cause for the house, but they had to put the flames out. This would have been a decent place to live, but it seemed like a bad omen to build here.

“Violet?”

“That’s not my real name,” you respond, finally turning to look at who is holding you. “Y-y-your the guy that…from the grocery store.”

“I was coming to bring you milk. You never got it,” that was a bit of a lie, and you knew it. There wasn’t a car. Only a bike. And there was definitely no milk. “Do you have somewhere you can stay?”

Shit. This wasn’t thought through. You had nowhere, and nothing. Just the clothes on your back, and the laptop in your arms. A different kind of tears wells up in your eyes as you look between the house and Bucky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

“Hey, hey, I gotta place. There’s two bedrooms, and a couch. I’ve got some clothes that don’t smell like smoke, a warm shower, and even Wi-Fi.”

“Do you have milk?” Bucky chuckles a bit, and nods his head. “You don’t want to kill me?”

“If I wanted you dead, I’d have left you in that house.”

“I don’t like people.”

“Good. Neither do I. It’s a small little house outside of town. No neighbors,” what other choice did you have? If Jake didn’t have a girlfriend, he might have been an option. Even though you would have felt obligated to sex. You didn’t want sex. You wanted to sleep.

“Do you have anything besides cheap whiskey to drink? I haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.”

“I have melatonin,” you scrunch up your nose, annoyed at his words. “I also have something that might be of comfort. Come on. Let’s get you somewhere out of the cold, and get a shower. I’ll make you some soup.”

“I like pizza rolls better.”

“I don’t have those, but I have pepperoni, cheese, marinara, and I can make it happen,” who was this man? When things are too good to be true they often are. “I’m Bucky.”

The longer you’re on the back of his motorcycle the more you worry about yourself. Why are you here? Why are you with him? What if he wants to murder you? What could possibly be worse?

He smelled nice. He had kind eyes despite the piercings and tattoos he had. He never touches you more than necessary. His hand never drops to your thigh to make you uncomfortable, but who was he? Was he bad news? Was he your worst mistake? And you just left with him. This wasn’t good.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

“We’re almost there,” his head turns to the side, hoping that you hear him. You did. It’s tunnel hearing. It’s the only thing you heard. His voice is nice.

His bike pulls into a garage, and you take in your surroundings. Maybe he meant good, but maybe he was pure evil. Would he have saved you just to murder you? Maybe. It’s what they did to prisoners.

“Come on,” he holds his hand up for you, and you take it nervously. I’ll grab some clothes, and show you to the bathroom. Take as much time as you need. I think Jake wants you to send him your address. It’s 42 Cherry Tree Lane,” nodding your head, you sit your computer down on the nearest surface, and pull your phone out of your pocket. Thankfully it had been there.

“I’ve got a charger you can use.”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Fluff takes you out of your mind space, and you look down to see the most beautiful fluffy cat staring up into your soul with beautiful blue eyes. It weaves its body in and out of your legs, and you look up at your savior with glossy eyes.

“I’m impressed,” he squats down to hold out his hand, but the kitty doesn’t move towards him. “Alpine, are you ignoring me? She’s normally a hater of new people. Baby, come see me,” his voice is still so soft, but she doesn’t attempt to leave your legs.

“She's a good companion. Alpine, baby girl, you watch our guest, I’m going to get her some clothes. You want to show her the bathroom, she smells like smoke,” Alpine purrs again, and sets off at a trot. Stopping to look back at you when you don’t follow.

“She’s showing you where to go, and it looks like my bathroom.”

“Oh, I don’t have to…”

“Alpine is the boss here. If she wants you in the big bathroom, that’s where you should go,” you chase after the kitty with Bucky right behind you. She jumps up on the counter, and sits up proudly looking at the bathtub.

“Here,” Bucky hands you a few clothes, and you mouth thank you, but no sound comes out. “You can take my bed,” he shrugs his head back into the bedroom, and then points to under the counter. “Just keep the bathroom door open. This is her bathroom, too.”

“Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know how to make grilled cheese?”

Bucky stands at the edge of the woods watching you walk around the house. Nothing on but your silk robe. He could see your nipples pushing against the fine fabric. Alpine was meowing up at you while you pace. She always worried about you when you got like this. He wondered how many nights you had been like this. You missed him. This was like your waiting game. Every night pacing the living room floor. Picking up your baby kitty to kiss over her fur.

And every night Bucky saw you on the cameras, he missed you even more. He shouldn’t make you wait, but there is something sweet in your routine. Your mouth moves as you count to six. Biting at your lip and looking out into the woods. You wouldn’t see him, until he was ready for you to.

He steps out of the shadows, and your face immediately lights up. Smiling so big as you pull the phone up to your ear, “Bucky, what are you doing?”

“Watching you,” he answers softly. Taking only one step closer to you.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“A while,” taking another step, he laughs when you puff out a bit of air in annoyances.

“Yeah, well, you could go ahead and come home. Seeing how you’ve left me here for weeks by myself,” there you had to go and put your fingers on the window. You are adorable, and he just wants to hold you. Rubbing up and down on the glass, like you are touching him.

“Yeah?” He whispers, taking one single step forward. “And just how do you think you’re going to get me in the house?” You hang up the phone, and pull apart your robe. Nothing else was on. There is only one person you feel comfortable with, and it was Bucky. You smooth your hands down the curves of your body, starting to laugh when Bucky sprints towards you.

Slinging open the door, you jump into his arms the second he crosses the threshold. Smiling up at him in your so sweet way, “Hey, James,” you giggle, kissing the tip of his nose. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, my Shy Violet,” he bites at his lip just once, but his eyes never stray from your angelic face. He makes no comment about your cunt pressing up against his stomach, or your tits just below his eye sight. “What have you been doing without me?”

“I finished my book,” god, you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on. “Want me to read you the last chapter?”

“Of course, Shy,” leaning towards you, he gives you the softest chaste kiss. Ghosting his lips down to your chin where he kisses up your jaw. Ending right behind your ear, “you want me to make us some hot chocolate?”

“Oh,” you give him a little pout, trying to wiggle out of his arms. “James, put me down.”

“I can multitask. I don’t have to put you down,” his nose nuzzles into your neck, and all the anxiety of him being gone melts completely away. You learned a long time ago to not worry about what goes on with the business, to just be happy he was with you. “Shy, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Tell me what she’s like,” Bucky gives you a bit of an eye roll as he sits you on the counter. You start to close your robe, but he shakes his head no.

“No, you…you keep that how it was. I need something pretty to help decompress.”

“Do you like her?”

“She’s a troublemaker, and also oddly perfect for Steve,” Bucky isn’t the most forthcoming with information. You had to prod him a bit. “You know how Steve is.”

“Just from what you tell me. He’s intense, he’s a brute, he’s passionate, and he’s quick to anger. He sounds like a terrible person for me to be around. Does he actually like her though?” Bucky waits until he pours out the milk before looking back at you, nodding his head. “How do you know?”

“He hasn’t killed her,” your mouth drops open in surprise. Surely Bucky was joking. “She has this bratty side that fulfills this need to control that Steve has. She’s a virgin, and it’s made him blind. So blind he didn’t realize what a target she’s become. People are beginning to realize Steve has a weakness. It’s wrapped up in this cute little packaging.”

“Would…you’ll die trying to save her life, won’t you?” He walks over to you, placing his hands on either side of your body. Pulling his arms in closer until he’s squeezing you. His head lays down on your chest, and you wrap your arms around him tightly. “Who’s going to protect me then?”

“You don’t need protection anymore. You’re more of a fighter than you realize,” that’s not what you wanted to hear. “Shy, baby, what is it?”

“I don’t want to fight anymore. I fought my whole life, and when I’m with you I get to relax, and breathe, and I don’t have to count. You’re my safe space,” moving his hands on both your cheeks, he presses his lips against yours, and holds you. “I don’t like her.”

“You’re not going to meet her.”

“Can’t Steve just…he can ask anyone to guard her. Why not Scott or someone else? James, I need you. She doesn’t need you. I…do,” his cool blue eyes stare so deeply into yours. Such a bittersweet homecoming this was turning into. “You don’t want to burn the milk, Jamey.”

Exhaling slowly, he turns to tend to the milk, but holds a hand behind him for you to touch. You hated a woman you never even met. And hated that even more. “Is she nice to you?”

“She invited me in for coffee, and got her ass spanked.”

“What does her pussy look like?”

“You sound jealous,” you weren’t jealous. You just didn’t get Steve’s kink of needing to show his women off. “Shy, you know the only puss I want to look at is Alpine. And the only pussy I want to taste is you.”

“Don’t call our daughter a puss,” you scrunch up your nose, ready to call Alpine, just so you could hug her. “She’s beautiful. And perfect.”

“Just like her mama,” he smiles, turning back with two mugs of hot cocoa. “Here, my sweet little Shy girl. You want to read your chapter for me?” You shake your head no, pushing aside his shirt. “Are you jealous that you can’t see my titties, too?”

“Yep. You have nice titties, so let me see them,” setting his mug down just to remove his shirt, and you pull him right up to your chest. “I love you, bubba.”

“I love you, baby. Have you thought more about what we talked about?”

“Remind me,” you giggle, giving him quick little kisses to his chest, but he pulls you up to look at him. Holding you by the chin.

Bucky sighs, running his thumb over your lips. His voice is so soft, “I don’t want just Alpine to be our daughter.”

“We can get another cat.”

“I meant a baby. I want a baby with you.”

“Do you promise not to die?” With his crooked smile, he nods his head one time, “I’m ovulating, Jamey.”

With one twinkle of an eye to let the words set in, he scoops you up in his arms, carrying the two of you to the bedroom. His eyes still never stray. Ever the gentleman. Always. Laying you down on the bed, he spreads your legs wide, staring down at your glistening folds. Spitting down, his fingers gently massage your bundle of nerves.

“You didn’t need my spit.”

‘You have this ability to always turn me on. Mmm,” you sigh as your body starts to heat up. Relaxing at his ministrations. His free hand starts undoing his pants before he shakes himself out of them. Stopping his touch on you only to crawl on the bed, and uses your legs to pull him where he needs you.

“Remember what the doctor said,” you remind him, and he yanks you tighter against him. His cock laying flat against your body, and the salacious moan for what little he was doing rings into the bedroom. “We gotta let — let your cum sit me in.”

“I’ll fucking plug you up if I have to. I just want to see your cute little bump with our baby inside of you.”

“Shh, I’m supposed to be getting fucked, not having dreams of you holding a baby,” his hand adds pressure to his cock, and he slides it through your velvety lips. Getting right at your entrance when he smirks at you. He only thrusted hard one time, and that was entering inside of you. Bucky was someone who made love.

You brace yourself, nodding slightly, and he rails into you. The only thing stopping him are your bodies colliding. You were never going to get used to his size, and yet, your body always craved him. Always needed him.

He lets your back settle on the bed, and he drops his weight on you. Holding himself up by his forearms, “Hey, pretty Shy. Are you gonna let me know when you’re good?”

“Mhmm,” you breathe him in. Inhaling his masculine scent. Your fingers drift up and down his back. Going lower each time until your dainty little fingers grip the voluptuous spheres of his ass. “I’m…” another word gets stuck in your throat as Bucky draws his hips back.

His cock slides out of you before it slowly pushes back in. His forehead presses against yours, and it’s just the two of you. Only you and him in a bubble of love and safety. You aren’t sure how Bucky was able to take every brick off your wall, and allow himself into your heart, but he did.

He was always surprising you. A man that everyone feared was the biggest teddy bear when it came to you, and your daughter, Alpine. He hadn’t ever raised his voice towards you. Your arguments were minimal. You two had created a good life. You had gone to his small little house, and never left him. Even made a big step in buying a house together out in the middle of nowhere.

Bucky’s lips pucker out randomly for a kiss. It’s like even though he’s closer to you than he can possibly get, he still can’t get enough. They’re just pecks, but they’re desperate and needy. Giving a roll over on the bed, he stares up at you as you readjust your body.

Getting settled, you bounce over him. Admiring your boyfriend’s dashingly handsome face, and a sinful body. Bucky was carved by the gods in the sky, and the underworld. A fallen angel completely. Intricate lines, and blacked out blank spaces covered him from the waist up. He would even let you color them in with markers during your writer’s block

He was all you had ever wanted, and even more than you could have imagined. Even your most perfect fictional boyfriend did not compare to the man that was whimpering below you. You loved it when got like this. Hearing him turned on by your movements, so much that he got vulnerable and made sweet sounds makes you melt.

No man should be like this, and yet there he is. You feared Steve was asking too much of him, and all you wanted was for him to start coming home every night like he used to. It wasn’t being selfish. It was protecting Bucky when he couldn't’ protect himself.

He grabs tightly to your hips, holding you still before he launches himself up inside of you at lightning speed. Eyes rolling into the back of your head as heat drains into your belly. That fuzzy feeling that only Bucky could create tickles every inch of your body. Right as you start to scream his name, that familiar high speeds through your veins, followed by his warmth painting your walls.

Thick ropes of cum shoot into your womb, and he flips you back on your back. The backs of his knuckles brush against your skin as he smiles down at you. “Shy, will you marry me?”

“Will you always come home to me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Bucky brushes your baby hairs off your face. Looking down at his fiance. You’ll notice the ring when you wake up. He hates himself for asking you that way, but it felt right in the moment. Alpine snuggles up against you, your own little heating pad. She once loved only Bucky, and now she just tolerated him.

He glances back down at your printed out manuscript. Reading the final paragraph for the finished book. He didn’t deserve you. He wasn’t a good enough man to come home to someone as perfect, and as smart as you, but he did. Every book you wrote amazed him at how you created worlds from nothing.

It was your way of escaping as a child. Fabricating fictional worlds, so you didn’t have to be present in your real life. The best part of your books is he could tell what part was influenced by him. The way you saw Bucky is something no one ever has before. You saw him as an innocent angel, and Bucky was more of a devil, and had no wings.

You stir in your sleep, looking up at Bucky, “How long have you been up?” You ask without opening your eyes.

“A while. Go back to sleep. It’s still dark,” you blink yourself partially awake as you stare at him. They didn’t make perfect men. They just made Bucky.

“What do you got?”

“Baby, this is perfect,” reaching out to hold his hand, you gasp looking at your own. The most pretty little diamond. It was just what you wanted. It wasn’t gaudy or flashy. It was just perfect. “You were so sleepy I was able to slip it on.”

“You had an actual ring? How were you going to propose? Surely it wasn’t while your sperm was trying to find my egg, was it?”

“No, sweetheart,” he chuckles, sliding his fingers over the pretty diamond. “I was going to cook us dinner, and we were going to walk to the river, and while you were busy trying to sit on the swing, I was just going to drop to my knees.”

“I like the way you did it better.”

“Oh, yeah, why’s that, you sex fiend?”

“Because we were together. Hopefully creating a life. Even if our daughter was fussing on the other side of the door. It was very us, bubba.”

“I’m going to talk to Steve about getting Dove her own bodyguard. You’re right. I think Natasha would be a good fit for her.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, and he pulls you in close to his body. He gets a short death stare from Alpine, but she falls back asleep soon after. “We can’t lose you.”

“We?”

“Yeah, eventually, me, you, and Alpine will have our little human.”

“Well, mama Shy, close your eyes, and get some rest. Grow our little egg. You’ve got me all weekend,” that sounds heavenly. You hate to waste it on sleep, but you were tired, and your baby was so warm and cozy. Bucky was, too.

Next

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