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cryptid-killjoy · 1 year ago

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Scary. Flotsam would think thank goodness for natural selection. Things were always as they should be. He was pretty certain she was on the other side chasing Jet with frying pans and he was turning it right around on her, and frying up her eyeballs on the very same skillet and eating them over easy in Hell, and then using her hair as dental floss. Bam! Frying pan. Cannibal chase! Skewer! Sizzle. Mmm. Yum. Repeat. He can see it stuck on a loop. Probably has something to do with Pierre. Maybe he thought it was funny too and kept watching it once it happened for his own enjoyment? Who knew? Flo's dreams are weird like that. He gets a kick out of them. He's sort of like Roger Rabbit when he tells those to Thomas. As least they're funny. They make him laugh.

His laughter now was similar only far more extreme since it involved more than his own brain and came out of Thomas's mouth even inadvertently.

"You have no idea."

Thomas added to his thoughts and only made the moment better helping him envision the actual picture not just the one he'd made up in his head. It was more fun than the one he'd imagined.

"Yeah, actually... you do. You play an instrument and you're good at it. I think your rhythm is just fine." His brows gave an uplift with an air of insinuation and let his eyes drift down towards Thomas's pelvis. "Very, very fine indeed. If your rhythm was off it was all her. I can attest to that." He chuckled.

Then an even bigger grin grew when the Molotov cocktails were mentioned. What a great memory. Thomas brought that one up every now and then and Flotsam never grew tired of it because it was the proof in his mind that so called goodie-goodie hunter guy wasn't what he claimed to be. He saw the guy have too much fun. It wasn't forced. It wasn't fake. He knew it. People don't fake being forced to do those sorts of acts. It was all big, bad, secret official crush from there. Oh, Flotsam always sort of had one, an attraction, but that sealed the deal. It wasn't just looks then or that feeling he gets from riling someone up. It was a real connection. He just felt it. He had fun with him. Something clicked and he never let it go somewhere inside. He was just also despite his reputation was a person with a sense of duty and focused where he was needed. Family. Always family.

What really got him about the bomb comment though was the context. He knew Thomas was joking around as was he but he said to go back and bomb the sitch up. The whole thing kept Flotsam laughing and all, but he still shook his head no.

"Maybe. I'm not sure I'd change one little bloody thing. I'm too happy."

It was one of those could we really be us if we didn't go through what we went though comments? He wasn't trying to get deep. He was just grinning at his partner. Did he wish he could have saved his loved one some pain? Sure. Of course he does. But, fuck nah. Could they ever be this tight if they hadn't? No fucking way.

Hence the song that came to mind. It was about living in the moment. Absolutely. As they were. It was also about enjoying whatever the Hell passes and what they go through. That was his point. Enjoy the roller coaster as people say. Enjoy the ride. He was feeling pretty up right now. He was feeling like the next drop wasn't a crash landing, but thrill ride full of fun waiting to happen. He was strapped in with Thomas. That's what that smile was. For as wired and weird, maybe even gloomy as he felt when he left NZ he felt damn good right now. He'd live in a musical any day the way he was feeling.

Dancing in the street with Thomas and turnips. He was A-Okay. Then when they got back to the beach and the picnic was all strewn out with the turnips and the pups on the blankets he felt so free. They were talking about buying more property for goodness sake. He couldn't believe he was a land owner to begin with. His business owned places but that was different.

"Yeah, I guess celebrities do."

Flotsam gave that one a think. Think, think, think. He suddenly had a flash back to the Hundred Acre Wood.

"Is Valerie a celebrity? Her song was on the radio. Electric Voodoo... I don't know... when you're in metal circuits it's hard to tell. It's niche. Let's do ourselves a favor and never move to LA just in case." He laughed. "And never vacation in New York. So boring. You seen one skyscraper you seen them all. I'm not about the traffic. Unless there's some cool event there let's just keep that off the list."

"Just remind me if we ever lose all our money and we lose all this shit we're gaining that it we can just promise to look back and say it was fun while it lasted. But, that's yes. This is so great. It's like a double birthday. It's getting close. A pre-birthday. We're getting Ireland, er the Emerald Isles. You're buying me the ocean."

That's where the grin blossomed. Thomas was buying him the ocean. The ocean front cottage was already a fun surprise. Getting to keep it was like a fantasy of a life time. He didn't know if it was for sale, but Thomas had a magic bartering mouth. He was good at that with zero threats and everything. Usually. It was right after that right as Flotsam was drawing on his turnip something caught his eye.

"Hey. What's that?" He crawled on all fours setting his turnip aside a moment out a few feet and swept some sand aside. He furrowed his brows as he pulled out a shell. He sat back on his skinny rump again to inspect it with both hands holding it closer to his face, but he was still jazzed on the other topic, grin still spread.

"Giving me the ocean. I can't believe it. I feel like that's a song. He Gave Me the Ocean."

Then he popped the clam shaped shell open. "Look it has both sides." He said curiously and then when he pried the two pieces apart. "Woah. I think. No way. I feel a-" He got up on his knees to pick out the hard piece. "It is. Yes. It is. Look." Then he knee walked up to Thomas to hold a tiny pearl the size of a little friendship bead in the palm of his hand. "Can't believe I really found that.... on our beach too."

Yes. Their beach. He knew it would happen. Once Thomas said something could be true it always could if Flotsam so wanted it. He wanted it.

"What should we do with it?"

Rapunzel could never be Barbie. Her greatest aspiration was to become a social worker, and thank fuck that didn’t work out, or there’d be even more screwed up people out there. She settled quickly on being a mooch. He was still peeved by the fact that she had once talked to his work and got him a week off behind his back and then planned a whole trip to England. Spur of the moment plans? Great! Surprises? Sure! Making a man take a week off work when he was still new-ish to the job and use up all of the vacation days that he ever had, and rid him of the chance of making money that he could have used a lot more than a trip to see his mother? Nah, that’s not right, innit. He’s been stewing on that for near on twenty years.

Laughter was usually a good sign. It didn’t sound too manic. I didn’t exactly sound like the kind of laughter that usually covered up a cry either.

“I’m glad my former misery brings you such comfort,” Thomas said, though he was chuckling. It really was a whole lifetime ago. Plenty of wasted time. But he was making up for it now, wasn’t he? He was exploring the world with his favorite person by his side. Someone who would never put him through all of that annoying disney princess shit. “Practicing is one thing, but having some flouncy woman tell you that you aren’t moving right - oh, it was absolutely tragic. I know about rhythm, thank you very much.”

They were always going to be them. Marriage required being best friends throughout, it was even more important than the romantic aspect sometimes. Having each other’s backs no matter what, always keeping a couple of brews in the fridge to have a chat and bitch about life sometimes. That aspect wasn’t going way.

“Yes please,” He grinned. “Moltov cocktail that bitch, like old times.”

There were still a lot of times when he wanted to go back and time and beat himself over the head, like Rafiki to Simba with that big stick of his. Stop being so stupid. Stop being so pretty-girl-blind. Stop falling for the first person that seems to need you in any capacity. Doesn’t matter that it makes you feel like a big man, just makes you into a beta in the end. But alas, he only met one time traveller and he couldn’t take him that far back, so there was no point in dwelling on it too much. He had everything now. Better late than never.

“Not even a moment over,” He said, making his statement all the more dramatic, but he meant it. Flotsam had one of those ageless-type faces. It was beautiful. Maybe there was something to growing up with the swamp air and muds.

They didn’t need Kuzco in order for things to be musical. Thomas was a natural piano player and Flotsam - he was just skilled at everything else. This bursting out in song moment felt a bit like a musical but it wasn’t nearly as annoying as one. The turnip vendor was very happy with the big purchase and began bagging right away, not commenting on the singing because every good businessman knows that you don’t ask questions when money is being thrown at you.

It wasn’t really a song that he knew but he took part eagerly, watching, holding the stroller until Flotsam took his hand and they did a spin. Impromptu. Not choreographed. Not to Ed Sheeran. Just natural, like dancing was supposed to feel.

It was a good message too. And something that they both did. Enjoy each moment. Look forward to the next, but not at the expense of the present.

Thomas had out a knife, was carving the turnip carefully. It felt a lot different to a pumpkin. Most of the ones that he had seen while researching ideas came out looking like mummy heads, which was indeed spooky in its own right but he wanted a couple that were more just .. them.

“It’s no less crazy than when we started looking into properties on our honeymoon,” He said with a little shrug. These grand ideas - they didn’t seem outrageous. They seemed entirely within the realm of possibility. A dream they could reach. “Don’t celebrities do it all the time? I don’t see why we couldn’t. It is a gorgeous spot.”

#flotsamxthomas

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azulaang-chakras · 3 years ago

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Would love to see you go off about Zukka mah guy 👀 (and then idk Zukaang 👀)

Oh, you want me to go off on tumblr, comrade? ON TUMBLR!?

Okay.

First, let me start by saying to my followers that I'm a very mellow kind of guy. If I dislike something you like or even love, there's nothing wrong with that. Live and let live, whatever floats your boat. So long as no one goes out of their way to be a dick to people, no one should be getting hate or harassment for what they enjoy. Just because I'm not in your lane doesn't mean I'm going to throw a molotov cocktail over to see if someone crashes. My parents raised me better than that. Plus, if I find posts I don't like, I block them. If I find people who annoy me, I block them. These are good pieces of advice, my friends.

That all being said, I'm not going to hold back when I decide to speak my mind, and zukka is fucking terrible. If it was a rarepair with only a small audience, I wouldn't care. It wouldn't rustle any of my jimmies, it wouldn't grind more than a single nerve if at all. But because it's so fucking popular I have to see that shit so frequently. I see talented fanartists use their talents on that ship and I frown cus that energy should be spent on better outlets.

Zuko and Sokka ain't got nothing to build a romance on from canon. The deepest their conversation goes is, "I love my girlfriend." "My girlfriend is awesome too." "Sucks that yours turned into the moon, my dude." Zukka is only as popular as it is because they're both almost 18 and they're conventionally attractive and masculine. The funny (and infuriating) thing on that last part is that a lot of zukka shippers want to feminize the ship by putting them in soft colors, softening their features, and/or putting them more in touch with their emotions and feminine side. This is bad because they will flat out ignore their canon personalities/aesthetics and also badmouth Aang, a man who is canonically in touch with his feelings and feminine side and is super confident in his softer side. This boy will wear a flower crown with a smile. Your fave will canonically never.

(I don't have time to get into why fandoms will feminize masculine men instead of thoughtfully engaging with men who are canonically in touch with their fem side, but the point is there. I will also say that a lot of zukka content is clearly not created by actual MLM. No disrespect to real MLM zukkas, but your club is full of straight girls and also your ship is terrible)

Zukka content, from what I've seen and heard of, is full of bad characterizations that ignore the show and flat out make shit up, and shippers will also make shit up to badmouth other characters. Zukka is so bad that it harms both of them and everyone around them. Just for an example on the two boys themselves:

.Zuko is not an uwu soft boi, this man used to terrorize villages on a weekly basis. If you ignore or try to minimize the parts of a redemption arc where the character was a fucking villain/antagonist, you are doing the character a disservice.

.Sokka is intelligent and it's great that he put in the work to unlearn sexism, but he's not Stephen Hawking and he was pretty sexist. He GREW over the course of the series, but stans and zukka shippers (which is a venn diagram with a huge middle) try to pretend that he was actually perfect from the very beginning. Also, if you honestly think that scenes of Sokka being the butt of a joke (which are 9/10 hilarious) are abusive on the writer or the other characters' part, do yourself a favor: never hang out with Irish people. Google may describe slagging each other as abusive, but it's really not. Slagging is a treasured past time of our people between family and friends.

If every cringey incorrect quotes post was a ship, it would be zukka. Zukka is overflowing with jaded klance shippers who took their bullshit from Voltron and fired it upon ATLA en masse like Persian archers at Thermopylae. Zukka is a notp. I will never write for it, I will never willingly seek out content of it, and if any pissbabies want to start shit over this 100% accurate argument, I will laugh at anything you send me.

As for zukaang, that ship do go deep. "If he's your love interest, why is he my narrative foil?" Protagonist/deuteragonist is top tier shipping, as is enemies to lovers. Their relationship, both on a micro scale as individual people and on a macro scale as the avatar and fire prince, is the cornerstone of the plots of some of the best episodes in the series, including The Storm, The Blue Spirit, The Avatar and the Fire Lord, and the Firebending Masters.

I sadly haven't read much of it, and I raise my eyebrow at just how much abo there is of such a relatively small ship, but I think zukaang is a great ship.

I hate that I spent so much time trashing a bad ship and so little praising a good one, but that's how it be sometimes.

#asks #lady tortilla chip #anti zukka

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anotherhawk · 3 years ago

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Play At War Chapter 2 - the Mechanisms fanfic

Story on AO3

It had been three days. Tim had no idea how Private d'Ville was still alive. Not killing the bastard himself was taking considerable willpower.

"It's not like I want to be in the army either," he complained to Bertie over their morning tea and K rations. "But here we all are and we need to follow orders, right?"

"Of course, Corporal, at once, Corporal," Bertie answered smartly, because he was a dick and a troll, and Tim hated him.

"Are you saluting me right now?"

"Yep."

"Well, cut it out."

Private d'Ville hadn't reported in to Corporal Smythe for latrine digging duty on that first day. Instead Tim had found him in the garage depot, playing William Tell with the quartermaster for rocket fuel. He'd said he'd been planning on making molotov cocktails, but Tim was fairly sure he had caught him drinking the stuff.

The second day Tim had marched him directly to the would-be latrine site and, six hours later, had returned to find the Toy Soldier cheerfully digging while Jonny somehow had Smythe's entire squad entranced with some bullshit ghost story. The hole the Toy Soldier had dug was barely three feet across, but it was easily three hundred feet deep. They'd had to fetch a ladder, and then a rope, and when the Soldier was finally hauled up; having seemingly enjoyed the experience immensely, the ladder was nowhere to be found.

On the third day….Well, on the third day, with Corporal Smythe's squad all on sick line with night terrors and refusing to get any further involved, Tim elected to supervise himself. Fuck, it beat doing shoe inspections in the dark, right?

This deep in their little base they were able to risk a few extremely dim lights, which gave him a perfect view of the expression on Jonny's face when he handed him the shovel.

"I came here to do violence, not manual labour."

Tim gritted his teeth. "It's all part of being a soldier."

"Hmm." Jonny casually swung the shovel over his shoulder, holding it more like a deadly weapon than a digging implement. "Do you actually buy into that? Did you join up to serve Queen and Country like the recruiters ad told you to?" He slipped into a posher accent, one that could cut glass but probably had a servant do it instead. "Grab yourself a laser, lad, and serve your queen with a smile, smile, smile."

The impression was...uncanny. Tim had been in a couple of bands in his day, and he'd always had a good ear for music and if he didn't know better he'd have sworn that Jonny was just miming along to that fucking advert.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes, I did volunteer." It had seemed like the better option; him and Bertie volunteering together so they'd get to stay together. They'd have been drafted sooner or later anyway, and when that happened they might have ended up anywhere.

"I thought so,"Jonny nodded, hefting the shovel. "Only idiots volunteer."

"Uh huh." He didn't take any offense. He'd heard it before and he didn't even really disagree. "I assume you were drafted?"

Jonny grinned. Took a step forwards. Pushing into Tim's space. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Look, are you going to dig this fucking trench, or am I going to have to put you on report for disobeying orders?"

And for some reason Jonny hesitated. "I thought I was already on report?"

"Um," he said, and immediately regretted it. "I wanted to keep this within the squad in the first instance."

"Ah. I see." He stepped back. "You're soft."

"What?"

"My last squad leader would have had me over the drum by now." He casually dropped the shovel and walked away.

For a moment Tim's mouth just made gibbering noises. "What? That's...whatever relationship you might have had…"

"Ew. No. To be flogged, idiot."

Oh, fuck, that was a relief. Still, Tim felt his face grow hot.

He was saved from his colossal embarrassment by a dispatch rider crashing through the barricades beside them, his speeder on fire, his legs torn to shreds. "Moonbeast!" he shrieked as he fell to the ground, his bike exploding behind him. "It's on the rampage! It's taken out checkpoint Bakerloo!"

Tim grabbed his rifle. Jonny's pistol was already in his hand, and he gestured happily with it towards the mess the speeder had made. "There you go, corporal. One trench, freshly gouged."

Seriously. Why was the fucker still alive?

Checkpoint Bakerloo was an hour's forced march through pitch black tunnels. There were eight of the sent out, all carrying flashbacks and heavy plasma rifles; the only weapons Tim had found were guaranteed to put a hole in a moonbeast's hide.

"It's been a while since there was a moonbeast attack," Lamont muttered unhappily from the rear.

"True," Bertie agreed. "They were much more plentiful earlier in the war. I guess we're driving them to extinction; it's a shame."

"Shame my arse," Thompson snorted. "Just one of those fuckers can rip through a whole squad like toilet paper. They're not even real animals, did you know that? They're just something the Kaiser dreamed up to fuck with us."

"Oh, the moonbeasts are far older than the Kaiser and definitely far older than the war. They're the last remnants of a much older war; a nightmare of bioengineering made real of tooth and claw." Jonnys voice had taken on the same cadence he'd had when telling ghost stories, and Tim found his pace slowing as he listened in spite of himself. "They were abandoned on the Lunar surface a long time ago, by their creator, who could never bring herself to destroy what she'd made. Of course, as humans burnt away the surface and slipped inside, they followed. Hunting, perhaps. Or maybe they're simply afraid of being abandoned once more."

"How...how do you know that?" Amir asked, which was a very fair question. That didn't match any info packet he'd ever seen.

Jonny laughed, and there was the sound of a flask popping. "How do you know I'm not making it up?"

"They Are Jolly Fine Creatures But Very Headstrong! I Had A Tricky Time Of It Taking One To The Officer's Mess!"

There was a long silence. Tim bit his tongue and willed no one to ask. Sadly, Bertie didn't get the message. "Um. Why were you trying to take a moonbeast anywhere?"

"It Was Christmas," the Toy Soldier explained incomprehensibly. "Major Dunne Thought I Was Her Batman And Ordered Me To Fetch The Freshest Meat I Could Find. Jonny Would Not Cooperate And So The Moonbeast Was The Next Best Option."

There was another long silence. "Haha," Lamont said at last. "You're funny."

"I Am! Thank you for noticing!"

"We're getting close," Tim broke in, thankful for the excuse. "Everyone stay sharp. The moonbeast could be on the prowl, or Lenny might be making a rush for the checkpoint while it's unmanned."

"Wish the moonbeast would go eat Lenny for once," Amir muttered.

Thompson snorted. "Ha! The poor things probably can't stand the stench of Lunar beer and moon garlic anymore than we can."

"I don't know, it gives the meat a certain bitterness I'm rather partial to," d'Ville said, not sounding like he was particularly paying attention.

There was a brief but excessively awkward silence which Bertie, being the kindest bastard in the solar system, found a way to defuse. "We're the British infantry, mate. As long as it's microwaved and slathered in ketchup, it'll get eaten."

"This war will be lost if the Kaiser manages to destroy our strategic ketchup reserves." Lamont's joke was cut off as the unmistakable howl of a massive moonbeast shook the tunnels.

Fuck. It was hunting.

"Everyone spread out," he hissed. "Weapons ready, backs to the wall, don't- "

His words were lost as another howl rended the air, followed by rushing footsteps, falling rocks...a scream. Gunfire that for a split second lit up the massive jaws and teeth tearing at what was left of poor Thompson. The thick wetness splattered against his face. The overpowering smell of copper. More screaming.

It was always dark in the tunnels, and moonbeasts made very little noise at all. The best way to guarantee a shot was to aim by the sound of your own screaming friends and hope that you hit the beast as well.

Tim held the trigger down and listened as Dougal's screams cut out.

And then there was silence. For a moment.

"Ha!" d'Ville crowed, as though they hadn't just had their arses handed to them by a creature with a brain the size of a Lunarman's bollock. "The bastard went this way! Come on, we can catch it if we follow the blood trail."

"No, stay where you are," he ordered quickly. "It could be back at any moment, we need to regroup."

He was laughing. The bastard was laughing. "Sounds really dull. No, sorry Corporal, I'm afraid I must be going."

Tim tried to catch him, he really did, but he was gone.

"Tally Ho!" the Toy Soldier cried. "Pip Pip! A Hunting We Must Go!"

And then it too was gone.

Fuck.

"Sound off," he managed to say hoarsely. "Who's left?"

"I'm here," Bertie said from just behind him, and Tim closed his eyes for a second in silent thanks.

"I'm okay," Amir called out from somewhere off to the side.

"Yeah, me too," Lamont added. "Thompson's gone though."

Fuck. "Dougal?" he called out without much hope.

"I'm still here, but my leg's fucked." Her voice was shaking but she still sounded like she was trying to grin. "What a fucking morning, eh?"

From somewhere far ahead of them they heard the moonbeast roar again. And as they flinched they heard the sound of singing and a discordant harmonica.

"A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go

Pull up your socks and chase the fox a hunting we will go."

"The new guys are fucking weird," Dougal said as he knelt to help Bertie put a tourniquet on her leg.

"At least they're not our problem anymore."

"You know," Bertie said quietly. "As long as they're making that much racket they're leading it away from us."

Well, fuck.

They'd managed to fashion a crude stretcher for Dougal and had almost reached the checkpoint when the artillery barrage began.

What a shitty fucking morning. What a shitty fucking war.

They managed to get to a foxhole, the stretcher abandoned outside. It was a tight fit with the four of them, and no doubt it was hell on Dougal's leg, and with every shell that landed closer, closer, a shower of rocks and moon dirt fell around their heads.

Technically they could probably survive anything except a direct hit. In actuality if it got much closer they'd wind up being buried alive, and given the choice between being blown to bits and a slow death by suffocation...well, Tim was hoping for a direct hit if it came down to it.

"I hate this," Bertie murmured, flinching, pressed tight against Tim's side as another strike shook the walls around them.

"We're going to be okay," he said, with a confidence he didn't feel, and, as another explosion briefly lit up the tunnels, he could see that Bertie knew better than to believe him.

Alright then. He swallowed hard and began to sing.

"Cooked last night

And cooked the night before

Gonna be cooked tonight

If we're never cooked no more.

When you're cooked

You're hot as you can be

Cos the Kaiser wants to microwave

The British Infantry"

By the end of the first song they were all singing along, roaring their defiance into the bloody dark, and it was only by pure chance that Tim heard it.

Footsteps.

Someone running out in the dark, between the sounds of gunfire and explosions.

He quietened everyone down and they stayed stock still, listening.

Whoever it was was coming closer. A shell exploded somewhere near by and the running stopped, for a few moments, and they hold their breath, but then the footsteps came again, closer, closer.

A fresh explosion lit up the world and there, perched on the side of the foxhole like some demented gargoyle, wearing a moonbeast tail around his neck like a scarf and with blood and brain matter plastering the side of his face, sat Private Jonny fucking d'Ville staring in at them intently.

"That was a good song. Sing it again, Corporal."

#the mechanisms #the mechanisms fanfiction #gunpowder tim #jonny d'ville #the toy soldier #gunpowder tim vs the moon kaiser #my writing #the mechs #tw death #tw war

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fanfiction-inc · 4 years ago

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“It Takes Two to Win a Race.” Chapter II

[Previous Chapter] / [Next Chapter]

Verse: Falcon And The Winter Soldier / Captain America And The Winter Soldier / Captain America: Civil War/ Marvel Alternate Universe

Characters/Pairings: Baron Zemo/ Reader, Baron Zemo/ Female Reader, John Walker

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 8971

Warnings/Tags: Drinking, smut, m/f, oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, drunk sex, Google translated translations, Walker is an asshole and just keeps getting worse.

Summary: Baron Helmut Zemo, world renowned racer and your sworn enemy on the track. You two have been going at it for years now, but now you two must join forces to fight back against John Walker, a new up and coming racer who is proving to beat both of you. Will you two survive the other or meet your demise on the track?

Ao3 Version: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32606833/chapters/81176392?view_adult=true

This is a mess. An absolute, blazing mess that sits before you in the middle of your workshop. The chassis was dented all to Hell, a new one having to be rebuilt and delivered to fix your custom car. The engine had parts missing that were left at the crash sight when it was towed away. One car to your name, and it was fucked up. Maybe you should have taken Stark’s sponsorship and invested in a backup. Sitting on the cement floor of the workshop, screwdriver in hand as you pry out bits and pieces of parts from the engine, taking note of the parts and working on the budget you had set out for this year's series of races, you dreaded the moment you’d see the total cost. This repair would take a nice chunk, but you still had money left over after to make sure your car was at its best. That was the thing about working with your car, it was just you and this beast of metal and speed, working as one to reach the end of the line. The screwdriver is set down at your side when you struggled too long on getting the broken interconnecting rod that links the turbine from the compressor, a sigh following as you sit back. A slow sense of dread fills you as you look at the broken parts scattering the ground, the missing parts on your list, and the purple paint that still streaks the busted carbon fiber chassis.

Working with Zemo was a dangerous game, which you recognized even before you shook on the arrangement he had proposed. He was wicked on the course, predictable at times but at others a ticking time bomb of what his next move may be. He was dangerous, but that is what made him damn good. He took far more risk than you usually would when it came to advancement in the race. Where you held back, he pushed forward. No wonder the man infuriated you. But this plan was the only thing you had to get things back to normal, back to the way they were where you hated Zemo with a passion and fought tooth and nail to stay better than him. You would never admit it, but without your rival, what fun was the race? See, it's not only the thrill of the chase between the driver and death, inching closer and closer with each hairpin turn and the risk of the other driver's moves. No, it’s also the thrill of having someone who wants to win just as bad as you, who is just as good and will do anything to try and progress further than you. It sets a standard, something to surpass, something to stay on level ground with when you catch yourself falling. Zemo was your equal, no matter how much you hated him. And equals like you two don’t have room for a third party to jump in and surpass. The game isn’t any fun when someone fucks with the rules. He had a point when it came to beating Walker down, especially since the man was already fighting you both with molotov cocktails and rocket fire in the form of playing dirty on the track. He was bringing a war to a battle just to see if he could come out on top. Despite everything telling you to stay away from Zemo and not get involved in this scheme, that it could end badly for one or both of you, you couldn’t stand the idea of having Walker walk all over you like some doormat. You couldn’t let him walk in as if he owned the place and could rule as he pleased.

He needed a reality check.

Your form pops and cracks as you stand, stiff from sitting on the solid ground and stretching to relieve your body of the tension. Everything felt so wrong, and you knew you had to make it right...But was this the right way to do it? “Jesus, you sound like that rice cereal with the little elves. You know, snap, crackle, and pop?” You laugh lightly when your friend comes into the workshop, food in hand and dressed down from the usual luxury attire he wore when visiting. No suit and tie in sight, just the oil stained wife beater you had seen him in when pursuing your education in the states as he worked tirelessly on his little toys as you liked to call them. He sets the bag down, the scent of the food causing your stomach to growl and pinch with a hint of pain. Have you really forgotten to eat today? You hadn’t noticed. “Got your favorite. Do you know how hard it is to find a restaurant that speaks English? I had to have Friday translate for me.”

“Maybe you should take a new hobby and learn the French language.” You retorted with a grin, the man shaking his head as he sets everything out. “Maybe I want you as my teacher, but you’re always busy with driving around in your fast little car and getting famous for fighting a Sokovian asshole.”

“And you’re too busy tinkering away with your toys in your little workshop in New York. Truly Tony, don’t tell me you actually want me as your teacher when your toys can teach you for me.” You pause as he rolled his eyes, watching the man for a brief moment as he turned to unwrap his burger. “Speaking of said Sokovian connard, he came to the bar I was at last night.” The man paused mid bite on the thick patty before speaking with his mouth full. “Okay, spill, what did he want?”

“Well originally I thought he was going to cuss me and try to blame me for the failure to complete the race yesterday, but he showed me something. You know the young man who won the race yesterday, corriger? John Walker?”

“Yeah, I know the guy. Races for the American McLaren team and came straight from F3 to F1. What’d he do?”

He raises a brow when you sigh, taking a seat beside him on the desk he had set the food down on and stealing the dish he had brought you. “Zemo showed me proof that Walker hit his car and sent him flying into mine. And I believe he did it on purpose.” You explain, taking a bite of the food your companion got for you. You pause for a moment to chew before returning to your theory. “On my way to the car bay, he smirked at me, and it wasn’t a “I won” smirk- well, it kinda was, but it was rather a “I did this to you” kind of smirk. Not necessarily an evil one but one that showed he knew exactly what he had done and was proud of it. Pride in an unfair act.”

“And no flags were thrown up?”

“Non, not a one. As our friend the Baron said,” you cringe at the term friend, “the ones watching the race possibly couldn’t tell if he had done such on purpose or by accident. I believe him about such. And I suppose that brings me to what I’m about to say next.” You take a breath, gaze conflicted and downcast to your food as you speak. “The Baron offered a temporary truce of our rivalry to take down this John Walker, thus allowing us to return to what we do best after Walker is taken down.” He listened intently before his nose scrunched at the idea of such. You two working together? Ha! That’d never work! “And you said yes to this crazy idea? What the Hell are you thinking, (first name)?” Your hands shoot up in defense, gaze rising to meet his own. “I know, I know! It’s a crazy idea, but you know as well as I do that if Zemo and I want things back to normal, back to the rivalry, we have to do this together so Walker is met with further resistance. If I could avoid it and deal with this American scum, no offense, then I would.”

“Some taken, but I get it. I just wonder if you two will go back to the way things are after all of this. Who knows, maybe you’ll become that dreaded word you hate to associate with him in any capacity-”

“Ne t'avise pas de le dire, Anthony.”

“Friendssss.” He draws it out, causing you to roll your eyes at his antics and slap his arm with the back of your grimey hand. He pretended to show a hurt expression before chuckling when another slap came, this time to his chest. “Oh hush, we will never be friends.”

“I guess time will tell.” A shrug followed as Stark finished the last bite of his burger, crumbling the wrapper and lining up the shot with the waste bin in the corner. “He shoots,” the paper lands in the bin, his arms going up in the air. “He scores!”

“Stop goofing around, ma amie. I asked for your help with this and now I need it.”

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Three weeks have passed, and the Germany race is upon you. The Nürburgring, a beast of a track that many racers to this day in Formula 1 fear like a plague sweeping the track. Your mind has been racing as you pieced your car back together and got it ready for racing. What happens if something wasn’t installed in the engine right? What if you didn’t get the intake vents lined up just right? You were a perfectionist with your car, and you know deep down that it was ready for race day but it made your head sing with pain as a migraine sets in. That wasn’t the only thing that made it throb and bring you to lean against the chassis of your car. Zemo’s deal, it worried you sick. But you didn’t have time to think about it much today. You couldn’t dwell on it. You had a race to win.

Your eyes flick up at the speakers, listening to the message. It was press conference time. You take your seat where your name tag and flag set, giving a nod of acknowledgement to the crowd of reporters sitting and waiting to open up questioning. To your left, Walker seats himself with a boyish, charming smile that didn’t quite meet those dark eyes. He looked your way, hand held out to you. “Hey, I hate that we didn’t get to meet earlier on. I’m John Walker.” You glance at his hand before looking back up at him. He played a good game, acting innocent like the boy scout he tried to be. You wouldn’t fall for his games, but you shook his hand briefly. “(First name) (Last name).” He grinned. “Oh, I know who you are. I’ve been watching you race for years now! I hate that you crashed a couple weeks ago, would have loved to have been standing on that podium with you.”

“Oui, such a shame that was. But today is a new day, Mr. Walker.” Your gaze flickered to your right, startled by your rival taking his seat and looking directly at the pair of you. The Baron never sat beside you, even going as far as to request a seat change from the press conference coordinators. Some learned to keep you two separate, others knew it would incur drama, and drama made money.

“Alright everyone, please take your seats and the conference will begin in one moment!”

“Say, did you get your car all fixed up? Must have cost a pretty penny since you don’t have any sponsors.” Walker continued on, this time his gaze looking at the reporters as he gave a brief wave to the ones he recognized from the states. “Oui.” He gave a huff of a laugh. “Not much of a talker, are you?” You wanted to bite back, to say something and throw hands with this man, but you would be escorted out and disqualified in a snap. “Non.” A leg bumped yours under the table and you glance at Zemo who met your gaze briefly. Those dark brown eyes questioned if you were okay, a silent question that only you understood. The slightest nod was sent his way before looking at the reporters who got things settled and ready.

“Questions are now open-” The announcer was startled with the amount of questions directed in the direction of you three, clearing his throat as he nodded to your little trio at the table. Mr. Walker!” He gestured to the reporter, watching him stand and adjust his microphone and camera. “Mr. Walker, this question is open to the three of you. Under allegations from the previous race at The Circuit Paul Ricard, many are wondering if you had caused the accident involving Zemo and (Last name). How do you feel about these accusations?” The man had the audacity to laugh and throw that boyish smile to the camera, rubbing at his face. “Look, that was not supposed to happen once so ever. As many of my fellow racers can attest, one wrong slip of the hand on your wheel and your car will eventually go off track. I got nervous, twitched, and just so happened to bump the Baron’s car into Ms. (Last name)’s car. I feel terrible, I truly do, but it could have happened to anyone with any driver. So I refute these accusations and continue to say this is an accident.”

“And you, Baron, Ms. (Last name). How do you feel about the accusations?” The reporter gestured his question to you two now. “I respect your opinion, Mr. Walker,” Zemo began, the man smiling and sending a nod his way. “But I call, as the Americans say, bullshit.” His smile fell, darkened gaze questioning the man on what the Hell he was going on about. The reporters erupted in questioning, trying to get the attention of the two racers who stare each other down around you. You lean back a bit for them to have a better view-line, One of the American reporters calling your name. You use this moment to break the tension. “Oui?”

“Do you believe you stand a chance as a woman against these two leading men now that John Walker is starting to gain points and nearing your total?” You blink at his question before taking a deep breath, holding it to calm your throbbing head, and releasing it slowly. “Oui, I do. I believe I can keep up just as well as any racer. Take my racing career with Zemo. I have kept up with his old extrémité arrière.” The French reporters in the room resound in a fit of chuckles, bringing a smile to your face. “And against Walker?” You meet his gaze as he stares at you expectantly for an answer, forcing that smile he tried to use on you earlier. “I believe I stand quite a good chance, but que le meilleur coureur gagne.” You shrug, listening as the smaller drivers get asked their questions. The whole time there are eyes burning into the left side of your head, waiting until the racers are dismissed. Walker watches you as you walk out, watching the way Zemo comes up in tow as you make your way to the car bay. Something was up, and he could feel that there were clearly doubts in your mind about the accident in France. He would just have to deal with you later. “(First name), wait!” Zemo followed you into the bay, slowing from his jog to keep up with you to a stop near the desk holding your notes about the race and your vehicle. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with you in person since the bar.” He paused, looking into those eyes of yours that gaze at him curiously. “Are you ready for this, fräulein?”

“Aussi prêt que possible, Baron.” You busy yourself with inspecting your car for any last minute changes, the man watching you as you inspect and work. “Good, good. And we are still a go, yes?”

“Oui, we are still, as you said, a go.” He grinned at you, gaze flickering down your back as he looked over your uniform. Of course he had noticed you in all aspects before, talent and skill being the top, but never had he been this close like the night at the bar and now to really see you. Maybe after all of this, even with the rivalry, you could be friends, dare he say anything more than such. “You’re staring.” You quip, breaking him from his trance to meet your gaze. The faintest hint of color lingered on your cheeks. He coughed, trying to clear away the embarrassment lingering in his form. Why was he getting embarrassed? “Just thinking about what will be left behind when I pass you on the track, mein liebe.” Your eye roll doesn’t go unnoticed, the man relaxing due to how calm you are around him. No biting his head off, no anger, just chill. You stand and give a playful shove to his shoulder, smiling at the Sokovian. “In your dreams, Sokovian. Now, get the fuck out of my car bay.” He smiled to himself as he walked away, mind now clouded by the smile that lingered on your lips. He liked when you smiled, and he had to make sure this plan worked.

The race was gearing up to start, the same process as before coming into play. Car, balaclava, wheel. You take your moment to breathe, today your speed has placed you in second, just as the plan entailed. Zemo took the first position. He glanced your way, sending a nod in your direction, only to smirk beneath the balaclava when you flip him off like usual. The rivalry was still on, no matter what he would still have that after dealing with Walker. Still have you in one sense or another. Your glance focused in on the man across the way in the pole position opposite of you, his eyes locked on the two of you before meeting your gaze. There he stares you down, even as his helmet slipped on. The visor was flipped down at the one minute warning, eliminating the final clarifying view of his gaze. It was clear he was cautious of you, maybe even lingering with hate.

“Fahrer! Starten...sie ihre....Motoren!

That familiar purr settles into your chest, spreading through your body like a dam breaking and flooding the valley below. It stirs up the motivation to win once more, removing any doubt from your mind as you rev your engine. Zemo was right, Walker had to be stopped. With this attitude about racing, playing his little mind games and wrecking racers, he’d get someone killed just for first place. You couldn’t allow that...but you also couldn’t allow the rivalry you have established with Zemo to be broken because of someone else. There was too much there to be lost. Your fingers tighten around the wheel, licking your lips beneath the helmet as you prepare yourself for takeoff. The lights start counting down the race. Five seconds away, one green and two red lights. You watch them count down until the bottom lines of red are fully lit, then they flash off. You’re off, following Zemo right on the tail of his car as you start into the track. This track was a beast, your mind racing as it remembers every nook and cranny of it. Seventy three corners, eleven danger points, hair pin turns, all on a 12.8 mile long course that was deadly in the onset of any weather and people who get careless with their moves. Lucky enough, the sky was only overcast. No rain, little wind to interfere with the aerodynamics and mobility of the chassis, just the perfect chill in the air to remind you where you were in this moment. You take your turns with ease, avoiding the group of cars that began to follow suit on the track behind your own. Your eyes remained locked in on every shift to your side, Walker keeping close by within each turn and danger point you went through.

As you drive, Walker gets up past you within one of the speed trap areas, the stretch of road allowing him to be up beside Zemo and leave you on the back of their tires. Zemo had a plan, you believed in this plan… but had he just been toying with you to get closer to Walker? Doubt clouded your mind, even as you sped up in an attempt to join the boys directly in the front. Perhaps you shouldn’t have followed this plan, even as you get through the first twenty five laps, then the next twenty five. Each turn brought your tyres closer to Walkers who eyed you cautiously from time to time, as if silently daring you to pull a move like he did. Maybe you’d be caught and black flagged. Hell, that would make his fucking day if that happened. As he watched you, he had failed to notice on the wider strip of the track how Zemo began to drift further and further ahead. Then he was side tracked, Zemo slowing abruptly and stealing the attention of the young American driver. “What the Hell!?” He yelled over the roar of multiple motors, watching your car join Zemo’s side and the original speed be resumed. Now you sat beside Zemo on the track, pedal to the floorboard as you two kept your lead and basically walled Walker in. Each time he tried to drift around, one of you would shift your car just enough to keep him locked in. A grin met your lips as you drove, the energy of the race taking a whole new shift as you got closer and closer to the last lap with your rival right at your side. Tips of the chassis lined up perfectly, rear aerodynamic fins aligned like a well oiled machine. You two were in perfect sync as you put Zemo’s plan into action. Create a wall of impenetrable magnitude. If Walker tried anything, all three of you would go down. If he tried to get around, he would be blocked. There was no getting out from behind you two.

The checkered flag waved in the quickly approaching distance, your gaze for a moment looking at your rival. The blur of purple was steady, lined with yours like that of an air jet's flight coordination. Perfectly straight, and running at full throttle like you are. As your cars pass the finish line, debate begins to rise. It was too close in the end to call, at least not right away. You slow, allowing the purple beast to pass by and enter the pit before you, a silent gesture of courtesy to the man you worked with. He sent a small nod your way when he watched you get out of your car, helmet removed along with his balaclava and revealing the joyful grin resting on his lips. Anyone else would mistaken it for cockiness, but the look in his eyes said it all. You two did it, you beat Walker in the race! He must be furious! A breath is held on your end, helmet and the fabric covering your face discarded as you turn your gaze away from the arriving racers and the man you drove along with. You were locked in on that score board, curiosity eating at you for who may have won the race. You were neck in neck with the man, the smallest push forward could earn either of you the points for the day. No names shown yet, and you anxiously leaned on the hot surface of the carbon fiber vehicle as you waited. Each noise around you from the slow dwindle of engines to low, fading purrs to the pit crews of your respective teams surrounding you, your rival, and the newcomer were drowned out by the pounding of your heart as it flooded your ear drums. It felt like hours passed as you kept your gaze locked on, ignoring the happy clamour of your crew, the clasp of hands on your shoulder and pats on your back, even down to the ruffling of your hair in glee. Then it flashed up.

1st: (First initial). (Last name)

1st: H. Zemo

2nd: J. Walker

The press goes crazy over the news, each respective country reporting their amazement over the finishing results.

“Ein fehlerfreier, aber überraschender Sieg für Baron Helmut Zemo, der mit (First name) (Last name) gleichauf den ersten Platz belegt!”

“Victoire pour la championne de France (First name) (Last name) alors qu'elle rejoint le Baron Helmut Zemo dans une rare égalité!”

“In a remarkable and truly unprecedented event in The Nürburgring F1 race! Baron Helmet Zemo and (First name) (Last name) tied in a photo finish for first place, a rare occurrence that has set back American racer John Walker from the potential for first place!”

Your breath comes out shaky, slowly slipping out as reality hits you like a wrecking ball to a brick wall. The air leaves your lungs as a happy noise rings out from your lips, joining your crew in the celebration as they hug and surround you. You placed first. Zemo placed first. Curiosity met you, your gaze looking to the man who celebrated with his own crew before allowing himself a chance to settle his gaze on you in turn. There he sent a wink, a silent congratulations that made you shake your head at his antics before refocusing on the celebration. You would be standing with the man in first place on that podium, both sharing the victory wreath and spraying champagne all over the crowd of fans and your respective pit crews who were basking in the glory just as much as you two were. You couldn’t help the glee bubbling up in your form, even as you make your way not too far from your rival. For a second, just a split second, you let the rivalry go and let your smile be seen in accompaniment with his gleeful grin, shoulders bumping when you’re positioned at the podium by the F1 management crew. Press swarm to the area like flies to a summer barbecue, wanting to catch a glimpse of the rivals standing together, being on the podium and sharing first place. “Not so bad working with my, as you put it earlier, old extrémité arrière, hm?” He questioned as you two stood together, the closeness you two were forced into for the photographers far more comfortable than it would have been under any other circumstances. He blamed the feelings he had at this moment on the victory over Walker, over the rest of the racers, not even thinking that perhaps this was beyond the fact that he won but that you, his favorite rival, won alongside him. “Non, not the worst.” You joked lightly, forcing a serious face for the cameras when they began to picture you two side by side on the first place stand. He accepted the bottle of champagne before you could, holding it out. “You may have the honor, (First name).” Your fingers brush his own as you grasp the bottle with him, popping the cork and sending the bubbly to decorate the crowd. Flash after flash met you as you stood alongside Zemo and basked in the glory of the win. “How about drinks to celebrate? Even as rivals, I believe a drink wouldn’t hurt.” He whispered the question, causing your gaze to lock on his own in brief surprise. Was he serious!? “I um..Oui, sure. Meet you in town?” He nods, gaze seeming to glimmer ever so brighter as he takes his leave. Even when you separate to get cleaned of the alcohol and switch to “civilian clothing”, your smile doesn’t falter. Maybe it would be good for you to drink the night away with company that didn’t seem as bad as you once had thought before.

As you begin to peel away the racing suit, the flame resistant material bunching at your waist and revealing the open expanses of your back, the simplistic bra strap over the back the only material seen, you fail to hear the seething man enter your car bay. “Do you know what you just did, Ms. (Last name)? Who you fucked with?” Walker puts his hands on your shoulders, spinning you around to face him, his face inches away from yours. “You went and fucked with the wrong man. You could have just accepted your loss, licked your wounds, and we would have been just fine. But oh no, you had to go and fuck with my winning streak with that Sokovian piece of shit.” He huffed when you shove him back, gaze narrowed and arms crossing over your bra covered chest out of annoyance. You could care less what he saw. “I don’t see why you’re so mad, Mr. Walker. You got a taste of your own medicine after that stunt you pulled back in France. You and I both know that was no accident.”

“You know what? Yeah, I did that. But I see you are working with Zemo now, which is also a big no-no in Formula 1. Seems we’re both sinners of the race. The greed of it.” His tone was a hushed, harsh whisper. There was no need to alert anyone that he was in your private quarters harassing you. “I’m nothing like you.” Your tone came out in a hiss, his downturned lips curving up into a grin at your response. “Oh sweetheart, I beg to differ.” He chuckled at the narrowed gaze he was met with. “You and your Sokovian boy toy need to back off. Let this happen like it should or you’ll not like what happens next.”

“And just what do you think you’ll do, John? Because all I’m hearing right now is a lot of talking with no proof of any big execution.” Your lazy grin and scoff of annoyance at his presence left him to raise his hands in mock defeat, hands coming to rest on your shoulders once more with a harsh grip that made your body tense and hold you there. He leaned in, even as you tried to lean away, his lips moving in close near your ear. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Frenchie. I will do anything to win. You best remember that.” His tone alone makes your body betray you, the calm, cool, and collected front slipping as a shiver ran up your spine at his warning. And with that, he leaves you to get dressed for the night.

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Zemo texts you an address for a bar off the beaten path in Cologne, Germany, further than you had anticipated in going from the track but a welcomed change of scenery. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Frenchie. I will do anything to win. You best remember that.” The words stick with you, even as you drive the main road into the big city, looking for the bar Zemo had invited you to. It was connected to a hotel, a fancy hotel at that, with old architecture and lavish exterior. You could only imagine the interior! A nervous breath is taken as you get out of the car, gaze meeting the man you had just won with. He smiled at you, clothing casual and the air around him feeling far more comforting now than ever. The incident with Walker had left you rattled, sending your nerve endings to buzz and let your body know that you aren’t okay. Even though you felt off, you force a smile to the man who wrapped a friendly arm around your shoulders and led you in to sit at the quiet bar. “So, did I not tell you the plan would work?”

“I just thought it was your cockiness talking, but I will admit, though it physically pains me to do so…” You pause, biting your lip. “Well?” You sigh. “You were right.” The words come out struggled and forced, the man's grin growing at such. “Ah~, I don’t believe I caught that.” “Oh va te faire foutre!” He chuckled at your words, hand raised towards the bartender to get you drinks. “What are you ordering?”

“Shots. We deserve something to toast our victory to, and I don’t believe champagne is your drink of choice.” He offered you one of the smaller glasses, his own raised before him as he locks those bright brown eyes with your own. “Ein Prost! To us, and our victory over John Walker. May that American schwein taste defeat again.” You raise your glass, hoping to drink away any thoughts about Walker's warning and leave it for the next day. Throwing caution to the wind, you decided right then and there that you would finally have fun and disregard the night that you sat across from your rival. Tonight you just wanted to drink. “À la vôtre!” The drink is bitter as it hits your throat and travels down your body, causing a warmth to spread soon after. Kuemmerling, a bitter concoction of herbaceous and bittersweet flavors. A drink of choice for Zemo it seemed because soon after the shots were downed, he ordered another round.

Shot after shot after shot is taken down until your body is leaning against his own and a joke that is shaky at best from his part sends you into a roar of laughter. He holds you close, laughing right along with you. “So... It’s Barenjar?” He snorts at your piss poor pronunciation of the new liquor joining the mix, shaking his head at you as he looks on with drunken vision. “Nien, nien, Bärenjäger. Say it with me. Bä-”

“Bä-”

“Ren-”

“Jäger!”

“Mick Jagger?”

He laughs in defeat, shaking his head as he watched you. So relaxed, so calm. He hasn’t seen you like this before in his life. He’s startled by your sudden movements after downing your last shot for the night, catching you as you try to stand and stumble as your feet betray you. Your body landing against his, his arms slotting themselves around your waist as your drunken gaze catches his own. Those brown eyes of his are hypnotizing, keeping your gaze locked on his own. “I have something to confess, (First name).” He paused to wet his lips, trying to piece the words together in his hazy mind. “I have liked you since the day I met you.” He finally blurts out, fingers moving up to brush away a stray strand of hair that had fallen into your eyes. “You’re infuriating, yet calming. Stubborn and determined. Your smile is lovely and those eyes…” He trails off, leaving your hazy mind questioning what was going to come after, but you hardly have time to think about it as he pressed in closer, face inches from your own. The smell of Bärenjäger and Kuemmerling lingered on his breath as it fanned over your face, those brown eyes searching for something in your own. “Can you feel it, the connection we have? Can you see that we are not just rivals now?” His tone was just barely above a whisper, questioning you with a hint of desperation to his tone.

“Oui.”

That was the only answer he needed. His lips are on yours with fever and desperation, hands clinging to your form for dear life after hearing the words that sent him to fully fall into the feeling of you. You were his comfort, the one constant thing in his life. His rival...but right now you were the woman he sloppily kissed at the hotel bar as the bartender tried to catch his attention to tell you that you both were cut off for the night. His hands moved to grip at your thigh and tangle in your hair, abandoning the idea of holding anything back, the liquor giving him courage to make a move on you. He has wanted to do this for years, touch you, feel you, have you there with him in any way he could. He separated only when the threat of security was offered by the bartender, lips kiss swollen and a faint pant falling from them. “Come.” His hand takes hold of yours, leading you along to the lift and up to his room for the night. This hotel that he called home for the time being would serve well for what he had in mind to do to you. He led you inside, not even waiting for the door to close as he captured your lips once more, hands taking your rear in his grasp and hoisting you up so your legs wrapped around him, back pressed up against the closest wall he could find. He held you there, lips separating to begin trailing hungry kisses down the column of your throat and allow his hands to trace along your sides. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the bare skin there, wanting what he has longed for since the day he met you. A noise fell from your lips as he lazily suckled a mark over your pulse point, your fingers tangling into his dark hair and tugging the locks when his hips grounded against your own. He couldn’t help the fire blooming in his body, needy for the creature that has teased him for all these years, The one he thought he would never have a chance with because of their hate for each other on the track. He needed you, and in your current state, you were willing to accept any touch he offered. He was just Helmut Zemo tonight. Not your rival, not the Baron, just Helmut. And you were his (First name).

A groan left his lips when you pulled him by his hair away from your neck, hands working to take your shirt up and over your head. Throwing it aside, he looked at you with a gaze of admiration. It was similar to the gaze he gave when looking at the new modifications to his car, taking pride in the beauty of things that drove him to win. He dampens his lips, fingers lazily dragging up the expanses of your back from bottom to top, resting on the clasp of the garment covering your breast. “Darf ich?” Your nod was all he needed, the clasp undone with skilled fingers that knew precision, holding still on your back when your arms rose to take the garment and throw it in an unknown direction to be forgotten about for the time being. He wasted no time with taking one of your breasts in hand, fingers running over the sensitive bud of one while he took the other in his mouth, suckling and lavishing with his tongue. He took his time, drunken yet slowly sobering mind savoring each and every noise that fell from your lips as he toyed with your body. You’re barely into foreplay and he already has your panties soaked, the Baron being a creature that knows exactly what buttons to push to get you going without even knowing your body. He was skilled, that much was for sure in your mind as he switched to the other breast, paying equal attention to each. Those brown eyes of his don’t leave your face for a second, watching every reaction and trying to commit them to memory. If he could only have you tonight, he wanted to remember everything he possibly could. Every detail of your body, everything that drew a hitched breath or a low moan from your lips. Every shaky breath and the way your body would press closer to his greedy mouth and hand. He stored it all away. Maybe he’d wake up the next day and fancy this a pleasant dream...It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten worked up by thinking about you.

His hand traveled downward, cupping your sex through your pants as his own grinds up against your thigh, straining through the fabric of his pants. He ached for you, for your heated skin to be pressed against his own in a delicious rut of bodies. He traced along the seam, hearing the low whine that fell from your lips as he teased you through the material. “Helmut, stop for a moment.” The man paused all actions, his gaze shifted to a worried state as he met your eyes and spoke with concern. “Are you alright, mein liebling?”

“Oui.” Your fingers trace his jaw, the man's face briefly pressing in against your palm before delivering a soft kiss to the area. A tender gesture that sent butterflies to flutter in your stomach and heart to speed further than the foreplay had already caused. “I just...Take me to the bedroom. Please?” You preferred not being right beside the door where anyone could listen in, where anyone could hold a camera up to the peephole and record the sexual pleasures of the infamous Wildcard and Baron. That would make a top headline, wouldn’t it? He gave a chuckle at your demand, nodding as he kept his grip on you, your legs wrapping just a hint tighter around him as he moved you both to the bedroom. He’s gentle with setting you down, looking down at you when you unwrap your arms and legs from his form. “Scheiße, du bist perfekt.” He slowly worked on the buttons of his shirt, working each plastic piece through the loop with fingers that were known for precision on the course. A shift in his steering, taking hold of the semi-automatic paddle-shifters as he drove, it was all well calculated and that applied on and off the track. His shirt is shrugged off his shoulders, thrown aside before focusing on the belt on his pants. He gets it off with what can only be deemed a darkening gaze, knowing he’s getting closer and closer to having you. You rose to let your hands trail his chest, roaming over the lean muscle that rested there as feather light kisses met his collarbone. A shiver met his spine, shooting up in bliss as he allowed a moment to savor the feeling of you touching his skin. Your skin was so warm, so inviting. He was getting lost in everything.

Your fingers shift down his torso, trailing his abdomen before looping in the belt loops of his pants to pull him forward, a low growl falling from his lips when you place a kiss above the waistline of his pants. Your movements were confident, unzipping his trousers and tugging them down to reveal the tent hidden behind his underwear. He swallowed thickly as he kicked his pants off, watching your every move as you cup him through the thin fabric, thumb moving to brush over the leaking tip and cause a shaky breath to leave him. “Maus-” A groan leaves his lips when a jerk through the fabric is given, his head falling back briefly. He huffed when you repeated the motion, fingers anxious to wrap around his bare flesh and feel that hot skin in the palm of your hand. But he stops you, hand wrapping around your own and bringing it to his lips once more. “Tonight is not about me, maus.” You’re surprised when the man placed his hand on your chest, lightly pushing you back to lay on the bed as he slowly sank down onto his knees, ”Es geht nur um dich.’ His lips drag slowly across your skin, trailing light kisses and nips along your abdomen and resting at the waist of your pants. He glanced up, a silent question of courtesy offered your way as his fingers loop in the band, asking permission like a proper gentleman. “Go ahead.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, his presence making you feel like you’re floating higher and higher on this ride with him. He gave a tug, your rear lifting and back arching to aid the man as he pulled your pants down and let them fall to join the scattered articles around the room. You’d have to go on a damn scavenger hunt just to find your clothes! But none of that mattered now, not when his hot breath is fanning over your needy core and face nuzzling at your thighs. He placed a kiss to your inner thigh before another followed, then another as he began to trail inward towards your covered core. “Aufgeregt?” He purred in questioning, a low rumble of a chuckle coming from deep within his chest spilling out at the small nod he is met with, loving how he has left you damn near speechless just by being so close. Your hips jump back before he gets a grip on them, his tongue moving over the wet fabric and causing a light whine to spill from your lips. “Helmut, please.” Oh, hearing you speak his name only egged him on further, needing you. He needed to taste you, to feel you. He needed you in every way, and his drunken mind only pushed him on to pull the fabric away from your legs and stare at the glory that is you. So wet, so beautiful. He wasted no more time, bringing your legs to hook over his shoulders and delved into the intoxicating honey pot he had been offered. He started off slowly, a long lap from entrance to clit given before the motion was repeated just to hear the noise that left your lips with each swipe. Zemo was mapping you out, taking note of what areas made your thighs twitch and tense, what areas made your hips jump back at the sensitivity of his touch, and what made those oh so delicious noises spill from your mouth.

He allows his tongue to focus in on your clit, flicking the bundle of nerves in a rhythm that sends your head to spin and moan after moan to spill from your lips. “Merde!” He smirked against your core when your hand shot down to tangle in his locks, needing stability after he took your clit between his lips and suckled. He repeats the motion, gaze locked on your own and watching the sudden shock of the feeling run through your body. You were so reactive, and just for him. A lazy lick is given to the sensitive bundle of nerves, watching your hips jerk lightly and seeing the tremble that began to settle into your thighs. “Close?” He questioned as if he was questioning about an everyday thing, totally not giving the impression he was getting you close to orgasm just with that sinful tongue and lips of his. O-Oui.” Your tone was shaky, breathy, eyes half lidded and watching his every move on you. “Gut.” A gasp fell from your lips when he sank a digit into your hot, needy core, arching along the way and searching for the sweet spot deep within. He wasn’t like the inexperienced boys who would just jab their fingers into their partner and hope it hits something. No, his fingers curled, probed, dragged and felt for that spot in a way that showed his experience. A second digit is added not too long after the first, probing the flesh within until he hears your moan and finds that spot that drives you to clamp your thighs around his head. A groan left his lips at the rush of slick is met with each probe, massaging that spot within you and only adding to the tension building in your core. Each throb he was met with only spurred him on. He was on a mission to bring you over the edge, and he would do anything to get you off. When his mouth returned to your still sensitive clit, tongue flicking of the bundle and including the occasional suckle while his fingers moved deep within, you were done for. A rough tug is given to his hair as your body convulses, thighs clamping around him and grinding your hips down against his eager tongue. He helps you ride out your orgasm, lapping at your clit until you give a light shove to his head to make him stop. A wicked smile crosses his features as he gives one final suckle, a squeak leaving your lips at the motion and shoving him back as much as your trembling body allows. He can only chuckle at the attempt, fingers removing from your throbbing core. He watched your gaze land on him when you caught sight of the digits, watching the man move his glance to them as if he was inspecting them before a quiet whimper left your lips when they were taken one by one into his mouth. He made it a show, teasing you as he cleaned each digit of your juices in a slow motion. Sinking down to the knuckle before returning and licking at whatever was left. “Tease.” You huffed, chest rising and falling steadily with your hammering heart. “Oh you know you like it.” He retorted, lazily letting his body climb up and over yours on the plush mattress.

He pushed the final material separating you from him away, throwing the underwear away before letting himself settle in against your body. Zemo wasted no time in wrapping your legs around his waist, lips joining yours as he lined up with you, one hand taking hold of your hip while the other took hold of your hair, tugging it back enough to have access to your neck. As he begins to ease himself within you, his lips attach at a section of your neck, a harsh mark left in his wake as he sinks inch by inch within the lightly pulsing core that he toyed with before. A groan was left against your skin when he was fully settled, grip rough on your hip but movements gentle as he waited for you to adjust. He was no animal, not cruel! He knew that there was a possibility for pain if he moved too soon, and even in his drunken haze he recognized the look in your eyes, the slight twinge of pain from his size alone. The stretch wasn’t unpleasant, no, but it was an intrusion you weren’t quite used to when normally doing this. He lightly placed kisses to sooth you along the mark he left, trailing them up the underside of your chin, going along your jaw before soon connecting with your lips in a soft kiss. Something to distract you until you were ready for him to move. A shift of your hips was given when you tested the feeling of him in you, the moan that left your lips causing a low growl to fall from his own. He lifted his body to loom over yours, hand moving from your hair to cup a breast as he sets a slow, deep and even borderline sensual pace within your core. Slowly out until the tip stayed just barely in before plunging deeply into your warm, wet depths. He huffed with each push of his cock within your core, meeting your moans with a faint groan here or a soft growl there when your walls gripped him just right. He was losing composure with each faint twitch of your walls around him, pace beginning to pick up into a steady rhythm that developed the noise of slick skin hitting skin and the bed beneath to creak ever so slightly with each movement. “Verdammt!” He could tell how your walls began to tighten around him, how each noise leaving your lips grew louder and louder. His poor neighbors, hearing you both so vividly through the walls of the hotel. Yet he didn’t care who heard. As long as they knew that in this moment, you were his to take, that was all that mattered. Zemo moved his thumb to your clit, working the bundle along with the assault he laid on your sensitive spot deep within. Each clamp around him brought his own release to come closer and closer. “Cum for me, maus.” He demanded with a grunt, needing to feel you come undone to reach his own release. His words hit somewhere deep in you, the demand that was laced with a plea driving you to your second orgasm of the night. He groaned as he felt you clamp around him, the sensation alone causing him to remove himself from you and spill onto your stomach with a few quick pumps of his hand along his slick coated member. He pants, taking in the sight of you one final time for the time being. Messy, slickened by your own arousal and sweat. Your hair was messed up, your lips parted and panting. To add the cherry on top, you were coated in his release, a sight for sore eyes while you lay like this. He made you like this, and it swells his drunken ego.

Slowly he eased down to lay at your side, bringing you in against him with an almost delicate kiss delivered to your temple. Your breathing slowly evened out, head resting against his chest as his fingers trail along your back, drawing imaginary patterns as his mind begins to blank. The alcohol was taking effect, causing him to enter a lull and for his eyes to flutter shut. As you lay there, catching your breath, you watch as he drifts away, a single question beginning to enter your sobering mind.

“What have I done?”

Tag List: @darksxder | @mymagicsuitcase | @mischief-siriusly-managed | @alindeluce

#Baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #helmut zemo #racing au #daniel brühl #zemo x reader #zemo x y/n #zemo x you #baron zemo x reader #john walker #john walker is STILL an asshole #multichapter story #chapter 2 #“It Takes Two to Win a Race.” Chapter II

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ckneal · 4 years ago

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I know that it’s not the week for it, but you know what’s going through my head today?

Michael, going to Purgatory to fish out the Ghoul’s soul, just like he promised Adam that he would, and how annoyed he must have been when he realized he’d have to make the trip alone. Because of course the Ghoul couldn’t go, being soulless—that’s the whole reason Michael has to go in the first place, since Adam’s gone and enmeshed their lives together not just with the monster who had killed him in his first lifetime, but with the very part of that monster’s being that is tied to the earthly plane and incapable of traversing the higher levels of existence available to humanity and all its misfit offshoots only in the afterlife. And of course, with Adam now settled in his old, human body—having been painstakingly reformed from the ashes that the three of them had tirelessly rooted for in the woods outside of Windom—the Ghoul couldn’t very well be left on his own. Soulless and driven primarily by his id, there was no telling where the Ghoul would wind up or who he might hurt if left unsupervised.

And so, Michael begrudgingly has to go to Purgatory alone, possibly aware of the fact that no sooner would the portal close behind him (after all, Michael could open and close the door to Purgatory at will, there was no need to risk who knew what creeping out into their motel room), before the Ghoul leaned over to Adam and murmured something along the lines of, “So, you remember when Michael was dead, and how we’d get off telling each other all the things we’d do if we weren’t stuck in the same body?”

MEANWHILE, Michael was left with the nearly impossible task of finding one stray monster soul in the gruesome, ongoing battle royale that is Purgatory. His choices of strategy are to either assume his trueform and squint down at the souls scurrying over the realm like a swarm of ants in hopes of finding one specific ant, or to walk around in his human-looking form, hoping to find the one soul he needed to find in order to go home. Both were exhausting, and not helped by the fact that Michael had no idea if the Ghoul’s soul was even there—what with the way that the monsters were constantly murdering one another. Even the angels (as per Castiel in season 6) didn’t know where the shredded souls of Purgatory went after they died again here. On top of that, even when presenting himself as human, Michael’s grace gave off an aura that inherently attracted the attention of monsters and Leviathans alike, and while neither was a true threat to an archangel, the continuous fighting was numbingly tedious to say the least.

Especially since most of the beasts that Michael bested and offered to show mercy in exchange for information burst out laughing when Michael then revealed that he was looking for a ghoul from roughly ten years ago. Monsters on the more harmless end of the spectrum didn’t last long in Purgatory.

Eventually, Michael gets a lead about a cave rumored to be a djinn’s nest. Djinn were naturally highly sought after by the less violent souls who found themselves in Purgatory. With no way to escape, it wasn’t uncommon to pursue a gentler avenue to that second, inevitable death in a djinn’s trance. But some people had overheard telltale sounds of fighting coming from inside the nest, suggesting that something else might actually be hiding there.

Michael tracks down this nest, knowing that it’s a long shot. The Ghoul’s soul would have been living in this bloodbath for a decade, after all, but he steps into the alleged djinn’s nest and feels the solid impact of a club striking ineffectively against the back of his head, and sure enough, there stands the Ghoul.

One thing that Michael found unexpectedly jarring was how young the Ghoul looked. He hadn’t thought much of it when Adam had asked him to age up their shared body—supposedly to help him slip back into his old life if he came across anyone he used to know—but the difference was hard to ignore when he was looking at Adam’s face as it was the day they met, under the coating of grime that marked every moving thing in Purgatory. A face that was, additionally, staring at Michael in a mix of confusion and terror. And it was only then that Michael turned his head and realized that it wasn’t a club that had hit him, but an axe—made of silver, if Michael wasn’t mistaken.

It was an awkward first meeting. Naturally, having been in Purgatory over the entirety of his soulless-sona’s relationship with Michael and Adam, the Ghoul had no idea who or what Michael was, and looking between Michael and the now dented axe, could only reasonably conclude that whatever Michael was was a lot harder to kill than a shifter. He took about three seconds to assess the situation, and then did exactly what had helped him survive in Purgatory for so long: ran for all he was worth.

On Michael’s part, he was realizing that he’d been so caught up on the headache of finding the Ghoul in the first place, that he hadn’t even considered what he would say to him when they finally met in this place. “No, wait!” were certainly not the first words he would have planned on.

The next hour or so was spent with Michael reminding himself over and over again that he loved Adam, and Adam loved the Ghoul, and he had promised to do this for both of them. He let the ghoul run outside the cage and then used his wings to relocate himself into the Ghoul’s path, the wayward soul crashing directly into his chest, and Michael’s arms springing around him to keep him from getting away. The Ghoul turned out to be surprisingly feisty though, and while Michael had no doubt that the Ghoul wouldn’t break free, his struggling was a nuisance. Michael wound up pinning the Ghoul against a tree—decidedly ignoring how his soulless-sona would likely have enjoyed that.

“WHAT are you?”

“I am the archangel Michael—”

The Ghoul’s struggling promptly resumed, along with a line of panicked cursing. “Okay, fuck, I know I wasn’t the best guy, but fuck, really? There are so many bastards in here, and you’re going after—”

“I’m not here to hurt you!”

“Okay, but I’m not looking to accept anyone as my lord and savior either! GET OFF ME!”

“Adam Milligan sent me.”

The Ghoul finally stopped struggling at that. As best he could around Michael’s hold on him, he started to gesture to his own face—then stopped and gestured to both his and Michael’s face. “You mean Adam Milligan as in. . ?”

“Yes.”

“WHY?”

“I will likely ask him that question every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Our—”

And it is at that point that Michael becomes aware that his grace—beacon that it is in the madhouse that is Purgatory—had attracted a horde of Leviathans. The Ghoul can hear it too, as whatever’s coming their way is big enough to topple trees. Michael tells the Ghoul to stay close so he can keep him safe, which elicits another strange look from the Ghoul, who had had very few experiences with people wanting to keep him safe, even before he and his siblings were killed. He reminds Michael that Leviathans are pretty high up on the food chain, and Michael assures him that he’s so far above them that he isn’t even on the food chain. The Ghoul winds up running anyway when he sees how big the horde is, Michael shouting after him.

Leviathans, of course, can’t actually kill an archangel, but that isn’t the Leviathans’ goal. They’d heard the rumor about a vampire who managed to make its way out of Purgatory smuggled inside a human soul, and wondered what their chances would be stuffed inside an archangel’s grace. And as such, they abandoned their humanoid forms and proceeded to throw themselves onto Michael as tar-thick liquid goo. Michael could blast them off of himself, but it was difficult with how they skittered around, and there were so many of them—and then all at once, a bottle crashed against Michael’s side, and his entire being was enveloped in fire. A startled, terrified noise burst out of his throat, realization triggering a memory that Michael usually kept firmly out of mind. Then something heavier crashed against Michael’s chest, and he tumbled backward with a splash.

When he opened his eyes, the Ghoul was on top of him. The two of them were laying in the bed of a shallow river Michael hadn’t even noticed before.

Scrambling up into a sitting position, the Ghoul asked, “You alright?”

“What was that?”

The Ghoul reached into a satchel he was wearing—which was now soaked through. What he held up was clearly a molotov cocktail, but when Michael looked closely there was something swirling in the liquid inside.

“Phoenix ash. Djinn who had the cave first, um, had one. I heard it took out Eve, figured it could help with those things.”

“I see. . .” Michael started to sit up as the Ghoul carefully tucked the bottle away.

Then the Ghoul cleared his throat and asked, “So. . Are we friends, or something?”

“Something like that.”

The look the Ghoul shot Michael was sharp. After all, phoenix ash wasn’t exactly a resource to waste on just anyone, and Michael begrudgingly offered, “You have memories waiting on earth that will explain all of this.”

“How do I have memories on earth? I’m dead.”

“. . .It’s complicated.”

“And what, I’m supposed to just trust you? No secret code, or sales pitch or anything?”

“It’s a long story. If I go into it, we'll likely be interrupted.”

The Ghoul frowns and stands up, water running off his clothes as he wades out of the river, thinking. Michael moves to splash water on his face, still shaken from having been set on fire, even though his grace is already healed. He’s interrupted by the Ghoul saying, “Alright, let’s go.”

Michael says, “Just like that?”

And the Ghoul looks uncomfortable, frustrated and vulnerable because he isn’t convinced, but he gestures around them, to the scenery that is currently calm but littered with bones sticking out of the mud left and right, evidence of past bloodshed that would only repeat again and again throughout eternity. “What else am I gonna do?”

And so Michael snaps his fingers, and the portal back to earth opens.

Outside of a body, a soul is actually a very small thing (see season 11), and so Michael actually winds up cradling the Ghoul’s soul in his hands as he steps back into the motel room. And then promptly drops it when he finds Adam and the soulless Ghoul in a state of undress in their king-sized motel bed.

“Oh hey, you’re back!” Adam says, rising out of the bed in a pair of shorts, as if he hadn’t been doing anything wrong—which, of course, he hadn’t been, Michael reminds himself as he let Adam kiss him in greeting. Even so, he finds himself having to draw in a long, calming breath when he looks over and sees the soulless Ghoul grinning at him, reclining on the bed, unbothered and completely naked.

Souls are immaterial things and not subject to the laws of gravity. And as such, when Michael dropped the Ghoul’s soul, it didn’t so much hit the ground as float gently toward the bed, inherently drawn to the other part of itself that resided within the Ghoul’s body. When it reached him, it fazed right through the Ghoul’s chest, without ceremony, and only then did the self-satisfied smirk leave the Ghoul’s face, as he bolted upright, looking like he was about to be sick. Adam was concerned, but Michael assured him that everything was fine. The Ghoul’s head was merely spinning as a decade’s worth of memories inserted themselves into his consciousness, merging who he’d been on earth with the part of him that had fought for his life in Purgatory.

“He should probably stay in bed. It will take him awhile to adjust.”

“Right. . .” Adam nodded and turned back to Michael. It was actually a little surprising how quickly concern disappeared from Adam’s demeanor, Adam trusting Michael’s assessment of the situation unequivocally. Heat replaced it as Adam’s lips found Michael’s again. “I know you don’t need to sleep, but do you want to lay down with us for awhile?”

Adam already had a hand lightly resting on Michael’s belt.

Still on the bed, the Ghoul was watching them with interest.

Later, when Adam was asleep, half sprawled on Michael’s chest with the Ghoul curled against his back, Michael opened his eyes when he felt finger tips idly moving over his stomach. He looked over and found the Ghoul, propped up on one arm, watching the movements of his own hand over Adam’s shoulder, with an expression on his face that Michael found unreadable. The Ghoul’s hand withdrew, and Adam nuzzled in closer to Michael when he moved incrementally, trying to get a better look at their third companion. And even as the Ghoul laid there, perfectly still when their eyes met in the dark, as an angel Michael was aware of how the Ghoul’s heartrate spiked as he seemingly sucked his tongue for a moment before saying, “Thanks for, you know.”

#midamoul #midamoul shared body au

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asimovsideburns · 3 years ago

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Surprise, bitch! I bet you’d thought you’d seen the last of me! Guess what? Today you get TWO session summaries—not just the archipelago, no, but also… THE CITY OF TEUCRI!!!!! WHAT???? That’s right, we did an anniversary one shot (turned two shot), so of course I have to do a session summary for it—it’s the first game I started posting these for!

Hello, and welcome to The City of Teucri. It’s been six months since we saved the city from a fascist conspiracy, and things are looking up! Tomorrow is Princess Marlowe’s 18th birthday and, almost as importantly, her coronation as Queen.

We begin our session assembled in the same place we were hired for the last job, but it’s Princess Marlowe herself instead of Guinevere briefing us on the situation. (Guinevere is definitely the one who organized it, though.)

Princess Marlowe tells us, okay, I’m coming of age at midnight, so Guinevere has arranged for me and my friends to go hang out at this bar (the legal drinking age in Teucri is 18) (don’t @ me it’s not my setting /j /j) BUT she wants you guys to tag along at make sure we don’t get into trouble. The place is called—

Smash cut to us waking up the next day at noon in an alley, four hours before the coronation, with a business card, an added modification to Rocky’s sword, a weird flask, a salt shaker of spice that Ferris, a warforged, can almost actually taste (and that deals fire damage to Atlas when they try some)… and missing Marlowe’s mother’s ring, which is not only a) magical and b) sentimental but also c) has the royal seal on it and is required for the coronation. which is, again, in four hours.

Oh, and we also don’t remember anything.

WE’VE BEEN THE HANGOVER’D!

(I have not seen The Hangover)

Those of us in the alley are Iraelin, Atlas, Ferris, Rocky, and Marlowe. We determine that Marlowe’s friends were sent home early in the night because we were going to look into something and it seemed dangerous. Atlas uses a third level spell to cast Sending to contact Bermuda, who was not there at the start of the night but we could really use their help. There is no response. Three seconds later they walk around the corner drinking an iced coffee and wearing homestuck shades (“the spiky ones”).

We send Marlowe back to the palace with instructions to tell Guinevere and only Guinevere everything (it’ll be worse if you don’t) and Bermuda’s iced coffee. We’re going to retrace our steps and find the ring.

Ferris uses Identify to figure out that the attachment to Rocky’s sword allows it so emit sunlight. Atlas gets double nat 20s to determine that the spice is a specialty item that only a few restaurants in the city carry, and the names of all those restaurants. The flask feels like it has water but nothing comes out when it’s opened and upended. Iraelin remembers the place we were supposed to go to, and has the business card she found in her pocket.

We decide to start with the place we were supposed to go to. Iraelin grabs Bermuda’s shades on the way out of the alleyway—it’s way too bright out for this.

We head to the bar, where the bartender (who is dealing with a very large, very shattered window) is super happy to see us.

We flashback.

It’s last night, and we’re at the bar. It kind of sucks. It’s a “$12 for a ‘plate’ of mozzarella sticks that’s really one mozzarella stick cut into six pieces” kind of place. Nonetheless, our night is livened up when a brick comes crashing through the window, threatening in archaic language to burn the place down if they don’t pay their protection fees. We talk to the bartender and the waitress and find out that there’s been a few people coming around to businesses in the area, giving them trouble. At the waitress’s other job, they actually did throw a molotov cocktail!

The unifying characteristic of the people making threats is that they look “kind of sick”, which isn’t a lot to go on, so in-flashback we decide to go check out the waitress’s other job (the bartender is closing the place down, anyway) (also we do tip her)

We flash forward.

We talk to the bartender a bit, Iraelin gives him the contact info for a window guy she knows, and we head off for the next place we went to last night—HGT, according to the business card. When we get there, we see that the full name is Here for a Good Time—and we flash back again.

It’s last night, and we’ve arrived. Marlowe has successfully convinced us to look into this extortion ring (or at least, we couldn’t talk her out of it), and we’ve arrived at Here for a Good Time. It is, of course, a sex work establishment, so Marlowe and Ferris have to wait outside, being 17 and 9 respectively. The rest of us go inside and discuss the attack—a while back, a sickly looking person had come by telling them that they needed to make payments, and not wanting to make waves, they had—leaving gold in a dead drop by the river. Then, more recently, they were instructed to make payments by making a reservation at a specific restaurant, ordering an off-menu item (rotwurst) at an exorbitant price, eating it, and telling the waiter to give their compliments to the chef. This was too much, and they said no. A few days ago, another sickly looking person came by and threw a molotov cocktail into the main lobby; luckily the fire was contained and the perpetrator thrown out, but this is a serious issue. There was also some kind of sigil or rune painted on their building, but it’s been washed off—we’ll have to come back tomorrow for someone to be able to draw it for us.

Flash forward again. We knock on the door (Ferris has to stay outside again, so Rocky stays with them). One of the employees (who has a photographic memory and is one of those people who’s, like, kind of annoying about it) draws us a sketch of the sigil as well as the two sickly people who had come by.

As we go to leave, Ferris demands a treat, “because it’s my birthday” (it is not their birthday) (they turned nine like a week after the end of the campaign) (however they also just found out last night that birthdays are like. A Thing.)

With sigil in hand, we head over to the Monastery to try and see if they have anything in their library that can help us figure out what’s going on. It is at this point that, knowing we’re running on limited time, I have the brilliant idea to 1) hail a horse taxi, 2) flash the Very Important Official Business paperwork that Guinevere neglected to make me return after we saved the city from the previously mentioned fascist conspiracy, and 3) tell the driver he could charge the palace double if he gets us where we’re going fast

We get to the monastery in record time, and I tell him to leave the meter running while we’re inside. Bermuda doesn’t want to go in. Bermuda hasn’t been here in the six months since we saved the city. Atlas convinces them to come inside with us anyway—you can’t hide forever, after all.

Inside, we find El’neye, who has an… unfortunate… haircut. It looks not great. It looks very specific. It looks like the bangs you give yourself after being ghosted for six months, to be exact.

We do some research with her help and find that the sigil belongs to an old, old, old group of people who promoted health through clean living and decided to go live underground. They were not heard from again.

We start spiraling about this in the wrong direction and discover that the flask we have doesn’t pour out, but does have water in it. Ferris does an identify and figure out what it is. Ferris points it at Bermuda and says “Geyser,” which produces 30 gallons of water that gushes forth in a geyser 30 feet long and 1 foot wide.

In a library.

That is in the process of recovering from being extremely vandalized about six months ago.

Luckily, Bermuda is hanging back by the door, so the water doesn’t damage anything. Ferris and Bermuda are still banned from the library. Protests of “it’s my birthday!” fall upon deaf ears. Bermuda walks out sopping wet and goes to stand by the taxi.

We say our goodbyes and then head off to the restaurant where the HGT people were supposed to order the rotwurst, which is ALSO one of the few restaurants in the city that have the spice we found. As we approach, a large goliath man in the restaurant’s uniform waves his hands and makes it abundantly clear that we are not welcome here.

We flash back.

We park the taxi around the corner and head to this restaurant, which has many people waiting for their reservation. We approach the host, and very, very casually begin what will henceforth be known as “pulling a Marlowe, Party of Six”.

To start, we name drop the princess, who is clearly with us, and pretend that we have a reservation. Obviously, we do not have a reservation. Is he sure? He’s sure that the princess can’t be served here? He goes and gets a manager, who confirms that we are, yes, a party of six people.

He, with great pain, escorts us to a table. We are not dressed for this place. Bermuda is wearing basketball shorts. A different manager is explaining to a very rich, very angry group that there has been a mix up with the reservations. People are staring.

We are seated. Except for Rocky, who insists on standing, because his job is to protect the princess from people, including rudeness, and you can’t be rude to the princess if you can’t get to the princess.

We order. Iraelin orders a drow dish, which theh definitely don’t have, in undercommon which these people definitely don’t speak. Bermuda pulls out a bag of chips and starts eating those. Atlas orders a cold dessert soup, just to see if they have it. Rocky orders a wagyu steak, pronounced incredibly wrong. Bermuda also orders one, pronounced incredibly wrong but in a different way. Atlas orders one of those but as a sandwich to dip in their soup. Ferris asks for the rotwurst, but could they put a birthday candle in it and sing happy birthday to them, because it’s their birthday? (this is the first chronological instance of birthday boy ferris.) Marlowe orders the soup du jour, but also with a birthday candle in it, because it’s her birthday, too. The manager says, it’s both of your birthdays? Human Public Figure Princess Marlowe Roberts looks at the warforged Ferris, back at the manager, and says, yes. We’re twins. Also please sing a second happy birthday song for me, because you know how when you’re twins everything is kind of for both of you and it becomes a sore spot.

The manager, who is so so sweaty and nervous, says yes, of course.

They bring out our food. They sing happy birthday, twice. They have to hold on to the birthday candle in Marlowe’s soup while they do it. People at the tables next to us are asking to be moved. Bermuda asks for a refill on the bag of chips they brought with them. Ferris pushes the rotwurst away without touching it and says “my compliments to the chef!”

The manager goes to convey Ferris’s compliments. The manager comes back to tell us that the chef would love to hear our compliments in person. We follow the manager to the kitchen, which appears completely empty. We are attacked by a full Vampire.

We deserve this.

All of a sudden, our flash-forward items make sense—a sword that sheds sunlight, a flask that produces running water.

The vampire attempts to take Marlowe’s ring. He has a +4 to the check, and rolls a natural 19. Marlowe has a +3, so she needs a natural 20.

She rolls a natural 20.

And that’s where we ended our session! We spent so long on Marlowe, Party of Six and other shenanigans that we turned it into a two-shot! I can’t wait to keep playing (I’ve got some Plans), and I’ll be back with another session summary some time after we do

#mine #my dnd #the city of teucri #scheduled post #I’ve literally been doing this session summary since I finished the last one at 7:30am #it’s 10:48am now #I know I work slow but damn

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