#crack pot mud slinging

[kafkaoftherubbles]

Crack-ass Hypotheses Record #1/ 致命脑洞记录 (一） 

Eko has her clay pot. I have my crackpot.

This is where I gather my current To Your Eternity hypotheses and speculations that are wild (low probability) and have minimal-to-no concrete in-lore evidence or arguments per what the story currently shows. Over time, some might get promoted to formal hypotheses (IPA pronounciation: ˈram-bəl) if the evidence pools to its favor, but for now, take 'em with the same copious amount of salt as needed to make marinated Nokkers to serve unsuspecting Human Nokkers. Yum! 

Dolly has 32's brainwaves, including a copy of her consciousness/personality (at the time of her copying), uploaded into its AI module. It is still loading in the background. 

Dolly has 32's brainwaves and some bits of Left Hand Nokker's consciousness. Ironically making it the latest Hayase "rebirth." 

Dolly has 32's brainwaves because she is (forcefully) uploaded into the doll to leave her actual vessel for Left Hand Nokker to completely dominate. Dolly is 32's last-ditch attempt to remain "human." 

Dolly is a hybrid of 32 and Left Hand Nokker's consciousness as the Left Hand Nokker's latest attempt to "be human." Hence the panel "I've become human." 

Dolly is the Beholder's Orb (a rather popular one in the fandom as it stands, but it's personally placed rather low on my probability scale) 

AD and 32 (+ other Mizuha clones) had a very important relationship. 

AD was one of the Mizuha executors. 

 All Kaibara's most dirty-working executors have no stars. 

AD is frequently depicted as wearing goggles because (1) he has soft expressive eyes which, despite the intimidating physique, can easily betray his emotions. (2) his eyes are distinctive enough that revealing it will make readers recognize his lineage or connection to past characters. (3) a fashion statement. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. 

The Mizuha Massacre was conducted because Left Hand Nokker has finally perfected its vessel and it no longer needs these "Hayase's rebirths" anymore.  

Left Hand Nokker's perfect vessel is constructed or engineered from scratch the way designer babies like Andy are, but with materials from the Left Hand Nokker itself such that for the first time, it can say this is its body. This is its first time as an independent human being, "free" from Hayase and her "incarnations."

There could be a grand revelation of the true nature of Hayase's rebirths, which the Left Hand Nokker recounts to taunt/spite Fushi. Perhaps the revelation that the rebirths have always been arbitrary and socially constructed and that only the Left Hand Nokker is the constant. In other words, Kahaku could have just been a normal Yanome boy without all that baggage—and self-hatred—all along.  (very wild if true; for now, very low on the probability scale despite how much I like this one)

There will be a World Tour of sorts, with each immortal warrior's personal theme and life story coming to full circle and perhaps even dying. It will make this part of the Wish Era mirror the Previous Era's emotional gut punches.  

The tundra will return (whether it's still the tundra or not... well, climate change might beg to differ). The NAMELESS BOY (ooh, didn't need to capitalize that) and Joann both will return to the story in some form.  

As they are Fushi's earliest memories and life impetus, to the point of being pre-Hayase, they are the ones most connected to the Beholder's Orb. 

Nameless Boy is (or the base of) Fushi all along. It doesn't change the fact that Fushi is "everyone", though, but in some philosophical-spiritual-scientific-whatever-sticks way, Nameless Boy and Fushi are "one person."  (Also very wild if true, but also very low on the probability scale despite how much I like this one to bits)

Fushi would make do with what they promised Left Hand Nokker back in the Present Era and "become its vessel."  

That's it this time! I wonder what everyone's crackpot theories are as of now?  

Thank you for reading my ramble.  

[jazz-miester]

My world has ended. So will yours.

Pairing: Ravage x Reader

Reader type: Gender Neutral human

Song: Blackout days- Phantogram

Warnings: Reader injury. Speaking of loss of loved ones. Swearing. Angst.

An: Dude. I absolutely adored this request! The pairing doesn't come until later in the story but I had a fun time building up a bit of backstory!

Word count: 3,039

Tags: @astridkolch

.

.

"Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief."

- Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

.

.

Earth was coming to an end. Or, at the very least. That is what it felt like. The aliens, Cybertronian's they called themselves. We're slowly tearing this world apart.

Although some do not mean it. Large meccanoids regularly coming back to fix towns and cities. Places they had a hand in destroying.  They were more advanced than your kind. Helping rebuild homes stronger and more sturdy. Hurdling Earth's technology far ahead of it's time. No weapons though. Nothing that could possibly help you defend against them.

Nothing that you could use and hurt your fellow human.

You've seen the Autobot leader. You stood in the back if a small crowd. The sooty and tearstained faces of your neighbors looking to him. For what you didn't know.

Hope? Empathy?

He spoke as if he did. Gave you his name. His words. The promise to be rid of the Decepticons. "To have peace upon your world." You scoffed.

People began to cry out. A viscous growl if named. Venom and hurt.

The face of the Prime falls. His very being seeming to sink into the concrete ground. A pink feminine figure lays a hand in his shoulder.

That look he gave her. You knew that look. The very same your father gave your mother. So soft and full. When he was tired she brought him up. Just as the pink one was doing now.

So. They were capable of love.

Slowly you made your way to the front. Helping your fallen neighbors to their feet.  As you do so, something dark blurs in the corner of your vision. It sends your head turning to where it came from.

Tamara. Sweet and kind Tamara. The elderly woman who could barley harm a fly let alone show any kind of violence. Her hand was coated in mud. The dark coating or dirt pulled from a nearby pot. The same mud that now coated the side of Primes wide eyed face.

"Leave us." Her voice shrilled and cracked. "You bring nothing but death to us." One of them. A large mech coated in red steps forward. The Primes stops him. Hand in his chest as he still looks at Tamara.

You go to her. Try to calm her. Instead she grips your arms. She stains your shirt with the mud. Her brown eyes are blown wide. Bright and shiney. They moved swiftly side to side as she studied you. Shallow breaths left her lips quickly and her body trembled. Loose ringlets if curls shook from her normal slicked back style. A whimper left her lips.

Scared. She was scared.

"I lost my grandchild because of them. They need to leave.

As if the group had been waiting for her final words they surged forwards. Hurling a manner of things to the group of four Bots. Drinks. Rocks. Mud. You swore you even saw Delilah's stuffed bunny hit the red one.

"Leave!"

"Your kind are nothing but monsters!"

"My wife-My son-My Daughter!"

"You are no better than the ones you claim to protect us from!"

The words hurt. You knew this. Saw it. Their frames seem to break and fall. But at the same time you connected more with your townsfolk.

Still. It is not there fault the Decepticons will not leave. And, in the end. No one deserves such cruelty. You've seen the footage on social media feeds. You have seen Autobots taking hits to the point of death to save humans.

Your feet move before your thoughts catch up. You get caught in the crossfire the closer you get to them. Mud slinging against your back. Coating your hair.

The Prime leans down. You look up. Hands trembling as nervousness overtakes you.

"What do you need young one?" Your chest hurts when you speak next.

"You need to leave. For your own safety. These people." You gesture behind you aimlessly."They're hurting. And you being here is making it worse. Please. We will be fine if you go." The tears fall. "Just. Leave. Take Morgan street then Looking Glass road. You'll be able to leave in peace." It pains you to send them away. It hurts worse to see your friends in such a state.

The Primes face falls. "Truly? Is there no aid I can offer? There are camps." You stood him there's wave your hand.

"My family is dead. Now go." You leave at that. All the kindness in your heart leaving. And truly, the man is still willing to help in the face of those who speak his name as poison. He did not deserve your cruelty.

.

.

.

With time came change. And with change you grew.  You mourned every loss. Celebrated every victory. Grew into a new person with others. Stronger and more willed. And yet, some lost the only true gift In This world. Their kindness. Their love. The ability to help without expectations.

Lost the meaning of being human in a crisis.

Your town had kicked you out over that. Showing kindness to their so called enemy. Nearly a year has passed since then. Still, the hurt had not ceased.

The group you were in now had been a serendipitous moment. It was also a choice born of desperation.

They said all they did was helped. Pulling people from the ashes of fallen homes. Helped them stand firmly on their own two feet after it all.

You thought that was what you were doing. Up until the point you saw one of your "teammates"  demanding a young woman to pay them.

"I helped you. Know you help me." When she pleaded. Told him she had nothing. That her home had been burned and with it everything she had. He rose a fist to hit her. Only to be stopped when you pulled his arm back.

"What the fuck David?" He laughed. Let the woman go.

"What?" He asked. "We hell them and they don't own us nothin'?" He steps to you. Eyes bright as his lips curl into a ghost of a smile. "I don't know what you or Boss is on, but I ain't doin' this for free. So back off. Or I'll make you pay for it instead."

You step back. Disgust turning your stomach. "You're sick. You know that. Right?" You motion with no clear direction. "But if we had to "pay back" after we got help no one would be in a good place right now. You forget we were no different that her when Boss's crew helped us."

He seemed to mull this over. Then laughed. By now the young woman had left. Taking with her the water and canned goods you had give her.

"Then both of you are stupider than I thought." David spoke. "Think. We could be living lavishly right now. Not worrying about food. Drink. " He paused. "Bodies." He tagged that last bit on. Eyeing you up and down. You spat into the dirt. Ridding yourself the taste of ash and the rising bile from his gross suggestion.

"Greed will get you nowhere. Others will think the same. Do the same to you." David took offense to that.

"Do you really think you know me? I've lost things. People. I should be allowed to be selfish." He's in front of you now. Nose almost brushing yours. You could feel the heat rolling off of him. Almost fever hit in it's intensity.

"You're not the only one David. Everyone has lost something because of them. We need peace amongst ourselves. Not. Not this."

Your head swivels before the pain hits. Hot warmth cradling your jaw as you begin to regain your senses. You stagger back. Stop. Stare at David who is seething.

Blood. You taste blood.

.

.

.

The fight wants long. A few minutes and most. It left David running to lick his wounds and you staring into the rubble of. the city that once was Portland. You leave to tell your boss your no longer helping.

The faith you once held in humanity now gone. Desperation born of ruin.

.

.

.

Six months left you numb. Stumbling across more hurt than hope. More greed than selflessness. It left you ill.

Your travels lead you somewhere North. Snow overtaking the ground. Feet stepping into one of the few towns left intact. It is there you find some semblance of peace.

You live with them. A family kind enough to take you in until you could be in your own to feet. Long enough to be able to rebuild and abandoned house.

You do your part as well. Helping the young couple with cleaning and repairs in their own house. Offering to help with their gardens or over watching the twins. Carwyn and Arwen. Cute names. Adorable children. Although they did keep on sneaking your sweets away. It was cute thier laughter when they thought they got away with something.

The couple, Laura and Kate, were the ones to help you into your new home. It was small. Only three rooms. A bedroom a bathroom and the kitchen connected with the living room.

And it was yours.

The two made sure you had plenty of food. Pointed you in the direction of work to help earn your keep. Almost no one used money anymore. Instead choosing to fall back on old ways of commerce. It was nice.

You got comfortable. Got into a steady routine. Get up before the sun. Coffee. Get dressed. And then go work for the old man down the road. Finish there and help anyone else who needed it. You would go home then. Wind down. Eat dinner. And write. The only constant that has stuck in this life. A habit your not willing to let go.

It happens again in the summer. Early in the morning while your drinking your coffee. Still clothed in the thin shirt and shorts you fell asleep in.

You could smell it. The acid blend of ozone and what you've come to recognize as blaster fire. Your heart stops. Your breathing becomes short.

No. No. No.

It can't be. Not here. Not now. Not when everything was getting better. Not when you just began healing.

You do the first thing you think of. Lacing up boots and pulling in jeans as you run out the front door. Your coffee spilled all over the table on your back porch. The table the twins made for you. A table you may never see again.

"Laura! Kate!" Your voice shrills in the morning air. Cool misty air wets your warming face. Does nothing to calm your beating heart. People stop and stare at you. Running down the road. Panicked and frightened.

You could see it now. The bright red arcs shooting just outside the town.

You stood in the middle of the road. In front of Laura and Kate's home. You pull in a shuddering breath.

"Fuck." The curse repeats on your lips. "Everyone! We have to go. Now!" They say nothing. Watch you slacked jawed. For the longest time they had only knew you and cold and collected. A person who thought before they spoke. Only warming to the young kids and lending a helping hand to those who needed it. Never expecting anything back.

"Y/n?" It was Kate. The mousy haired women jogging out her front door. Still dressed in her blue nightgown.

"Kate. We need to leave. The town need to go." She looked out you. Bewildered.

"Y/n. There's nothing happening you. Are you okay?" She lays a hand on your shoulder. Eyes Darting to the sky above. Following the arc of light over the town. "Y/n?" Your hands shook. You looked to her. Mouth dry as you spoke.

"The Decepticons. They are here. We. We need to go. Everyone!" You looked to them. "We need to leave. This town won't make it. Pack only what you need. Food. Clothes. Camping gear." Your voice echoed down the street. No one moved. Your heart skipped a beat. That acidic stench filling your lungs. Stronger now as it got closer.

"Go!" Your voice was even and steady. And it seemed to be the first falling domino. The town flooded into a flurry. Neighbors waking those who were yet to rouse. Talking amongst themselves what was needed.

Your were winded by the time you made it home. Immediately throwing bags already packed out of paranoia into the back of an old Chevy. The truck you've been fixing since you got here.

You tossed a car seat into the middle. Left the other bare. Just incase. Just incase.

The first blast hit moments later. Tearing up the road and homes in an explosive burst of power. Heat rolled through the town. Hotter that any summer heat you may have endured as a child.

You got out of the truck. Began directing others to the other end of town. Telling them where to go. A path you went over and over again as the months passed. Just incase. Just incase this moment happened.

God you wished you never needed it. That your paranoia was getting the best of you.

Carwyn and Arwen we're terrified. Tired eyes full of quiet tears as thier mothers loaded then into their car. Laura came up to you as Kate loaded the last of their belongings in.

"Y/n?" You looked down at her. A faint smile on your face.

"You know. I never really got to say thank you for." She cut you off.

"No. Tell us when we make it out of here." Your snort.

"If Laura. I'm not fool enough to think everyone will make it." You push her to her car. To her wife. "Now go. I'll follow. I just have to be sure everyone made it out." Her face falls.

"Please. Be safe." You say nothing. Watch as she gets in her car. Watch the scared faces of the twins through the windows. Their eyes never leaving yours.

It's only after they're gone do you let yourself grieve. A few falling tears. The bitting of your fist. The explosion of breath leaving your lungs as your body shakes. Trembling still as you enter the Chevy. Tears drying as you slowly press on the gas. A slow cruise down the road as you watch for stragglers.

The second blast hits. Sending your truck careening forward. The horn screams as the truck flips. Your breath leaving you as it skids across the road. The large metal leg filling the windows as it's rolls to a stop.

The door opens. The belt catches. Loosens.

A third blast. Your hair singes. Skin burns. Old wounds resurface.

A fourth. A fifth.

A prayer on your lips.

A sixth. Seventh.

Homes burn.

Eighth. Ninth.

A fallen body. Either Autobot or Decepticon. You don't stick around to find out.

They spoke in a foreign tongue. Their voices filling your ears as you ran. Heart a battering ram in your chest. Your lungs felt as if they would collapse. Your body grew cold. Your legs numbed.

Tenth.

Your body flew. Hit the ground a few feet away. A shriek left your lips. A sob tore your throat. Your leg. Oh fuck your leg.

Move move move!

You couldn't. Your head turned. Tears blurred your vision. Heat rolled over your trembling body.

A final breath. Your vision tunneled. Then left.

.

.

.

You woke to the sound of voices. No. Voice. Timbered and low.

"Human?" A nudge at your jaw. A low hum left your chest. You moved. A nearly screamed at the pain that followed. Your eyes shot open. A whimpered curse left your lips. "Human? Answer me." You looked to the source of the sound.

Oh you cursed every god in those start skies. One of them. One. Cybertronian. Was this one good or bad? Will. Will they hurt you? And. Were. Are that a cat?

"You're injured. Can you move?" And they talked? Did you hit your head. Your fingers brushed your brow. They nudged you.

"No." Came the raspy response. The cat hummed. Jeweled eyes roved over you.

"What is your name?" You scoffed. Spat.

"You first." They laughed. He? You think this one was a he. Talking cat or otherwise.

"Ravage." You let you head fall.

"Y/n. Although." You stopped. Coughed. "I don't see why you care so much." Ravage laid down next to you. Long body guarding you from cold winds that you just now noticed.

"I don't know why either, Y/n." His head turned. Looked down to you. "You humans. You fear us. I know why. But you. I watched you." His voice was a low rumble now. "Unlike others you tried to help. " He paused. Shifted. Looked to his left. Then back again.

"Your people are safe because of you. They left just as the battle reached here. You." He paused. Mulling over his words. Watched you as tears fell from your eyes. The starlight reflected in them. "You are loyal to those you care about. And we can always use another like that. You are not the first human. Not will you be the last of either sides I'm sure." You bared your teeth.

"And why would I help the people who have a hand in destroying my world." He grinned. Metal fanged glistened in the moonlight.

"You do not have a choice. Human. If you wish to have help. The Autobots will not come back for you. They think all the humans fled and instead are with them. You are alone here. Except my help." You coughed. Shivered despite his warmth.

"Fine. Just know. I'll be sure your world ends to. Despite whatever loyalty you think I have." Ravage laughed. Curled into you further.

"Oh believe me human. I know it will. But, I do know you will enjoy their company." His tailed arced over head. His head, large as it was, curled over yours. Warmth flooded I over you. Made your body grown heavy.

"Rest know. And trust me when I say no harm will come of you."

Despite not wanting to you did fall asleep. A mixture of fear and pain. Your body to tires to fight it. At the very least you will be rested for whatever was to come.

[ordonianhero]

Painfully Delicious

CW: mention of insects-bees to be exact.

Humor/comfort/angst type story

Author's notes: I haven't done much writing for Hyrule. So I really hope I do him justice. Also thanks to those on Discord ( @thankyourluckystars13 @galactic-fire-dragon​ and others) for helping figure things out. wheezing still 

The characters in this story are based on Linked Universe by @jojo56830​

You know, maybe attempting to wrack a hive down with a stick is the lease wise thing to do.

  The group were pretty much tuckered out. The weather had been a bit unpredictable. One moment sunny, the next it was raining. Slugging through mud, slipping at times. The group was absolutely worn out. Their leader upon looking at them all, finally came to the decision they would set up camp early. They picked a spot that seemed fairly dry and not far from a stream. They could one, get cleaned up a bit, rest and then get something to eat. The ranch hand removed the saddle for his mare's back and Removing the Then giving her a good brush down. Then leading her towards the stream, where she dipped her head down to drink. He could hear the ringing of ilia's voice in his head, as he got a cloth and started wiping her down, getting the grime and muck off her legs and coat. Epona's a girl too you, so you have to treat her nice like one! Twilight chuckled at that memory as he rubbed down her neck. Epona's head perked up as Wild, Wind and Hyrule approached. The rancher looked over. What were those three up too? he wondered. "Oi, what you guys doing?" hollered at them.

They seemed to be looking for something. The captain also then arrived, crouching down and splashed some water onto his face. He then stood up and made his way over. The three didn't reply, they seemed to go off on their adventure of looking for something. "They said they were looking for some sort of ingredient for a meal." The captain replied, walking his way over to the farm hand. Giving Epona a rub down on her snout. Twilight sighed and rolled his eyes, "Great. I just hope they don't get lost or anything." Getting the rag wet and then gently washing the sweat off of Epona's back. where the saddle had once sat. The Captain lovingly pat Epona on the side of her face, "Sure they won't go off too far. Plus the chef is resourceful." Twilight saw the smirk on the Captain's face. "That is what I am afraid of."

Wild, Hyrule and Wind kept going through the forest. On the hunt for a bee hive. Wild wanted to make up a dish that was both sweet and savory. Giving the group a little extra energy they may need for whatever comes. "so how do we find the bees?" ask wind. The young sailor wanted to be at least helpful in some. Swinging a stick slightly in his hand. In his own Hyrule. Bees were not very common. "well, we need to be quiet and listen to a humming sounds. That's how we know." The champion explained very quietly. "oh" whispered the young hylian.  They kept close to the water as they walked on. Hyrule eyes wander about. For the most part all he could see was a few little tiny birds hopping about. When Wild said he was going off to find some ingredients for the food, he volunteered to join. Followed by Wind. The rest of the campers were going to set up camp. The forest was teaming with sounds. It was a happy wooded place. Hyrule spotted even a few fairies dancing along the water. where some fish was leaping up and snatching their meals. Along with a few frogs happily croaking.

The three didn't have to go far till they finally came across what Wild was looking for. There not to far off the ground, hanging from a tree was a bee hive. The bees happily humming. Now came the tricky part. Getting the hive down. Hyrule knew that the best way probably get the honey was by smoking the hive down. Calming the bees. However, How would they go about that? They didn't exactly have anything to do that with. Could use it a weapon to shoot it down at a safe distance. That would be the wise idea. However, none of them had thought to bring something of that sort eithe. Throw a Rock at a safe distance? Nah, that would anger them. "So how we going to do this?" Wind finally asked finally. "Whack it." The champion point blankly stated. The two looked at the champion. "Now, wait on a minute. I don't think that is a wise idea. That could cause them to get angry." explained Hyrule. "I think that's what I would do." chimed in the young sailor. "No. they would give us chase."The Traveler stated facing the young sailor. "why? we can out run them." The sailor argued back. While Hyrule went on explain how that is not possible The champion quietly made his way to the hive with a stick. WHACK!

Meanwhile back where Twilight and Captain were, the two were sitting beside the water. In a deep conversation. Epona, took to munching on some nearby grass. Her head shot up. Both the Farm hand and Captain saw her change in Posture. Her ears turning. Horses were one of the most perceptive when something was not right. Both of them got to their feet. The only thing they could currently hear was the trickling of the creek water and the soft croak sounds of the frogs. Epona then begin the rear up and snort. "whoa girl." Twilight said, holding on to a lead he had on her. "what got you spooked?" he asked. Warriors stood beside the farm hand. Epona snort again, pulling. "You don't think-" The Captain was about the ask, when suddenly what they hear is the screams of Wind and Hyrule, "RUN!" Warriors and Twilight Looked at Each other puzzled. Then Twilight dead pan gave The Captain a look. Wild. Out of the Woods came Hyrule and Wind screaming, "Run, BEES!" Oh for Fuck sake, wild, you hit bees? you moron. Twilight thought to himself. Hyrule and Wind ran past them, not soon after came Wild being follow by a swarm of angry bees. As Wild ran past carrying the hive like a crazy hylian he was. The bees begin to also start up after Warriors. Who took to fleeing Screaming in the most girly way ever. Twilight would of laughed, but Epona and himself were also being assaulted by the bees. Buzzing and stinging them. Twilight took to running Epona away the assault through the water, where the water got deeper. The Bees seem to then fly off and head back to chasing the rest. Twilight stood in the deep water soothing and calming his mare down. Ignoring the sting feeling he had gotten.

Wild had mange to run past camp where the bees seem to go after almost everyone there. That is until Legend, of course of all of them Legend had something for this, stuck on his Bee badge. Basically leaving him alone. Time was using his hands to fight of any that came his way. "Why Would you think that was a good Idea?" could be heard coming out of Fours mouth. "You all should know me by now-I think outside the box." Screamed the Champion. "Well it was a very stupid one!" The smith Replied. As Twilight walked up on the camp in shambles, "I was just explaining to the sailor why you shouldn't and he went for it." Traveler was explain as he went about gathering up some ointment to help soothe group's injuries. Twilight soothed Epona once more giving her a little bit of a loving pat. He looked Up and saw Captain climbing out of a tree. There was a sharp look on their leader's face. "I had no part in that." the Rancher explain, pulling out a stinger. Time shook his head and let out a sigh. Sky, who had never seen bees before, seem to be suffering a bit more from the experience. Twilight could tell. He went over to him and tended to him. He knelt down and begin helping remove a few stingers off of him. Once everyone had regrouped, everyone seem to be giving the Cub a cold look. Twilight made his way over and stood over him, glaring. "what, didn't have a sling shot to whack it with at a safe distance, so you poked it? what next? Sneak up on a bear and poking it and hoping it won't kill us all?" Wild shot Twilight a glare back. "NO! I am not that Reckless."

"OH REALLY?! what do you call poking a bee hive?"

The Cub didn't reply and went about cracking the hive open, but not before smoking out the last of the bees who calmly flew away. The camp Stayed quiet. Twilight turned and walked off. He went to go Patrol and also cool down before he felt he would say something he'd regret. He was sometimes a bit Brash at a fault. Hyrule went about after some time helping put bug bite and sting ointment on everyone effect. He then made his way to over to Wild after some time. "we should of thought that one out better." The champion said nothing. He just focused on his cooking. Hyrule was puzzled by the chef. Had he really just not think it through or what? The traveler then made his way over to Sky, "Here this will help." he rubbed the ointment on the sting sites. "Thank you." sniffled sky. Hyrule then sat beside them, to comfort them.

While the meat was searing over the fire in a cast-iron pan, wild combined some of the honey along with various of other ingredients to make a sauce. once that was finished, he bushed a bit on to the searing meats. saving some and pouring it into a sauce pan. letting it boil a bit. Then pulling it off to cool and thicken. In the last pot he had some rice being steamed. The way he cooked always seem to amaze the group. The Smell that was coming from the cooking wash over everyone, seemingly washing away whatever resentment they held against him. He then took up a bowl and poured a bit of rice into it, next putting a bit of the meat on top. Followed by drizzling the thick glaze over it, which consisted of Sugar, mustard, ginger, garlic honey and balsamic vinegar. Finally topping it off with fresh scallions. He handed the first Bowl to the Leader of the group. One by once he did that to everyone bowl. Only one left was his mentor's and his own. He made it up, though he hadn't returned yet  and then himself.

Everyone wait, for a bit. It became clear, it may be a while that Time just said, "dig in." which then everyone did. Wild took to sitting away from the group. As each and everyone took a bite. There was this resounding sound of the group letting out a pleasant enjoyment of the dish. The Sweet, and yet also slightly bitter taste of the glaze on the meat was sensation all to itself, followed by the melting of the tender meat and filling rice which soaked up some of the juices. It was one collective foodgasm as the glaze dripped off the meat and into their mouths as they bit into it. despite all that chaos that occurred before, it made up for in this dish. Which also amazingly seem to rejuvenate them all. The ranch hand had returned. he seemed fairly calmer now. Time Held out his bowl. "I think after you eat this, I think you'll forget about What happened. I have to say, It's Painfully Delicious." Twilight sighed, slumping down beside the old man and taking the bowl and took a bit. His eyes grew wide with all the flavors dancing in his mouth. He took another bite, The old man watched him and smiled. The Cub then Looked over watching him closely. well one thing for sure, it was well worth the reckless way of getting the ingredient. Twilight chuckled, "And what is this dish you made cub?"

The cub smirked, "Energizing Glazed meat. Painfully delicious." and with that the group all chuckled. that it was.

-fin.

Authors note: here is a picture of the dish they ate. A recreation from the game by your’s truly. Also Please, let me know your thoughts on this story.

[and-it-freezes-me]

AUgust Day 1 - Coffee Shop

Content: brief alcohol mention, bullying mention, divorce mention, fluff

Words: 3,456

Nobody is quite sure when the café became their haunt.

It couldn’t have been when Logan suggested making the front left table, the one beside the large potted fern and next to the window, their designated study space. He was determined to drag Patton through Geometry if it was the last thing he did (although, he would remind them, he would really prefer it not be the last thing he did), and Patton was paying him back by bribing Roman with chocolate cookies to tutor Logan in literature. Back then, the café had been a convenient place to spread books over a table, to spend an hour complaining that Shakespeare knew far too many words for his own good, to spend another complaining that Euclid was far more interested in circles and straight lines than was entirely healthy. It hadn’t exactly been somewhere they wanted to go: nobody, Logan included, wanted to leave at the end of a seven hour school day and immediately study more, no matter how good the hot chocolate was.

It wasn’t really their haunt when one of Patton’s moms had left out of the blue - it had just been somewhere they could sit and comfort their friend, Virgil with his arm around the tall boy’s shoulders as he shook, Roman bribing his then-boyfriend with kisses to get Patton extra cream on his hot chocolate, Logan torn between scolding Roman for making out with Remy over the counter and trying to find the right words to say to Patton. There hadn’t been any ‘right words’, of course - but his efforts had been met with a huge, tearful hug. They had all slipped into the same side of the booth that afternoon, Virgil with his scalding coffee and six sugars, Patton with his unbearably creamy hot chocolate, Logan with his mint tea, Roman with his raspberry frappé (Logan insisted that it was unethical that Remy give him free drinks just because they occasionally kissed, but Roman argued that they kissed slightly more than occasionally, and anyway, Logan’s dad gave him free drinks whenever they kissed, and Logan countered with the firm statement that this wasn’t the time for ‘your parent’ jokes, then threw a packet of salt at Roman when he cocked an eyebrow and replied, “that’s what he said last night”).

By the day in their junior year when Roman dragged himself there half an hour after than the rest, lip split, eye blackened, and limping and they hauled him into their booth and fussed over him, they had been going almost every day after school. It was where they blew off steam, complained about teachers and their peers and their homework and their extra curriculars and Logan’s college admissions essay and Patton’s mom’s new girlfriend and his other mom’s new boyfriend; that evening, it was where they took a dishcloth full of ice from Roman’s ex to press against the swelling on his face, and where they borrowed the first aid box from the other part timer and stuck plasters all over the grazes on his knees and elbows. Virgil had sworn vengeance against the seniors that had taken issue with Roman’s rainbow-dyed hair, Logan had moved a finger slowly back and forward in front of Roman’s nose before finally announcing that he (probably) didn’t have a concussion, Patton had made bad puns about the coffee (“it tastes like mud! Well, I suppose it was only ground this morning…”) until Roman had smiled again. Then he had sworn when his lip cracked open again and more blood trickled down his chin, and Patton had pulled their portable swear jar out of his bag and tapped it menacingly against the table until Roman had dropped a coin into it.

When Virgil’s acceptance letter arrived, he didn’t bother messaging anybody: he knew they’d be at their booth in the café, waiting eagerly for his news. He had thrown himself down on one of the cracked vinyl seats and tossed the opened envelope on the table. Only Logan had bothered opening it to read the words. Patton and Roman had taken one look at his beaming face and thrown themselves across the table to hug him. His letter had been the last to arrive, and they had all known how anxious he had been about it. When they had eventually emerged from the hug pile, Virgil had raised an eyebrow at the empty table, wondering why drinks hadn’t gone flying, and Logan had smirked broadly before pointing first at the lack of baristas behind the counter, and then at the café bathroom. When a scarlet Remy and an Emile who was making no attempt to hide his cheshire-cat grin finally emerged, they had each ordered a coffee, and Patton had pulled a flask from his bag and discreetly topped up each mug with vodka. “We’re celebrating,” he had explained earnestly, but nobody had been about to argue. All Virgil had wanted to know was how long he had been carrying the flask around and waiting for the opportunity, and he had sheepishly admitted that he had swiped it from his mom’s cabinet over a month ago and had been carrying it around with him ever since.

In between those big moments, the café had seen all the little ones, too. It had watched Virgil finally shrug off his black hoodie and replace it with the purple one his dad had bought him when he started therapy; it had watched Logan pour over countless charts and biographies before finally giving up and flipping a coin to choose between medicine and engineering, knowing that he would be thrilled to be doing either. It had watched Roman bury himself in scripts as he auditioned for school play after school play; it had watched Patton grow his hair long, cut it short, and then grow it out again. It had watched Logan shyly voice the idea that he might be gay, to be greeted with Virgil slinging an arm around his shoulder and telling him to join the club, Roman shooting him with finger guns, and Patton nod enthusiastically. It had watched Virgil flit from music production to programming to archeology, his passion never wavering as it changed forms. It had watched Roman moon over Remy, watched them flirt and date and break up as amicably as ever two people have, watched them flirt even when they were no longer interested in one another. It had watched Patton teach everyone to play poker, and to proceed to absolutely annihilate them every time after, and then count the buttons they used as chips back into a jar as though they were made of gold.

This evening, it watches the four of them sprawl in the booth, a milkshake the same mint green as Patton’s tie on the table in front of him, Roman’s crimson jacket a twisted mess on the seat beside him and his white shirt rumpled and untucked, Logan’s clothing as neat as ever but his hair no longer slicked back as it had been at the start of the evening, instead falling over his face and into his eyes, Virgil cradling a cup of black coffee (six sugars) in his hands, socked feet curled up beneath him, his dress shoes empty under the table.

It’s almost midnight - by all rights, the café shouldn’t be open. It isn’t, not really: the sign on the door is flipped around to closed, and everybody who was supposed to be working that afternoon has gone home. Remy, however, has a key - there are benefits to having his parents own a small coffee shop, after all - and let the six of them in; he’s leaning against the back wall, chatting quietly to Emile, occasionally blushing crimson at something his datefriend says. They dressed to match: a handkerchief the same hot pink as Emile’s ballgown is folded over the breast pocket of Remy’s leather jacket (he flatly refused to wear a proper suit jacket). The top few buttons of Remy’s shirt are undone, the edges of several hickies visible around his collar; Emile leans forward and rests a hand on Remy’s shoulder, running a thumb slowly over one, and Remy goes red again. For all his bravado, Remy is very easy to tease.

Smirking, Roman turns his attention back to his friends. Patton is watching him - he winks at him, and the tips of the taller man’s ears go slightly pink. Logan is doing an impression of their head teacher. If he hadn’t been so set on becoming a doctor, Roman thinks, Logan could have made a killing on the stage: he never misses a single tick in his impersonations. Virgil is resting his chin in his hands now, empty cup on the table in front of him as he watches ‘Mr. Hammond’ deliver his end-of-year speech with wide, coffee-dark eyes.

“... done well, very well, superbly well, in fact,” Logan continues. His tongue darts briefly over his lower lip. “These past four years will be ones you, all of you, I am sure, remember for the rest of your lives. Tonight -” he slips his glasses from his face, polishes them briefly on his tie, and then balances them precariously on the end of his nose once more. “Tonight is the time to celebrate your accomplishments, your friendships, the lasting bonds you have made here at Kilahaede High. To the class of -” he licks his lower lip once more, and Roman imagines leaning in and kissing him. “- the class of 2019!”

Patton applauds enthusiastically, and Roman joins in, nudging Logan gently with his shoulder as the bespectacled man allows his posture to straighten once more, Mr. Hammond’s mannerisms dropping away. Virgil is grinning lazily, the caffeine clearly doing very little to counteract the weeks of late nights and early mornings as their final exams had loomed, broken over them, and then passed by.

They are quiet for several long seconds, during which Virgil shuffles a little closer to Patton and rests his head on his shoulder. He’s so relaxed that he doesn’t even flinch when a clatter echoes through the quiet room; only Roman glances around, rolling his eyes when he sees that Remy, clearly distracted by Emile’s tongue in his mouth, has managed to knock a tin of tea bags from the countertop.

Then Patton speaks up. “Feels like the end of an era, doesn’t it?”

“Our time in highschool is not really long enough to be called an ‘era’, Pat.” Logan removes his glasses, cleans them properly with a small cloth he keeps in his pocket, and settles them firmly on the bridge of his nose. Roman rolls his eyes and nudges him.

“I just meant… Everything’s gonna change now. We’re not kids anymore.” He’s staring at his milkshake, half finished now, as though it holds every answer he has ever wanted.

Virgil shifts a little, and Patton wraps an arm around him almost without thinking. “Yeah. Things are gonna be different. But that’s not a bad thing, you know, Pat?” Patton nods automatically.

Leaning across the table, Roman takes one of Patton’s hands and squeezes it between his own. “And we’re not going anywhere, padre. We’ve got all summer together before anybody moves away, and every holiday after that…”

“Virgil and yourself are even going to the same college,” Logan adds. “Roman and I will be in cities adjacent to the two of you. This summer won’t be the last we see of one another…”

“I know… I’m gonna miss this place, though.” Roman isn’t surprised to see Patton’s eyes begin to water, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He slides out of his and Logan’s side of their booth and slips in beside Patton, so that he’s sandwiched between him and Virgil, and wraps an arm around his waist. The café has truly become their place now, and none of them can really imagine not coming here to relax after a long day. “I’m gonna miss you guys.” Patton finishes in a whisper, wiping the sleeve of his pale blue jacket over his face.

“Why, Patton,” Roman jokes automatically, “It almost sounds as though you like us.”

Logan rolls his eyes.

Patton butts his head gently against Roman’s shoulder. “I do like you, dummy. All of you. So much. You’re my best friends.”

They’re all silent again, a comfortable silence, one that drapes around them like a blanket at one of their many movie nights.

This time, it’s Roman that speaks up - he doesn’t think about it before opening his mouth, but that’s pretty normal for him. “I like you too. All of you. Like, as more than friends.” The silence that follows is slightly more charged than before, but still not uncomfortable. Not quite.

“Like… You want to date us?” Virgil. Roman had half thought he had fallen asleep, but apparently not.

“That’s the gist of it, Hot Topic.”

“Aw, you think I’m hot.”

“Given that Roman just expressed a desire to date you, Virgil, I don’t see why that fact causes you surprise.” Logan is looking at the three of them. An outsider might say that his expression is unreadable, but Roman knows him well enough to catch the way his eyes flicker between the three of them, the way his fingers are pressing lightly against the plastic table between them.

Roman is about to say something back when he feels fingers against the back of his neck, and then Patton’s hand is in his hair and tugging his head toward him. The kiss is sweet, gentle - Patton taste like mint and ice cream and -

“Whiskey? Have you been drinking?”

Patton looks vaguely guilty, then shrugs. “Just a mouthful after the dance.”

“And you didn’t sh-”

“Wait, time out.” Virgil sits up properly now, staring incredulously at him; a look of mild amusement has crossed Logan’s face, twitching the corners of his mouth skyward. “Patton kisses you, and all you can do is ask if he’s been drinking?”

“I tasted alcohol,” Roman protests, but the rest of his words splutter into silence when Virgil practically climbs into Patton’s lap to kiss him.

Their kiss is significantly longer than Roman’s, and he’s almost beginning to get jealous when they finally break apart. Patton is still grinning, glasses slightly crooked, but Virgil just nods as though kissing Patton is something he does every day. “Yep. Definitely whiskey. Shut your mouth, Princey, you’ll catch flies.”

Roman collects his jaw from the floor and attaches it back to his face, but almost loses it again when Virgil leans in and presses a small kiss to his cheek. “That’s better. You’re much more handsome when you’re not clueless.”

“I’m never clueless!” Roman protests, and Virgil merely rolls his eyes.

Logan clears his throat, and all of them look up, Patton with the slightly dazed expression of somebody who had forgotten that there was a third person at the table. A pink blush is creeping up Logan’s throat. When he realises that he has everybody’s attention, it spreads to his cheeks. “You are… Um, you are all aware of the strain that long distance relationships put on their participants, correct?”

Roman can’t help the grin that’s spreading across his face. “Are you aware that I don’t give a damn as long as I get to kiss you?”

“Besides, kiddo, we have all summer before we move. You were just saying how close we were gonna be…” Patton is shifting, and after a second Roman realises that he’s trying to move up to make space on their side of the booth for Logan to join them. He follows, and the three of them squish against the window.

Logan hesitates.

Then Virgil reaches out, managing to grab Logan’s tie from across the table and tugging him forward slightly. “Just get over here, nerd.”

Logan does, tugging his navy blue tie out of the grip of Virgil’s painted nails so that he can move around the table without strangling himself or abandoning his straight-backed, perfect posture.

That posture evaporates a moment later when Roman reaches for him, resting one hand gently on Logan’s cheek. He can feel Virgil’s hand resting lightly on his shoulder, can feel one of Patton’s arms around his waist, can feel sunlight melting slowly over his insides. He guides Logan closer as the dark haired man slides onto the seat, pausing when their faces are only millimeters apart. Logan’s breath dusts his lips when he parts them to speak. “May I kiss you, Pocket Protector?”

Logan’s eyes flicker over his face. Then he nods, and Roman leans forward to press their mouths together. Like his kiss with Patton, it is gentle, warm, affectionate: there is no slide of tongues or clacking of teeth, and Roman wouldn’t have it any other way. Patton sighs behind him and he feels Virgil’s hand tighten slightly, further rumpling his dress shirt - when he and Logan draw apart for breath, they turn to find that Virgil is kissing Patton again.

Roman laces his fingers between Logan’s as he waits for them to surface, and Patton is the first to speak when they finally do. Virgil looks as though he’s seeing stars - Roman has the feeling that Patton is a far better kisser than he would have expected. “Are we dating now?”

“I believe that is the case, Pat.” Logan looks as though he’s about to lean across Roman to kiss Patton as well, but pauses when Virgil tilts his head.

“The four of us?”

“Duh, Wuthering Frights.” Roman nudges his shoulder gently. “You know I don’t like half-measures, right? I can’t imagine only picking one of you…”

“Polyamory, whilst not common, is not unheard of, Virgil. In fact, there are multiple studies-”

“Ey, Sanders!” Remy cuts across the start of Logan’s speech with all the tact of a herd of rhinoceroses, slamming his elbows down on the table. His shirt is all but completely unbuttoned now, eyes bright, face flushed, and there are several new hickies on throat. “Past closing time. Get out.”

Emile is leaning against the door behind the counter, the one that leads to the staircase to the part of the building where Remy lives. Thair hair is ruffled, glasses askew, and quite obviously staring at Remy’s ass as their boyfriend leans over the table to grab the empty coffee cup and the milkshake glass.

Logan and Virgil raise single, cool eyebrows at Remy, who has never had the grace to look ashamed in his life and certainly doesn’t now. Patton smirks at Emile over Remy’s shoulder.

“Whatever happened to mates before dates, dude?” Roman argues, though he’s getting up as he speaks. “I can’t believe you’re kicking us out just so you can get laid.”

“Like y’all weren’t about to get busy right here by the window,” Remy quips back, and Virgil responds with a time saving gesture that relies heavily on his middle finger as he slips his feet back into his shoes. “See you tomorrow, gurl. Call me with all the deets, yeah? Ciao!”

Roman barely has time to grab his jacket as Remy herds them toward the door.

The door slams behind them. A second later the lights flick off.

The four of them exchange a long look, Patton clearly struggling to keep a straight face, Logan faring only slightly better until Roman snorts. Then they’re all laughing, and Patton is clinging to him for balance, and Virgil is practically doubled over and leaning on the wall. It wasn’t really that funny, but they’re floating on the sugar high that is happiness, and every time they start to calm down, one of them snorts and sets them all off again.

Eventually, their laughter stops, and Roman finds himself with Virgil’s hand tucked in his left, Patton squeezing his right. Logan is on Virgil’s other side, one arm draped over his shoulders as they turn their feet in the direction of Roman’s home - they were planning on sleeping over together already.

As they round the corner, the café disappearing into the night, Patton sighs a soft, happy sound. “It feels right, you know?”

“What does, Patton-cake?” Roman stands on tiptoe to press a small kiss to Patton’s temple.

“That that happened there.” Patton tugs his hand from Roman’s and wraps his arm around his waist instead. “It’s our place. It’s only right we start a new era in our café.”

“Again, Patton, I’m not sure that you can count this as an ‘era’ by the official definition,” Logan starts, and the four of them are absorbed into the caffeine city to the sound of his voice, the simple pleasure of being in each other's presence, and the sweetness of something new on their lips and in their hearts.

[whirlybirbs]

When I requested “miss Turner blushing” I did not mean for it to end like that! Omg I’m sad now 😔 Hope, unfuck this mess!!! (But do really really love what you wrote and now I’m excited for what’s to come

a/n: here’s part two! to the blushing drabble -- you and arthur have a spat, he says something nasty and hosea steps in. you’re both sent on errands, conflict still hanging in the air. an apology and a gift right things between you and the outlaw. i love these two. 

“Mr. Morgan --”

“Not now, Miss Turner.”

You could pull your hair out.

He’s unbearable to be around.

Plainly so.

I mean, even Hosea -- a man with so much patience he could be revered as a Saint -- can’t stand being around the outlaw for more than five minutes at a time. And that’s saying something. Hosea nearly raised the unruly boy. This new stretch of attitude has him biting off heads at the slightest convenience. 

Christ, he’d snapped at Javier for brushing Sugarcube. 

Not that you’d know -- after all, Arthur has ignored you outright for the last three days straight. Hasn’t said a word, save for a biting little comment at dinner the other night about you bein’ in his way. 

It puts you in a bad spot for a day or so -- guilt is heavy in your gut at the realization that your words about him not bein’ your type were far from the truth. The girls are nice enough to see it too, and... even Grimshaw tries her best to get you and Arthur in the same place to at least talk about it. 

Dutch is the one that jokes Arthur’s mood brings in three days of late-night, summer storms. The heavy heat is dampened with the cool air the thunderheads roll in on, leaving the camp scrambling for cover at the first crack of lightning.

Last night, the winds had been so bad, they’d sent Pearson’s tent into the lake.

Just... up and lifted and threw the whole thing.

So, here you are, deciding that if Arthur Morgan wants to ignore your very existence, you’re going to make it mighty hard for him to do just that. You are, plain and simple, sick of moping about.

You follow him as he storms about, following the source of the commotion by the lakeside. It’s Pearson, swearing up a storm about his tent. Dutch is trying to calm the navy-man down, but it’s Arthur who ditches his boots and traipses right into the lake. Always the fixer.

You, hellbent on not letting him off the hook, hop out of your own boots and follow.

And, half an hour later, here you are.

"Jus’... pull, will you?”

“M’ tryin’.”

“Well,” Arthur snaps, “Try harder, Miss Turner, I’m gettin’ soggy.”

You’re waist deep in the lake when he starts in, arm dove deep beneath the water as you try to unwrap the tacking from a piece of rotting wood on the bottom of the beach -- the red clay has you sinking in and you teeter, one hand gathering your skirt and the other trying to dislodge the knot.  

At his comment, you serve him a look.

“I don’t see you over here,” you snap, “Up to your shoulder in muck, Mr. Morgan.”

He’s about to open his mouth, about to dig in, about to the the dynamite struck on an open flame, when Dutch cuts him off.

“I believe it may be a lost cause, you two,” the leader yells, parsing a hand through dark hair, “I think it best a run into town is made. No doubt the Rhodes’ General Store has some tent supplies.”

You stagger out of the water, skirt weighed down and mud up to your knees. You’re soaked, hair hanging in your face -- the front of your blouse clings to you and if you weren’t so irritated with Arthur Morgan, maybe you’d be happy to be cooled off for once. 

“Both of you,” Dutch says slowly, “Get changed and take the wagon --”

“Oh, no, no, Dutch. I don’t think tha’s a good idea --”

You narrow your eyes as Arthur turns, leaning in to give your back a hearty pat -- it lacks any affection, though. You stagger forward a bit, biting your tongue. His words fly out with malice and that same gut-wrenching guilt you’d sworn you were going to try and beat surges back up in your belly. 

Blue eyes dart between you both. Faux-amusement is written there.

“Y’see, I’m not Miss Turner’s type.”

It’s like a tea kettle has hit it’s boiling point. You give a strangled shriek, annoyance spurring your fists to ball up.

“You are insufferable!”

"You’ve already made your feelings for me painfully clear --”

He starts up the hill through the camp and you, so hellbent in anger, follow him with wide strides. He’s already working at the buttons on his soaked through shirt, ignoring the beating of the hot sun on his back. If anything, your glare is just as hot. You catch up to him by the stew pot, snagging his arm.

“Will you just listen t’ me?!”

He shrugs you off, muddy finger pointing in your face.

“I’ve heard plenty.”

You don’t let up, though, following him all the way to his tent and stopping short with your hands on your waist. 

“I’ve been tryna talk t’ you for the last three days an’ --”

“ -- An’ I don’t wanna hear it.”

He shirks his clay-caked, navy dress shirt onto his cot, snapping his suspenders down to hang low around his thighs. He turns his back to you as he does so and for one moment, you get a glance at his back -- it’s littered with jagged and long and bullet-shaped scars. The sight shuts you up for a breath and you swallow down the want to reach out and touch him. 

Not now.

Arthur takes note of your silence and laughs bitterly. “Y’ say m’ not yer type but you’re awfully keen on ogglin’.”

“That -- it’s not -- I...” you gape, eyes turning up to the ceiling of his tent, “You misunderstand me, Mr. Morgan.”

“Did I now?”

“Yes,” you grit, “Quite.”

He’s working on another shirt, this one is white -- and leans, tucking in the hem to his pants. He doesn’t bother to change his jeans. In this heat, they’ll dry soon enough. Arthur lands on his cot, calloused fingers working the buttons into the eyelets. He’s keen on ignoring you; mostly because the hope that he really had gotten this all wrong with you is blinding. He has spent the last three days trying to shut it all out and --

“I’m awfully sorry I ain’t some rich, old railroad magnate, Miss Turner,” Arthur’s voice rises into somethings awfully sharp and angry, then, driving the knife into an already open wound, “So you best find yourself a man who can replace good ol’ Waylon Robbins, certainly that’s your type --”

That. That hurts. 

You aren’t sure what to say -- you really are speechless, left fumbling over the hard punch to the chest his words mimic. To use that against you is... unfair. And rude and mean and awful and terribly unlike the Arthur Morgan you’d gotten to know and you must have looked like you were one beat from crying because suddenly:

“You best get changed, Miss Turner.”

It’s Hosea.

Your eyes hit the ground. At the gentle touch of the mentor’s hand, you nod -- quickly pulling away from Arthur’s orbit and heading back towards your own tent. 

It’s only until you’re out of earshot that Hosea speaks again, this time with the sternness of a father.

“You are going to take her into town, get the tent supplies,” he says, “And you are going to apologize.”

“I ain’t doin’ no such thing.”

“Yes, you are, Arthur Morgan,” Hosea hisses, jabbing a finger into the outlaw’s chest as he stands, “What has gotten into you? I know you’re dumb, but god -- can’t you see she’s trying to explain herself?”

“What is there t’ explain, Hosea?” Arthur stands, face twisted into a sadder sort of anger, “She made her feelings clear --”

“Did she?” his father-figure jests, “Are we callin’ eavesdropping clear now-a-days? You’re actin’ as if she turned down your hand in marriage, my boy --”

“Yeah, well,” Arthur grumbles, raising a hand as he leans to pull his boots on, “I’ve been there -- I ain’t goin’ down that road again.”

Hosea sighs. His hand is gentle on the blonde’s shoulder. “The girls pulled me aside, you know, asked if I could do anything -- they were ribbing her over chores, y’know, about you two. Karen thinks she... well, thinks Miss Turner was tryin’ t’ be modest.”

“Modest.”

A bitter laugh.

“You know how it is,” Hosea shrugs, “....High-class ladies and their modesty.”

Arthur, from across camp, catches you emerging from your tent. You’re sweeping your hair up, penning it tight and high away from your neck in a neat bun. You’ve changed into a lighter cotton dress, light blue with delicate floral patterning. It’s Sadie, the recently addition to the gun-slinging gang, that offers you her hat. 

You look beautiful. 

Arthur hates himself. He’s a fool.

Hosea can see it.

“Just... talk to her, will y’, Arthur?”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’.”

And so, you and Arthur Morgan saddle up, ready to make your way to Rhodes for supplies. You’re quiet on approach and he’s just as bad -- not daring open his mouth thanks to the sudden realization that he really did hurt your feelings. Your eyes are watery. 

Guilt bites him in the heart.

You decide it’s best to ignore it. If this is what he’s after... making you hate him, then so be it. Maybe it’s better that way.

He offers to help you up into the wagon.

Much like the day you met him, you swat his hand away.

The first few minutes of the ride are unbearable and Arthur is suddenly very aware of how, with the cold shoulder reversed, miserable this is. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and... well, he deserved it.

Finally, after he’d spurred the horses into a trot and onto the main road, he speaks.

“... I’m sorry.”

You’re not sure you heard him.

You spare him a side-ward glance and grip your satchel a bit tighter.

Arthur sighs. “I am -- I... That was rude of me t’ say back there.”

“It was.”

“And --”

“And cruel,” you snap, voice wavering, “And unfair.”

“I said I was sorry --”

“And I don’t want an apology Hosea is forcing out of you, Mr. Morgan,” you say, “If you’re so keen on hating me, then so be it.”

“I ain’t keen on hatin’ you.”

Arthur sighs, then, disparagingly so. You cross your arms, turning and crossing your legs as the wagon rocks. You make due with the view of the bayous around the trail. You’re sure if you look at him, you’re resolve will just... snap in half.

Another few moments of silence pass between you both and Arthur thinks this is what hell is like. It’s torture. Suddenly, three days worth of shutting it all out is falling apart. After all, how could he push past the feelings he’d realized with you beside him? Pretty and poised in a sundress -- looking awfully angry but awfully beautiful. 

God, he’s got it bad.

Finally, he speaks again.

His bitter, rugged facade falls -- if just for a moment.

“It hurt my feelings.”

It’s so quiet, it’s nearly a whisper.

You blink, then, eyeing the slumped posture of the outlaw beside you.

“...What?”

“It hurt my feelings,” he says again, louder this time, “T’ hear y’ say that -- the bit about me not bein’ yer type.”

You wring your hands. “Well, you aren’t.”

Arthur blinks. Hurt flies across his face.

“-- You’re different from any other man I’ve ever met, is what I meant,” you continue, nervousness not letting you look at him, “It’s not a bad thing -- not a... condemning notion. I just... where I’m from, there aren’t any cowboys or outlaws or highwaymen. It’s... It’s all weak-chinned men who talk the talk but -- I don’t know. I ain’t never had a type like you. Not that my previous type was anything special.” 

More silence.

Arthur heart is hammering so loud in his chest it’s like the strike of a sledgehammer on a railroad track. He feels -- like all at once -- his breath has been stolen from him. His eyes are stuck on you, attention diverted from the road. 

“So...” you twiddle your thumbs, sparing him a doe-eyed look.

“... I was an ass.”

“A dumb-ass,” you correct, “A baboon’s ass, even.”

Finally, he laughs. Finally, and you feel like smiling again. 

You move, then, leaning and muscling around in your satchel.

You pull out a leather-bound journal. Pulled across the binding is a deep, rich, black leather -- the pages are crisp and fresh, a stark comparison to the one in Arthur’s bag. He hit the end of the pages the night before last, scribbling angry notes about how love is one hell of an illness. 

Blue eyes cast across your face, trying to read the emotion there.

“I was gunna give you this, I been carryin’ it around,” you say, “I picked it up in Saint Denis, but... Well, you were busy givin’ me the cold shoulder. It had to wait.”

Arthur blinks, shifting the reigns into one hand. He takes the journal, eyeing the thick pages. Gratefulness shines in the tender way he holds it.

“... You didn’t --”

“I did,” you chirp, “I mean, I didn’t buy it --”

Arthur laughs then, booming and full and happy and it’s like a sun-storm. Your face splits into a grin, finally, after three days of no sun. You bask in it, happy to sail onto better seas. The outlaw’s thumb grazes the cover. You stole. For him.

It means a lot.

“Thank you.”

“Take it as an apology,” you say, patting his knee, “For hurtin’ your delicate feelings, Mr. Morgan.”

He shoulders you, pulling a laugh out of your chest. 

“C’mon,” he drawls, “Don’t want the others t’ think y’ broke my heart an’ left me for dead.”

Onward and upward, straight into the sweetness of feelings. 

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

The Valkyries Men: 1

Masterlist

The Valkyries Men Masterlist

Bucky Barnes X Plus!Size Reader X Steve Rogers

Warnings: Nothing major, cursing

A/N: This is just the first chapter getting introductions out of the way! The reader is a Valkyrie that was brought to earth by her mothers to protect her, reader doesn't know her father but it isn't Thor or Loki! Once again I make no promises on chapter length or how many they will be! Or when I will post more!

Words: +3,300

June 1943

It was bouncy over the rutted out muddy roads, the entire unit that sat in the back of the convoy van was trying to sleep, but it was obvious the driver wasn’t going easy on them. The snappy special forces agent as they had been calling the man, regarding him with more authority than the others reached up to the front through the small port between driver& passengers. Calloused, bare hand smacking the shit out of the back of the driver’s head for the last rut that he had purposefully hit.

“What the fuck,” the driver yelled out, slamming on the brakes to lurch the truck to a stop, the one bent through the small window holding tight & glaring at the driver as he snapped back to begin chewing the man’s ass that had hit him.

“Goddamn it! I know you hit that one on purpose shit head! These men are trying to get some rest back here,” the Y/H/C ‘man’ snarled out apparent that the drivers rank meant nothing.

“Who the fuck are you…,” the young driver began to snarl out at least until he seen the glittering special forces insignia with the eagle, SHIELD, which meant this officer out ranked them all.

“Special Forces Gunnrdottir. Now, by my watch,” the agent began looking to the futuristic watch that had a golden Stark insignia in cursive across it's face, “we will still arrive on time even if you miss all the pot holes in Germany is that understood?”

“Uh… yes sir… it's no problem,” the man stammered the officer shooting him a smirk before patting him on the head.

“Good, now let’s go,” Y/N laughed to herself thinking if the men knew a female officer had just reamed the drivers ass that would make it twice as funny, but these Midgardians were funny about their woman.

A thing Y/N & her mothers had to get used to when banished here before she was born a few weeks shy of 26 years ago, gods only knew who the young Valkyries father was. Y/N’ sire was Aesir but neither mother would tell her just who they were, citing it was a danger to know the man.

Plopping back into the cramped seat she occupied next to a guy her age that introduced himself as Sgt. Barnes of the 107th , the agent not meaning to jar the poor guy who had been trying to sleep, arms folded across his chest, hat pulled over azure eyes in attempts to rest. The pistols she carried knocking into him from how haphazardly they were strapped against ample curves but then again they were all packed like sardines.

“Sorry bout that,” the officer apologized for hitting the sergeant who let out a huff at the inconvenience but once he peaked out to the special forces agent he thought the hateful remark wasn’t worth the risk of being reprimanded.

“S’okay, thanks for speaking up for my men,” he began, deciding the guy couldn’t be all that bad if he went up to bat for the troops that had been dropped off mere minutes ago & suffering jet lag.

“No problem, we could all use the rest,” the agent sighed out, relaxing back to do the same as him, but shocked as the man formally extended a hand to shake as the truck started out slowly & not hitting every hole possible.

“James Buchanan Barnes, friends call be Bucky,” he smiled watching the agent extend his own calloused hand to take it.

“Bjorn Ivar Gunnrdottir, um don’t really have any friends so call me Bjorn,” the agent laughed with a hardy hand shake before taking it back with a smirk.

“Where you from? I'm just asking because that is a very complex name,” Bucky laughed finding the agents moves mesmerizing now that he was awake from the sudden jerk of the convoy that was thankfully avoiding the ruts.

“My mom is from Norway, very old fashioned, but they moved to the Appalachian mountains when I was 5. What about you,” Y/N asked quietly, obvious some of the others were getting back to sleep.

“Brooklyn,” Bucky smiled with pride Y/E/C orbs looking him over quickly thankful he didn’t notice, he was a fine specimen of a man, even if men weren’t her type she could see him in her bed.

“Well that explains the attitude,” Y/N laughed out making the Sargent realize the agent was trying to lessen the tension between them.

“So, what brings special forces to camp,” the soldier smiled at the agent it seemed he was awake now & needed someone to talk to.

“Besides the obvious? I have battle plans for the Col. Philips, new maps that I have been drawing to show where hidden bunkers are & all the other intel that comes with spy work,” Y/N smirked, leaving the sergeant to guess if she told the truth of if she was pulling his leg.

“Sniper,” Bucky asked hinting to the riffle case that had banged against their legs but now thankfully rested under the seat with little movement, Y/N smirking back to the one he had slung over his shoulder.

“I should ask you the same, but yeah, when I need to,” Y/N smiled, both finally relaxing back to enjoy the quiet & smoother ride.

“Good to know,” the soldier smirked as they both attempted a bit of sleep before they made it to camp, Bucky quick to steal one last glimpse, in awe at how the agent sat & relaxed back, actions that told him this was more than just any man.

July 1943

Spine cracking as she stretched, letting out an exasperated sigh the binder had to be worn to bed to hide ample breast & cursing the Midgardians for their backwards ways. Gaze snapping to the entrance of the entrance of the large tent as the flap snapped back to reveal a drenched Sgt. Barnes that looked over the now shaggy haired Agent Bjorn as they had taken to calling the special forces officer that took up for their company.

“Fuck me Sgt Barnes! Your mom not teach you to knock,” Y/N snapped out at the drenched man that looked more troubled than usual, a harsh grip on the riffle sling that laid across his shoulder.

“Your mommas teach you to talk like that Agent,” Bucky shot back hotly drawing back to their private conversation about ‘him’ being raised by two women, the fowl mouthed agent laughing out as he jerked the shirt off of the foot of the bed & pulled it on over the t-shirt, having slept in the pants being they were wrinkled.

“As a matter of fact, Sgt, they did, so bite me,” Y/N sneered, buttoning the shirt to tuck it into the pants, noting it was still dark & the trumpet hadn’t sounded, thankful she kept a small lamp burning for emergencies like this.

“You're a feisty little fucker you know that,” Barnes laughed out before stepping forward as the agent laced up the boots & began throwing on numerous belts & straps that held an array of weaponry.

“Sure am, what’s wrong,” Y/N looked worriedly at the sergeant, despite how hard Bucky tried to hide his feelings she knew.

“Col. Philips said he needs two snipers to watch for the supply convoy that is headed this way & I don’t trust any of the newest recruits to have my back so the only other in camp is you,” he tried to joke but this was more than a supply run that was coming in this was some of Howard Stark's things that were due to come in ahead of Peggy Carter & the billionaire.

“No problem, you aright Barnes,” Y/N began looking at him running fingers through shaggy Y/H/C locks that needed a cut before pulling the hat on, throwing the coat on & riffle over her shoulder.

“Yeah…,” he breathed out following the agents every move, a habit he had taken to, studying Agent Bjorn the last month & a half unable to pinpoint why his were so different.

“No actually, haven’t heard from my mom about my sister being sick, letters haven’t been getting through,” he admitted to the agent that stepped forward handing an extra belt of ammo he usually carried to Bucky.

“Well that is supposed to be coming in on this convoy so good news, don’t worry,” the agent smiled, wanting to do more than just a pat on soaked shoulder before they both stepped out into the drizzling rain.

“Two,” Bucky began looking through the binoculars over at the opposite ridges spotting enemy that was waiting for the convoy like them.

“No, there are more, there down in the valley,” Y/N hinted to the road that looked clear from where they were positioned, watching over their men that were on the ground about 200 or so feet from them.

“How… you don’t have the binoculars…,” Bucky huffed out, moving to look where the agent hinted, Bjorn hadn’t been wrong before.

“The tree that is moving slightly, that aint wind,” the agent spoke Bucky finally finding what Bjorn spoke of barely able to make out the slightest shake before spotting several more that outnumbered them.

“We should move…,” Y/N began before the sounds of a convoy reached their ears.

“Fuck me… we should move,” Bucky began, both hurrying to their feet before it turned to chaos.

Each taking out what they could, both looking on in horror as one of the enemy soldiers threw a grenade in front of the lead truck, guts knotting painfully. Y/N cussing under fogging breath & rushing for it so it wouldn’t destroy troops or supplies. The sergeant at her back screaming for the agent to stop but it was too late grenade in hand, pulling it close to her chest & blowing body back into the muddy bank.

The impact of explosive & body into the earth blowing the entire convoy with bits of mud as it barreled through, ordered not to stop & thankfully they didn’t. Bucky running into the crater that should have been littered with bits of agent but only showed a smirking Y/N caked in mud & debris, gaze shooting down to realize the reason Bucky froze, boobs.

“Ohhh, fuck me, coat Barnes! Hurry,” Y/N hollered out to the stunned sergeant that slowly fell to his knees refusing to jerk the coat off, Y/N struggling forward quick to remove it herself tossing it on as others of the 107th approached.

“Get up Sergeant & keep your mouth shut. We will talk later,” Y/N hushed as she jerked the stunned Bucky to stumbling feet & pulling him with her out of the crater.

“Holy shit! You're alive,” one of the privates shouted as they neared the two, Y/N smirking while Bucky looked HER over for a moment before doing as she suggested.

“Sleight of hand boys,” Y/N laughed out, running muddy hand through slicked back shaggy hair the stunned sergeant just going through the motions to follow numbly, he no SHE should be dead, the one getting congratulated, the one that he was numbly handing a riffle to.

“It's alright Barnes, let’s get back,” Y/N smiled at him, the group beginning to walk the road back, Bucky not about to let the WOMAN out of his sight.

He was nervous holy shit why was he nervous, SHE had lied that she was a woman, he had paled along with Agent Bjorn for an entire month, catching himself studying how HE moved & realized that he moved like a woman. Though Bjorn wasn’t just any woman, SHE was one that could take a fucking grenade to the chest & live. The one he had been purposefully avoiding since they had made it back to camp thankful that as soon as they entered the muddy encampment she was pulled away to deal with the crates from stark.

Sitting in the mess hall Bucky kept to himself, still replaying the days events as he stared into the cup of coffee, motion at the door making azure eyes train on the MP stepping in & scanning the hall over before starting for him with letters in hand. Sitting back to puzzle at the older MP because he wasn’t the mail delivery kid but taking it & realizing it was all addressed to him.

“Agent Bjorn told me to bring these directly to you instead of the mail tent,” he explained Bucky noting they were mostly form his mom & looking relieved to find several in his sisters hand writing.

“Tell him thanks,” was all he could mutter as he downed the coffee & left for the barrack.

Hurrying through the driving rain into the semi-crowded barrack apparent he wasn’t the only one that was there hiding from the rain & mud. Kicking mud caked boots off before jumping to the top bunk to read the letters wanting to make sure everyone was alright & there wasn’t a letter telling him Steve got his ass handed to him. Pausing as he realized the jacket Bjorn had taken was hung neatly & cleaned.

“Agent Bjorn brought that by just before you came back from mess,” the one that shared his bunk under him, Dum Dum is what they called him.

“Um yeah, he had the MP bring me my mail to, guess he’s glad he’s alive,” Bucky began, hoping onto the bunk still in shock.

“Bjorn has to be a tough bastard to have been blown back into the bank like that & not blowing his hand off,” Dum Dum laughed.

The soldier putting on the bowler hat to head out with the others to mess this time, leaving th sergeant alone in the barrack to go through the letters, filling relief wash over him as he recognized his sister’ hand writing & everyone was doing ok. Grabbing his pen & paper that he kept under his pillow, quickly writing letters back to his mom & sister along with his pain in the ass friend.

Several hours later found Bucky hurrying through the cold night with his own letters to the mail tent the MP catching up with him.

“Finally,” the man blurted this one was different from the one from earlier. “Agent Bjorn needs you to meet in his tent. I’ve been trying to find you all evening didn’t realize you were hiding out in the barracks.”

“Yeah lot on my mind, say what it was,” he huffed out, still not sure if he was up to talking to her still filling a tinge of betrayal that he… fuck she never told him or was able to keep it hidden.

“No, said either you go meet with him or I'm to escort you there under threat of court martial,” the MP admitted with a nervous smile, Bucky’ brow furrowing for a moment, apparent Y/N anticipated his leeriness of her.

“Then let me drop these off & I will be on my way,” he smiled warily heading into the tent then doing as ordered.

A soft knock getting the young Valkyries attention from the newest map that needed going over, having scouted out another HYDRA base a few days . The agent wanted to make sure that its size & location had been marked properly before turning to the sergeant to find out just how he truly felt about HER now.

“Come in,” she called out, pen moving swiftly over the paper to write a few notes before rolling it up & shoving it into a leather document roll.

Shit! How could he not realize that a plump ass like that belonged to a woman, agent… whatever… bent over the table that was lit by a bright light overhead, brighter than a torch. The sergeant  recognizing the curves from the back through the tank top she sported was tight over a binder that held what he saw as ample breast back to keep her identity.

“You get your letters,” Y/N began as she turned, grabbing the shirt that was on the single bed & threw it one before turning around to hide the binder.

“Yeah thanks,” Bucky nervously spoke, noting Y/E/C orbs look over the bloody gash on furrowed brow received when the two of them had toppled from the dirt bank to stop the convoy from hitting the grenade that was tossed.

“Have a seat, I need to explain & you need something on that wound other than whatever that nurse put on it,” she hinted to the chair next to the bed, the sergeant hesitating as Y/N stopped her movements, pausing the reach for the vile that was on the table next to the wash basin.

“Is that an order,” he spoke apprehension in his voice as he looked at the agent nervously for the first time.

“Yes it is, regardless of recent… developments I am still your superior & yes Philips knows so sit,” Y/N ordered, the soldier sitting in the seat as she gathered the glass vile that had some sort of paste in it.

“I lied to you… you have every right to be pissed,” Y/N began, taking a clean warm cloth from the steaming wash basin, brows furrowing more & making the gash open slightly, pondering how she had hot water.

“Names Y/N Gunnrdottir, I am an agent with SHIELD & no I am not human, I am a Valkyrie,” Y/N explained.

The proud woman stepping up to the soldier who remained still, leaning back to look up & make it easy to clean the wound. Motions gentle to be careful to not hurt him as she cleaned the dried blood & whatever it was the nurse had put on the wound.

“What’s a…,” he interrupted flinching a little as nimble fingers gingerly applied the paste that stung for a moment but instantly felt 10 times better.

“Valkyrie? A woman warrior that comes from Asgard, straight out of Norse mythology, takes a lot to harm us & as you can tell a grenade want do it,” she smiled backing away to look down at him taking a seat on the bed to continue the conversation if he didn’t get up & walk out.

“Woman warriors? Like amazons…,” Bucky countered making Y/N snort at the comparison but shake Y/H/C head in agreement.

“Yeah, like that but we live longer & are more resilient,” she smiled, still obvious the sergeant was still at a loss for what to say or do, azure eyes raking over the form before him, thinking that… holy shit it was hot in the tent & his pants were tight.

“You really have two moms…,” he counters back, poor guy looked so bumfuzzled he hadn’t a clue where to start.

“Yeah, you see, all our, meaning Valkyries, partners, mates, lovers are women, we don’t sleep with men at all unless it is for reproductive purposes that’s why I'm here. I'm 26 just like you so no need to ask how old I am,” Y/N smiled at the still stunned Bucky who looked to.

“Sapphics,” Bucky blurted bringing name to the women that loved women, making Y/N laugh out, “so no wonder you’re good with the girls.”

“All I just told you & that is your take,” Y/N laughed out, the tension in the room finally fading.

“Sorry doll,” he laughed, freezing as he called her doll, looking worriedly as if she may rip his throat out.

“Sorry… I didn’t… don’t take it the wrong way… fuck I'm usually better with women than this… goddamn it Barnes shit up…,” Bucky rambled out Y/N eyeing him with a smirk, watching the sergeant shift in the seat & catching a glimpse of the bugle in the pants, one that made heat flood her lower half.

“It's ok… I like the pet name… but just not in front of the guys,” Y/N smiled, meeting sapphire orbs as he nodded in agreement.

“So, you still ok with working with me,” Y/N hesitated to ask but needed to know not wanting to admit she was finding herself more attracted to him than any woman lately, swearing the crotch of her pants were becoming saturated with arousal.

“Yeah, believe I am,” he smiled, both sitting up to finish having the long overdue conversation.

Tags open! And re-blogs are ALWAYS welcomed!

Tags: @dark-night-sky-99​  @prettybubblesintheair​  @gramaeryebard​  @reallyheckinggay​  @jovanna-shewolf​  @andiyholly​  @katstablook​   @nickyl316h​  @beets1bears1battlestargalactica​ @aslandia726​ @moonfaery​ @furstinnajoelle   @itsbqueenthings​ @lookwhatyoumademequeue​

@whovianwookie86-captainxev@jazzieomega

[willpowerbutch]

Gay Oil: Chapter 2

Autumn had crept west, painting the wooded foothills and gullies rust-red and parting the clouds to let the morning stars peer through. Eli stretched out, folding his arms behind his head, a pleasurable sensation washing over him as his eyelids cracked open. It was easy to forget, in the communist utopia of New Trotskyville, what it felt like only to lie down, the wind in his lightly curled hair, reposing far from the exertion of musclebound street cleaners chewing on his legs like popsicle sticks. Living in the silver miners’ soviet made him remember another life in a time of innocence, the brutal innocence of capitalism, when Eli had been wont to take dainty hikes through the surrounding forests alone, gaping in wonder at the sturdy oak branches with which he explored his appetite for man logs.

Rising on his elbows, Eli dabbed his lips on a discarded sex bracelet and looked around, over the mounds of heaving flesh. Strewn about him were the implements of the previous night of communion: salt water balloons; dozens of empty tubs of vanilla yogurt; and innumerable dirtied, variously-sized rubber ladles. Eli groaned, shifting his weight. That’s the last time I play 20 Questions through a drilled wall, he thought, dusting pot sugar off his leather-strap boobs as he rose to his feet. He had been roused by the clamor of someone knocking incessantly against his church’s door, and as he drew close to the source of the sound, Eli reckoned he could smell the award-show sweat and mustache wax which announced the presence of one Daniel Plainsex.

Eli swung open the door and was assaulted by Daniel’s intense impressiveness and laudability. “Daddy,” Eli whimpered, “you’ve arrived just in time for our come-down cuddle. Would you like to take the spot beside me?”

“You prison erotica plebian,” spat the gaywad. “You know well what I have come for. I will have your bath oils now, Eli: be a good lad and accept my offer.”

“You’re persistent, Daddy Daniel,” purred Eli, stroking his bedazzled crotch guard absently, “But a framed photograph of Dolly Parton and a box of cracker jacks couldn’t even afford you an hour of nipple worship from me. Why can’t you be satisfied without my bath oils?”

“Pillage, Eli,” Daniel retorted. “The straights have their families, but we homos have only our beauty products to entertain us after a long day of manual labor for the state… This is my final offer,” he declared. “I will compensate you for the oils as promised, and if they make me smell like a cotillion queen, I’ll pay you an additional radish soup voucher and my poster of Whitney Houston that Warren Beatty ruined while I was earning my first Oscar.”

Eli cackled, sliding his ass up the hard edge of the wooden door frame. “You still don’t realize how basic you are, listening to that Disney Channel reject. Whitney Houston is a personified beer nap, Daddy, and Beyoncé is a Bacardi 151.”

“Do not speak to me of Dance Oprah!” Daniel ejaculated. “Beyoncé is the spawn of an Aretha Franklin imposter and sexual nihilism, and if you will not allow me to bathe in your fluids, then I will drown you in mine!”

From the looming trees emerged a battalion of saucy painters adorned only in glittery boy pants, feather boas, and builder hats. Descending upon the church, they brandished their brushes high, dripping white paint. At the sight of that, Eli whined orgasmically. “I will not allow you to asperse the holiness of this Cock Barn any further!” He tightened his grip around his loins, but just as the first bristle touched Eli’s wood, a groaning, explosive sound reverberated through the canyon, and a conflagration rose high in the distance, hot and stark like the men who paid Eli to be a woman.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Daddy Daniel. “Homosexuals are susceptible to fire!” Sprinting back the way he’d come, Daniel vanished into the now-illuminated forest, and Eli felt impelled to follow him --  down, into the gully, then finally ascending into a flatland buffered by foothills, in the center of which was a burning oil rig.

“NO!” Daniel screamed, taking in the vision the way Eli took in common law-married rancheros. “I’ve abandoned my child! I’ve abandoned my boy!” He broke down into a fit of incredible excellence, gasping as hot tears slid down his sexually-aggressive cheek bones. Eli was almost induced to pity him, but before he could offer his body as comfort, a slim, swimsuit-clad woman cat-walked toward them out of the rubble.

“Brother!” she called out. It was the waifish elf, Danny, emerging from the wreckage with a contorted homosexual in his arms. “I have Alex. I will not elaborate on why his lips are wet.”

As Daniel scooped Alex into his arms, Eli observed the daddy reveal fondness for something other than assault for the first time in his memory. But Daddy Daniel’s relief turned to mourning when Alex stirred awake, groaning, “Pappi? Who brought the big carrots? Because my spicy dip is hot and ready to serve.”

“He’s…” Daniel started but soon corrected himself. “This bitch is… a bottom. No son of mine could…” he choked. Glistening tears of fabulous acting returned to his eyes, and he won another Oscar hysterically. At this, Eli placed a long-fingered, sensual hand on his ass.

“Think of it as a blessing, Daddy,” he whispered. “Left in the fire any longer, and it might have become a transgender.”

Daniel, with the pathetic form of his former son in his arms, turned around and began to walk toward the faith healer’s tent, with Eli on his trail. When this brigade of sissies had left to dress Alex’s wounds, Danny stood apart, watching the oil rig continue to burn against the night sky like Paul Lynde. Sensing that he was being watched, the gay turned around to find that he had been approached by the Expository Candy Man, who offered him an enormous lollipop directly. “Are you lost, boy?” asked the Candy Man. Accepting the treat gingerly, Danny nodded his head.

“Lost in thought.”

“But what could a gay youth be thinking about other than anal lube and abolishing racism?”

Danny touched his lips ponderously. “I don’t know,” he admitted at last. “I’ve never thought of anything else before. What should I do?”

“Come with me,” said the Candy Man, slinging a morally bankrupt arm about the broad shoulders of the snack. “I will distract you by introducing you to my friends on Craig’s List.”

Sighing, Danny went along with the stranger. As they drew away from the flame, Danny looked at the lollipop in his hand and noticed a small object embedded within. “Mister?” he queried. “What is this small, pill-shaped item in my lolli?”

“It’s my gonorrhea medication,” the Candy Man replied. “You’re going to need it after we’re finished.”

 *****Six Months Later*****

The overhead speakers crackled, and a gay voice pierced the atmosphere of phallic bedlam. “And now, opening for The Backstreet Goys, let’s make some love for Eli Sundae!” The club-goers gasped as the thighs of multiple builder bears shuddered in unison, and the frightful silhouette of a fey princess appeared behind the stained curtains. Stepping into the spotlight, Eli came into view, bedecked in Halloween glitter and organic soda water. He acknowledged Daddy Daniel, who was waiting for him erotically in the foyer, before addressing the rest of the Gay.

“If you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be, lovers? I’d be Big Banana with a splash of salted caramel inside. Let’s see who wants to get a lick of this Eli Sundae.” Weaving his way through the crowd, the gayographer halted before the table of the Candy Man, who was admiring Danny’s sexual vulnerability sadly from afar. Eli stood by, stroking him silently for several moments, pouting sexily. He flicked his eyes carefully over the Candy Man’s pelvis, lapping him up. “Do you want to taste me, lover?” he murmured. “I’d like you to -- if I wasn’t allergic to gin yetis.” Turning toward his companion parole officer, Eli Sundae startled, then purred, “I’d suck your straw on a street corner for a dime and a plastic watch, baby boy.”

Daddy Daniel had reached the end of his patience. In a fabulous display of noteworthy scene dominance, he opened his trousers, began throwing tequila-soaked licorice onto the dance floor, and stole Eli away in the ensuing chaos. Dragging him toward the dressing rooms, Eli struggled against the daddy to break free, but it was to no avail. Terror flooded his eyes as they drew near the door.

“No, we mustn’t go there,” Eli cautioned Daniel. “That’s where the spirit of Reddie Gayflame lives in eternal death scene makeup, devouring the unwanted bits of transgenders. Let’s sit at a table in the back instead, Daddy.”

Slamming Eli into a chair, Daniel emanated greatness from his magnetic genital posture. “Eli,” he growled, “this is the last courtesy you will get from he.” He held out both his hands. “If I do not have your bath oils in my possession in five seconds, I will kill you in a completely non-homoerotic mud wrestling match.”

Eli swallowed harder than he had with Benedict Cumberbatch, but he held his voice level. “Daddy -- Daniel,” the bottom replied calmly, “you haven’t looked hot in your cowboy stripper act since 1995.”

Eli stood to leave, but Daniel took his wrist forcefully. Ruminating on how slight and pansific Eli was in his grasp, the older man remarked, satisfied, “I’m going to ruin you like lesbians have ruined denim, Eli. I’m going to savage you like the Transgender has savaged the world.”

“You could do a lot more to me than that, delicious,” Eli swooned.

Daniel gave him a tense, magical stare, but before he could proceed, the flaccid voice of a disco whore wafted to him, and his ears pricked. Rising to gain a better vantage, he caught sight of his brother-sister, Danny, in an intimate moment of under-the-tablecloth fondling with his disgraced son, Alex. “That woodland slut,” he spat, and before Eli could try to immobilize him with lust, he was away.

In their own private romance, the young fruits remained oblivious to Daniel’s approach. “I want to marry you,” Danny declared suddenly, meeting Alex’s gaze with tears. “I want to make applesauce at a lesbian orchard with you, and I want to start a charity to brew Norwegian coffee at homeless shelters. I want to have a radical poetry retreat in Okinawa next year, living off only the money we can raise selling palm-readings and using a GoFundMe page. I want to do it all with you, not just the ball-gag stuff.” The fairy was peering up at him hopefully, but Alex shook his head.

“I’m gay.”

“Oh, Alex,” Danny sniffled, “I’m not really your uncle. I only said that so Daniel would let me handle your under-clothing.” The lovers reconciled with a kiss, but the Daddy, who had heard the substance of their discourse, loomed over Danny’s surprisingly butch shoulder blade.

“You topped my mathematical sex son and you’re not even my BROTHER?” Daniel roared. He kicked their vodka-filled champagne flutes, sending them crashing against the nearby poster of Che Guevara. “Now that he has a hankering for sleeping on his stomach, he will never change back! You have destroyed him! For this, you will die!” Brandishing an obscenely-shaped novelty thermos, Daniel unscrewed the lid and poured the liquid contents down the homofairy’s throat.

“I’m gay!” screamed Alex as Danny began to convulse.

“Coffee!” Danny choked. “Black coffee! The only black my lips have ever touched was Macklemore. Alas!” he cried, shuddering to the floor. “Food is toxic to the Homosexual unless it’s hot meat or condiments!” Dragging himself toward Alex, Danny wept out his body’s constitution of Mio and whimpered, “I haven’t gagged like this since I was backstage at the BAFTAs.” A single, dramatically-lit tear trickling down his cheek, Alex shook Danny’s hand as the homo dissolved into a mournful ghost.

None who bore witness to the execution would soon forget it – not the braying of the cats that escaped from Danny’s rucksack, nor the blood orgy that materialized around his corpse, nor in the least the sexual way Danny had moaned for Sweet & Low to ease his suffering before succumbing to his grievous lack of reproductive fitness. When Alex and the Candy Man had been removed from the premises and the police had taken a report of the incident, the body had been placed in the care of Eli’s church to deliver Danny’s last rites. Standing above Danny’s coffin, the cross of the erection shining in sunlight behind him, Eli lifted his eyes to the bright window and held his hand to his cock. “You and Alex will be married, bitch,” he spoke. “This I promise you: if Daniel should stand in the way of your necrophilic gay wedding, I will penetrate him with my nail scissors like a Master, and not in a ticklish way.” Staring out over his congregation, Eli’s voice whined mightily. “Stand tall with me, brothers, sisters, sister-wives, merry men, men who do fellatio to get free lingerie from perverts at the mall, gay-ngsters, and trans-genitalists. Stand with me, and together, we shall upend the chastity of marriage!”

 About the Author

Tom Rob Smith, award winning author of Gay Slut Death and screenwriter of the shelved pilot episode of Fairies Are Gay Sissies, presents this second instalment of Gay Oil as a tribute to the memory of Daniel Day-Lewis, whose violent death this year was almost as upsetting as the fact that Ben Whishaw is now shilling poltergeist videos for cash. Tom is patronized in this effort by the kind inspiration and credit card details of his platonic nightly visitor, Manly Men! Magazine’s own Paragon Shag. His editor, Willpower Butch, hopes that their partnership shall continue to bring valuable edutainment about the cultural corruption of the Gay to millennials for many years to come. Their secretary and friendly neighborhood evil transgender pervert, Dead Summer Days, hasn’t debauched a pure-hearted heiress all week.