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needs-to-stop-looking-at-valves · 3 years ago

Note

Do you think you could do past!Agustin/Bruno? Just a one night thing as teenagers maybe. Not 'experimenting' but just a that's as far as it went, one night, bi!Agustin type of thing?

You know I genuinely didn't wanna do this one because to me it like. Didn't work. No cap I was gonna delete this. But it REALLY stuck in my head at work, and they actually could mix together well? I actually briefly hinted their relationship in a previous ask;

So I'm actually SUPER excited to elaborate?

(Note, all characters are 18 in this particular work)

They say old habits die hard. And Bruno knew that better than anyone else, given how many he had. If it wasn't the recluse nature, his tendency to hoard rats, it was him falling head first into the lap of ANYONE who would give him a lick of affection. This was all a very long winded way of saying Bruno still bad a massive crush on Félix. He realized it two, maybe three years ago, and he knew it was a problem, but. Well didn't mean he'd be magically cured. Did he pursue anything? No, he could never in a million years do that to his sister (no matter how often she pulled the ruana over his head and made him crash into stuff), or to anyone he cared about.

But. Well, when he heard that Félix was going to be coming over, Bruno might have tried just a bit harder to look presentable.

"Don't you look at me like that, Miranda. I can just look good just to look good, right?"

He glared at his rat companion, who was having her fill of cheese as he finished checking himself out in the mirror. He scoffed at her judgemental look.

"Don't you look at me like I'm some manwhore. I'm not gonna do ANYTHING. Do I want to? Well. Maybe. Kinda. Ugh-have you SEEN him?!"

Bruno looked at the photo he kept on his desk. It was a picture of him, his sisters, Augustín, and Fèlix, all at the flower festival. It was the day that Bruno realized he couldn't truthfully hope for a relationship with him. This picture humbled him. But simultaneously it killed him. He REMEMBERED that day; Fèlix wooing him with music, his hands upon him as he helped him get into his clothes, and even proving he was quite the romantic. Fèlix was a big, charming, and sexy man. Bruno leaned over the counter as he inspected the picture. This picture unfortunately aroused him too. Fèlix looked so happy, dressed to the nines, little bit of chest hair poking out.

And his hands. Oh his hands. They were the hands of a hard working man, hard in labor but soft in heart. He remembered how they felt, occasionally brushing up against his skin. And seeing him without his fucking shirt off, that was an imagine burned into his head, and his loins. Speaking of loins-

"No otra vez..."

Another boner. It wasn't fair, the things this man did to him. There was guilt alongside the arousal, because that was his sister's boyfriend and future husband, but the arousal was still VERY much there. He let his head fall back as he dug his fingers into his hair, gripping tightly in a moment of frustration. He shouldn't do this again, he JUST indulged himself last night. He palmed at the bulge, pretending just for a moment, that it was Félix's hand. He knew if he had him, just ONCE, he'd get over it. Or maybe get worse. But he was supposed to be with Pepa, no one else. He told himself that as his eyes slowly closed, before they suddenly opened as he came to a realization.

He was supposed to marry Pepa. Have children. But what about that gap in between? He stood up quickly, the idea hitting him like a train.

"But what about...in between then? He's not married YET, him and Pepa take 'breaks', whatever those are-its not impossible, right?"

The judgemental eyes of his companions discouraged him from breaking one of his own rules. He sighed, knowing he shouldn't. But he was a young man, stupid and desperate. So, against his better judgement, he decided to look into his own future. He allowed a few friends to join him as he descended down the sandy steps, just a bit from his vision cave. He wanted to do a vision of himself? It had to be worth it, had to be accurate. He took a deep breath just before entering his own hallway. Even though this place was his own home, the statues of himself, imposing eyes- it still freaked him out. As soon as he opened the giant door and shut it on himself, he let himself breathe.

"Let's be quick, we don't have much time."

He knelt down in the middle of the circle. While this room held much contempt in terms of visions and fates, he felt serenity in it. A big, open, dimly lit cave. It soothed his mind. He didn't even need to burn incense. His heart was pounding, not in nerves, but excitement. His mind was as still as glass, his breathing was steady. He took a deep breath, laced his fingers together, and exhaled.

"Déjeme ver."

The sand picked up around him, enveloped him in an embrace. The sand glistened and gleamed in green, pouring into the cracks of the future. Then he opened his eyes. He studied the images before him. His own bedroom. In the dead of night. Someone was there with him. His heart was pounding.

"Almost. Come on, more."

It wasn't just someone in his room. It was someone touching him. Someone with their body looming over his. They were kissing him. Bruno was. Getting kissed. Not by a woman, he could tell.

"Show me him. Come on, please. Please show me the face."

It had to be Félix. Just once. Just one time, let his vision prove fruitful. Let his lips be on his, let those hands roam under his ruana and in his bed. So close, just one more second-

THUD.

He jumped. It was VERY difficult to get him out of his visions when he was into it, but the loud thud of his own door being forced open, was enough for him in this case. The sand faded, leaving only a fragment of the vision. He covered it with his ruana as he turned to look at his sister, Julieta, who was standing there, a bit winded looking from having to push aside the heavy door.

"Bruno-"

"Can't you KNOCK?!"

His voice echoed loudly in the cave, and it made her pause. He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Sorry, sorry. You just, interrupted a really important vision I was having."

She shrugged, holding a small smile in an attempt to apologize.

"You weren't answering your door. But Félix just got here, he wants to see you."

Bruno quickly got up, stuffing the vision fragment into his many pockets. He guided the way back (even parted the falling sand so it wouldn't get in her hair, like a good little Caballero), and immediately rushed outside. Sure enough, there he was, talking to Alma. Bruno double checked his breath, and immediately slid down the stairs. Casita had his back apparently, making him land right into Félix's big, strong arms. Félix grinned down at him as he helped him up to his feet.

"Hey hey, chamaco. Someone's excited about tonight, eh?"

"Uh huh! So much so, I got you a little something. I was gonna save it for tonight, but you don't want THIS ol' thing, right?"

He pulled out a small box from his ruana, clearly exciting Félix.

"Well don't tease me, Brunito! Give it to me~"

He was trying to go for 'smooth', but to Bruno, it came off as sexy as shit, and Bruno mentally begged for him to say it again. He wiped that from his mind, relenting as he gave Félix his gift. Félix appreciated it so much, he wrapped his arm around Bruno as he started to tear through the paper. Oh his arms were so big and strong-he tried not to melt in his hold. Félix inspected the gift, seemingly confused.

"It's...a ring?"

"Yeah. I uh...made it. It's mostly wood, but I also used sand. Sand from uh...the vision. The one that told me you were gonna be my friend."

It sounded good in practice, but seeing it now, Bruno felt almost embarrassed by it. He would've, had Félix not laughed, and given him a little noogie that flooded his chest full of butterflies.

"Knew you were a talented little guy! Little romantic, eh?Que estas tratando de decir querido?~"

He meant those words teasingly, but to Bruno, he meant them, and it made his lips dry. His forehead was practically against his, he could kiss him so goddamn easily-

"I like it! I can tell you worked on it, Brunocito. Hey look, it even fits!"

Bruno was tempted to rest his head on his shoulder, tell him just how long it took him to make and how it was worth it, when another voice chimed in. Not Julieta, not even Alma.

Augustín.

"Hey uh. Don't mean to ruin the moment-Félix, is this all your stuff?"

They all turned to look at him, who seemed to be carrying both his own, and Fèlix's things. Bruno was excited, because he was told he was having a sleepover with Fèlix. No one mentioned Augustín. Now don't get Bruno wrong, he had dealt with worse, especially with Pepa's old boyfriends, but Augustín was different. He was so much like himself, it disgusted Bruno. Nervous, quiet, and observant. His face even had similarities, only...better. His nose was better, he had better facial hair-no wonder Félix hung out with him. Augustín could be seen in public. Augustín had everyone's pity for being so accident prone.

Bruno hated him. It was immature of him, but seeing him in his home made him grip tightly onto Félix, as if he was protecting him. Félix nodded towards his bag (which looked surprisingly light, actually).

"Yeah, that's it- it's just one night with my boys! How much trouble you planning on getting us into, huh?"

Alma cut the mood with her sharp glare.

"Given that it's our home, I should hope none. Especially with-"

"PEPA!!!!!"

Félix cut off Alma the second he saw her coming downstairs. They had been dating for so long, but not once had Félix not been crazy over her. Rainbows popped out of her bright enough to hurt his damn eyes, especially as they held hands.

"Aye-always so loud, act like I can't hear you."

"Oh I know you can hear me. I just like yelling your name SO much. I like the braids, makes you look like a pequeño pony~"

That was so dumb. Bruno didn't get women in the flirting aspect, but even HE knew that shouldn't have worked. But it did. She giggled like hell, even Julieta sighed, and that girl had the patience of a saint.

"Eres tan estúpido~"

Watching him hold the end of her duel braids, and literally make a sound resembling a horse as he leaned in to rub their noses together-Bruno couldn't believe he wanted that exact treatment. They only stopped with a heavy clearing of Alma's throat.

"If you are done MISTING, Pepa, we need to go over the rules here. You will all go to bed at a reasonable time. Boys sleep in Bruno's room, girls sleep in Julieta's. No funny business. Understand?"

Bruno was excited. A whole slumber party with FÉLIX? oh the vision in his pocket was coming true! He clung to Félix's side, nodding eagerly.

"We'll be responsible, Mami! And quiet!"

That was an answer she clearly liked, given her approving nod. She turned to Julieta, not noticing (or caring) about how she stiffened properly.

"I trust you to be responsible, a proper example for your siblings. Understand?"

"Yes, mamá. Rest well."

She nodded, and with that, she turned to leave. Bruno watched as Pepa leaned into Félix's ear, whispering something that made him grin mischievously. Bruno was worried they'd get touchy, but thank God Julieta pulled her away by her hand. Whatever, he was done with girls for tonight. He led the other two men to his room, letting them drop off their stuff in the corner. Augustín whistled as he looked around the room.

"So you just...sleep past this sand curtain?"

"Pretty much. It's for aesthetics mostly. Now, I pretty much only have one bed, but it's kinda big? So me and Fèlix should take it, but we'll set up a spot for you on the floor-"

"When does Alma go to sleep?"

Bruno raised a brow at the sudden question from Félix. Weird. He shrugged.

"She should be asleep by now, actually. She likes to go to bed pretty early to get an early start."

Félix grinned, rubbing his hands together.

"Perfect- Augustín, vamanos!"

Bruno paused, already feeling himself start to frown.

"Where...are we going?"

Félix wrapped an arm around Bruno, patting at his chest.

"The slumber party- it was a lie. We're all going to sneak out with our dates, have a party! Dancing, levantando algunas faldas~"

Bruno should've known better than to get his hopes up. Of course, Félix wanted to spend time with his sister, not him.

"You mean YOU two would."

"Nope! Us three! I got you a date, chamaco! You remember Osma right? Well, you didn't hear this from me, but she thinks you're, how'd she put it...ah yes, 'Lindo, de una manera misteriosa', so your hermano hooked you up!"

Osma? Said that about him? That was new. And while she had pretty hair and dimples, Bruno wasn't interested. He was about to say just that, when Augustín spoke up.

"I don't think I can do it."

"What? You've been trying to sweep Jules off her feet forever! Nows your chance!"

"I don't want to risk it. And I don't want her to feel pressured to have fun when I know we'll BOTH be paranoid!"

Félix shrugged.

"I don't think it'd matter, even if we got caught. Worst comes to worst Alma chews us out-"

"That's easy for you to say. Alma practically handed you Pepa's hand on a silver platter. I have to PROVE I'm worthy of her eldest daughter. I'm not risking that for a night of foolishness."

Bruno felt. SO uncomfortable in the silence. Was he witnessing a fight? This wasn't how his sisters fought, he had no clue what to do. They stared each other down for a second, Félix still holding onto Bruno. Félix eventually relented.

"Alright. Fine. You don't gotta go. I'll tell Jules. Just me and Brunocito, eh?"

Bruno wanted to go hang out with Félix, really he did. He looked ready to party, looked frisky, and even being in his arms felt good. But did he want to lust over Félix all night, and probably end up ignoring Osma? Or even worse, she caught on? Or even worse, she didn't get it at all, and tried to kiss him? All ideas sound just awful. So he sadly shook his head.

"I...don't think I wanna go. Nothing against Osma, she's pretty-"

"Wait. I know what this is."

Félix gave him a look, and Bruno shrunk. Oh no. Did he piece it together? Did he know about his true feelings? Bruno shook his head, feeling fear swell in his chest.

"I don't. Know what you-"

"You like hombres, huh?"

So. He SORT of knew. Bruno's face exploded in color and he tried to cover his face in his hood.

"I mean. I don't. I wouldn't put it-"

"Listen, I can get you an hombre, no judgement! Oh you know who'd be great for you! Arturo! The librarians son, he's sensitive like you, but big. Which is fine, you give bottom vibes."

Bruno stammered at the words, honestly it threw him for a hell of a loop. He held his hand up to get him to stop, giving a slight shake of his head.

"I'm flattered, really, and he is cute. But really, this seems more like you and Pepa's thing. We'll cover for you both."

Félix looked disappointed, before he chuckled, playfully nudging Bruno's face with his fist. It was such a friendly, honest action, Bruno wanted to kiss every single knuckle on his hand.

"Hey hey, knew I could trust you two. Alright, you two don't get too crazy-Casita may not speak, but Casita snitches-ow!"

He laughed as Bruno's door opened to both smack his shoulder, and reveal and eagerly awaiting Pepa. Bruno watched as they eagerly held hands, and shared a kiss. They waved them off, before the door shut in their faces. Bruno combed his fingers through his patchy facial hair, dreaming of Félix's hands. He wished he could be Pepa, just for tonight. He knew Félix kissed with passion, without remorse or restraint. He knew his hands would roam and-

"So I uh. Guess it's just you and me, right?"

Right. Augustín. He looked at him with the same amount of awkwardness that he himself possessed, and he fought the morbid urge to shove his face in the sand, like some demented drowning. He gestured for Augustín to follow him, not even parting the sand curtain for him. Augustín tripped on the steps on the way to his room, but Bruno didn't stop. He wanted him to fall, maybe he'd leave him be. He wasn't so lucky, unfortunately, and Augustín followed him to his bedroom. Past his vision cave, Bruno lived in essentially the 'backstage' of his room. It wasn't always so complicated to get to his private area, but. Well, rooms changed with their owners.

Bruno opened his room door, letting his rat buddies settle in for the night. Augustín looked uncomfortable. So much so, he bumped his shin on the table, yelping in pain. Bruno threw his stuff in the corner of the room (something cracked, but who cared, he was probably gonna break it himself anyway), and went to his nightstand. Every night before bed, he tucked in some of his rat buddies (some liked sleeping in the bed, some liked sleeping in bundled up socks or old pillow cushions. Bruno didn't judge, he just accommodated), to make sure they were settled in properly.

"Don't break any-"

He went stiff as his makeshift stage, made for his play next week, was accidentally pushed off the table and broke as soon as it hit the floor. Augustín gave an apologetic smile as he went to try to grab it, only for Bruno to growl at him.

"Leave it."

Augustín gave him such a sad look, it was like looking in the mirror. Bruno sighed, fixing his roommates their little bowl of water, and letting Augustín get settled. Then he just. Spoke again.

"So uh. I get half the bed then?"

"Why'd you assume that?"

"You...were gonna share with Félix, and its a pretty big bed."

Bruno took a deep breath. He was so stressed, Amanda cuddled into his hand, hoping to soothe him. Amanda was an angel like that. He scratched her little head as he found himself calm enough to respond.

"Fine. You get the end facing the door, I need to be able to get up in case they need a midnight snack."

Bruno watched him in the mirror, and found himself stopping as he watched him strip to nothing but shorts. That was a welcome sight, actually. Augustín at least didn't share his body type; he was taller, a bit more muscle, shaven. His mamá called him the 'pretty boy type' and he sort of understood it. He watched him for a second longer before Augustín helped himself to bed. Smart guy, he took the hint that he didn't want a conversation. They were just going to lay there, and bide time until Félix came in and saved them from each other. Bruno laid down on his side of the bed, appreciating it now, more than ever, that his bed was huge. He dug into his pockets, pulling out the shard of the incomplete vision.

Hands on him. An embrace in his bed. Odd. He thumbed over the smooth surface, before leaning over, and snuffing the candle that lit up the room.

A vision that obviously couldn't come true.

---------------------------

Augustín wanted so badly to be a part of the family. Pepa liked him just fine, Julieta MIGHT like him (or maybe that was wishful thinking), but the worst was Bruno and Alma. God, they HATED him. Alma hated him because he was too 'fancy', and accident prone, and Bruno hated him for. Reasons. He never got it, but Bruno clearly preferred Félix over himself. It messed with his head so much, it prevented him from sleeping. Or maybe it was the slight skittering feet, or maybe it was even him regretting NOT going out with Julieta.

Though, it might have been the sound that felt so loud in the room. It was quick, it was sort of...wet? As he laid on the pillow, on a bed that smelled of salt and sweat, he just sat there, listening.

"Asi...asi...please. Just a little more."

Was Bruno sleep talking? He should just leave him alone. He really should. But he was curious. He WANTED to learn more about Bruno, wanted to be in his good graces. So, he very slowly turned to his side, and faced him. There was a faint green light illuminating the darkness of the room, highlighting Bruno's thin frame. He watched, and he listened.

"Come on, come on. Just...finish. You want to. You really want to. You want to so bad, you want to feel it smeared all over your fucking hand. Do it."

That was when it clicked. Bruno was touching himself. Augustín should've said SOMETHING, maybe even just pretend he accidentally woke up, anything to get him to stop. But...well. Augustín just listened. Bruno kept panting, kept squirming, kept swearing. Bruno was trying so badly so cum, you almost felt sorry for the guy.

"Bruno."

The second he spoke, Bruno froze. He didn't turn to look at him. Didn't speak for a second. Augustín scooted closer, till Bruno's ruana was pressed against his bare chest.

"You're going WAY too hard. You're not treating yourself nicely. You're too tense. You're doing a lot wrong."

"I'm sorry- who's dick is in who's hand right n...uhm. I mean. Mine isn't, but."

He didn't know why he was doing this. It was crazy. Nuts, if you will. But Augustín always had some fascination with Bruno. His abilities, his recluse nature, and honestly, even visually Bruno intrigued him. For a boy, Bruno was...pretty. Not 'handsome' like most men. He was pretty. Lithe body, really pretty hair, and those incredibly pretty eyes. Augustín wanted to call him feminine to make him feel more okay to be attracted to him, but Bruno wasn't feminine. He had facial hair, patchy and eager to grow. He had a defined Adam's apple and hairy arms. Augustín had to force himself to realize-

He was attracted to another man. Not incredibly, but he found himself drawn to him. He scooted closer to him, till his chin was resting on his shoulder. The green light was Bruno's eyes, shining dimly in the darkness. They looked at Augustín, angry and vulnerable.

"Can I show you what you're doing wrong?"

Bruno wanted to say no. Obviously he did. But he looked as if he was in such agony, he couldn't say no. So he nodded. Augustín carefully reached over, and had to force himself to realize that he had his hand over Bruno's cock. And he wasn't disgusted. Was Augustín attracted to men? He knew he definitely liked women, but men was new. But he was REALLY attracted to Bruno. He let his hand feel the shape in the darkness. Bruno's cock was long, a bit of a curve towards the end. His hand roamed down lower, fingers going over the pubic hair grazing his balls.

Augustín had never touched privates that weren't his own. And he never expected to touch someone with parts identical to his own. He...kinda liked it. He slowly rubbed the balls in his hands, feeling the hair and the skin rub against his palm. His touch was light, kind to Bruno, and his body appreciated that, gifting him with a thin line of precum.

"There we go. Tierno. Gentle. You're thinking of someone, don't think they'd treat you so rudely."

"H...how did you-"

"It sounds like it. You were begging. You're a lonely boy Bruno. You're used to it, but you don't like it."

His other hand dipped past his ruana, letting his hands roam up his chest. Such a thin, taunt body, hair formed into a happy trail over his otherwise baby soft frame.

"D...don't act like you know me."

"I don't know a lot about you. You're cold. If I were Félix, I'd probably know more."

That made his temper flare. His head whipped around, to where his nose was touching his own. Bruno's eyes, beautiful as they were, were full of fury, and his teeth formed into a snarl.

"Don't you tell him. I won't ever f-forgive..."

He couldn't be angry for too long. Not when Bruno's throbbing cock was being treated so gently, not when his thumb slowly rubbed one of his nipples in little circles.

"I won't tell him. I'm surprised he doesn't know. You watch him a lot. You cling to him. You want this man, who's kind and listens and comforts you, to touch you like this. You want more than this from him though, don't you?"

Bruno bit his bottom lip as he slowly grinded into his touches, wanting more and more.

"I...I want to be kissed."

That was enough for him. Augustín pressed his lips against his. It wasn't spectacular, if anything it was a bit awkward. There was no coordination, their noses got in the way-it was a mess. But Bruno wanted more. Bruno wanted to savor affection, to learn. And that they did. Their kisses, sloppy, grew with more vigor, and it excited little Bruno so much, he pushed his tongue right into his mouth. It was wet, an absolute bust of a first kiss for either of them. But they didn't want to stop. Augustín had to breathe in between, a bit light headed.

"Mierda...you like kisses."

"So do you. You keep giving it to me. You keep...giving a lot to me."

Augustín smeared his precum covered hand over his balls, giving them a good squeeze, before grazing over his shaft, firmly yet softly. Bruno wanted passion, but not purity. It was fascinating.

"Do you want to cum, Bruno?"

"N-no. I don't wanna cum in your stupid h-hand. But I need it. It hurts. It all...h-hurts."

He didn't just mean his throbbing cock. Bruno's eyes were watering, and Augustín could tell he meant his heart. His anger, his lust, his love. It swirled inside of him like a sand storm, and Bruno just wanted it all to make sense. Augustín wanted to see him in bliss, just for a moment. So as Bruno sat there, Augustín kept peppering kisses on the nape of his neck, kept pushing his foreskin back and forth in his grip.

Then Bruno came. He gasped, hand clamping over his mouth as he spilled his seed, right into his palm. Bruno shook after it was over, chest rising and falling as realization slowly took over him.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. You. You just made me cum. My cum is in your hand and-"

Augustín tilted his head till they were kissing. That seemed to soothe Bruno for a second, until he pulled away, hissing In anger. Bruno had so many emotions in him, anger was just the easiest to give Augustín. And he didn't mind it in the slightest.

"Your dick has been pressed against my ass. You're hard."

Augustín looked down at himself. He was in fact, hard, cock pressed against his poor shorts. He was about to apologize, when Bruno sat up, and pushed him to his back. Augustín stared up at him in fear, thinking he made Bruno TOO angry. Only to watch in fascination as Bruno peeled off his pants, throwing it to the side. He cradled his waist, and took Augustín's hands, placing them on his ass.

"Don't move these. They stay here. I'm doing this because I'm not a monster. No other reason."

Bruno leaned down, and kissed him again. All while he started to grind himself against Augustín's clothed cock. And it felt so good, having such a warm, soft butt against him. He knew he was staining his underclothes in precum, but he didn't care. Just that Bruno looked so cute when he kissed, looked so cute when he was aroused by something so simple as grinding. It between breaths, desperately needed in between kisses, Augustín spoke, staring lazily into Bruno's half lidded eyes.

"B-bruno?"

"If you tell me to go faster, I'm going to-"

"I'm sorry."

Bruno stopped moving. He was sitting right on his cock now, putting so much weight and pressure in one spot, and it made him throb. He was close.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry the first time someone being kind to you like this...is someone you hate."

Bruno stared at him, as if in disbelief, before he scoffed. He got up, freed Augustín's cock from his underwear, and started right back up again. More kisses, more grinding. Augustín savored it, loving the fact that Bruno's underwear was the only thing keeping him from being inside his ass. He could picture it. It'd be hot, it'd be tight. It'd make Bruno happy.

That was enough for Augustín to cum, spilling all over his underwear, and letting Bruno smear it all over himself. They sat there, exhausted, and Augustín couldn't fathom the view. Locks of hair covered the sides of his face like a velvet curtain, and his soft eyes reminded him of stage lights. The view didn't last long, as Bruno pushed himself off of himself, and plopping back onto his side of the better. There was some silence, filled with only their panting. Then Bruno spoke.

"You know why I hate you?"

"No. I don't."

"It's because I see a lot of myself in you. Only...better."

Maybe it was the wrong move, but Augustín reached over to put his hand into Bruno's. Bruno acted reflexively, gripping onto the fingers. His fingers were soft, yet tactile.

"I'm sorry."

--------------------

"Buenos días, Bruno, Augustín, so glad you two could join us."

"Lo siento, Alma."

"Sorry mami. Rough night."

Bruno sat down at the breakfast table, letting his sister put a plate in front of him. He looked around the table, and it was. Interesting. Alma was focusing on her papers (daily requests given by the villagers of the town), Julieta was bustling about trying to feed everyone, Félix kept playing with Pepa's ponytail, Pepa kept giggling for him to stop, and Augustín. Augustín was sitting across from him, VERY awkwardly. Was it weird, knowing just last night they touched each other's privates? Of course. But that was for Bruno to think about in private, when he was questioning his life.

"Julieta?"

"You can have seconds later, Bruno."

"No I had an actual question."

Juileta sat next to Augustín, sighing as she was finally allowed to sit down. She reached over to kick her sister's shin, less Alma just so happen to catch her trying to grab at his tit.

"Avanzar, what is it?"

"You ever wanted to do palm reading?"

She raised a brow at him, confused.

"I...guess it'd be nice?"

"I can give you a quick lesson. Augustín, give her your palm."

Augustín looked confused, before doing so. Julieta carried his hand in her own, head cocked a bit to the side.

"What now?"

"Look at the lines. It's pretty easy actually. Like I can see you two like holding hands, so you guys should just. Date. Do it all the time- we're all sick of you guys beating that bush to death, someone had to say it."

"BRUNO!!"

Julieta exclaimed. Pepa's clouds formed over the table in sudden worry. Julieta looked ready to scold him, when Augustín lightly squeezed her dainty little hand.

"I mean...I don't think it's a bad idea."

She turned to look at him, eyes open in surprise. Her cheeks were so rosey- it was gross.

"You...excuse me?"

"I mean. I just. I would like to hold your hand more, you know. So if you...wanted someone to come with you when you went grocery shopping, or even just. Looking at the flowers. I'd like to be that someone."

She paused, a bit bashful for a second, before softly nodding.

"I'd...like that. Actually. A lot."

Bruno rolled his eyes- boys. Overrated.

"Pack arepas, lots of 'em. Oh and felicidades and all that, pass the coffee."

Bruno, clearly over the moon and not in classic little brother sarcasm at all, threw salt over the table in mock celebration. Alma, without looking up, cleared her throat.

"Bruno, no salt throwing at the table."

Bruno opened his mouth to defend himself, but decided against it. Just for one day.

Bruno was going to have a vision of being happy.

#asks #encanto #not transformers #lemon #this was a LOT more than i thought id write #but genuinely they're all fun to write for #also teenager bruno HAS to be a kinda moody lil shit #tell me otherwise #also i weirdly support bi Augustín #and having a one night stand with his future wive's brother #bruno would fucking love this plot twist

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geewritesshit · 3 years ago

Text

if your body matches what your eyes can do

note: so i have been writing this for my friend nicole and it has taken way too long; i really hope you all like this :))

pairing: osamu x meian

cw: a lil bit of angst, body image issues, blow jobs, anal sex, spit kink, daddy kink, slight praise kink

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34272175

Osamu does not want to be at this club. His jeans feel too tight and he is hyper aware of his stomach poking out just a bit too much for his liking as he notices all the thin, buff, and fit men surrounding him in the club. I should leave soon; he thinks this as he crosses his arms over his chest looking out over the crowds of people to watch his twin grind on his boyfriend. A pang of jealousy that makes him feel sick to his stomach flashes through his chest. Atsumu’s T-shirt is a little tight and rides up every now and again showing off his muscled abdomen. Osamu feels terrible comparing himself to his brother because Atsumu needs to be in shape for his job and Osamu doesn’t.

The comparison is unfair and he knows this, but he cannot stop thinking about it. He thinks about all the people he’s looked at tonight and tried to hit on, and how they gave him a once over and dismissed him. He crosses his arms over his chest and hunches slightly, trying to make himself smaller. His hands move to fiddle with his drink in front of him as he tries to keep himself out of everyone's way. He stops moving when a big hand slams down on the bar next to him, making him jump. Osamu looks up to see one of the men from Atsumu’s team, although for the life of him he can’t remember the man’s name.

The man’s dark hair is slightly mussed from dancing and his button-up shirt is stretched across his massive chest. Osamu’s breath is caught in his throat as he tries to say something, anything to get this man’s attention. The dark-haired man yells a drink order to the bartender over the music and then looks down at Osamu.

“Hello, you’re Miya’s brother, Osamu, right?” His voice is a deep baritone that reverberates and sends shivers all the way down to Osamu’s toes. And holy shit the hot guy remembered his name.

“Yeah,” he replies, blushing and just a bit breathless, “I’m sorry, I never caught yer name.” He feels stupid because he was too caught up in himself to remember any of Tsumu’s teammates' names.

“I’m Meian Shuugo,” Meian answers, his smile never faltering. However, Osamu’s blush deepens because he should have remembered this man’s name because he is the captain of the MSBY Black Jackals.

“Shit, I feel dumb. I should have remembered you, captain.” Now it’s Meian’s turn to blush. He’s cute like this, Osamu thinks, he’s really hot too. Osamu’s thoughts screech to a halt, however, when Meian leans in close to him, his eyes darkening.

“I liked hearing you call me captain, but if you don’t want me to take you home don’t do it again,” his gruff voice makes Osamu swallow a whimper before speaking again.

“Are you sure, Captain?” he draws out the last word, leaning close to moan the word into Meian’s ear. Osamu hopes he looks as hot as he wants to look for this buff ass man. Meian’s eyes darken more as he leans forward closing the gap between the two crashing their lips together.

The kiss is a desperate action, filled with teeth and tongue like they’re teenagers. Osamu’s arms reach up and around Meian’s neck pulling him closer as the man settles his huge hands on Osamu’s squishy thighs. He tries not to cringe at the feeling of someone touching the fat on his legs, losing himself in the kiss. After a minute they break apart panting slightly.

“So,” Meian starts, face flushed, “my place or yours?”

“Yours, Tsumu is staying at mine.” Meian laughs while nodding in agreement.

“You were quick with that,” his voice is nearly too much for Osamu to handle, his heart thundering in his chest threatening to break out.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while,” Osamu replies, a little breathless, trying to contain himself.

“Their loss.” Meian grabs Osamu’s hand leading him to the exit.

As soon as the cool air hits their faces Meian is pulling Osamu in for another desperate, hungry kiss. One of Meian’s hands is holding him in place by the back of the neck, the other is working its way to Osamu’s ass, kneading and grabbing at the soft flesh. Osamu whimpers into Meian’s lips, wanting and needing more than they can do on a sidewalk in the city. Thankfully, Meian had enough foresight to order an Uber that is pulling up to where they are on the sidewalk.

They clamber in still holding onto each other like they are each other’s last connection to the physical realm. It’s a ten-minute ride to Meian’s place, and Osamu can hardly wait, but the longer he sits in the warm car the more aware of himself he becomes. He doesn’t usually do this; he’s not the type to go home with some guy he basically just met. And he keeps growing more and more aware of how heavy his stomach sits against his body. He is so aware of it, and he’s growing so close to panic until Meian’s lips pull him out of his thoughts.

It’s not the same hungry kiss from the sidewalk; this one is sweet, soft, and slow. It pulls him in and feels like coming home. When they pull apart Osamu isn’t left panting and begging, he’s staring up into Meian’s face with a look of wonder.

“You looked a bit too in your head,” Meian whispers to Osamu, bringing his hand to Osamu’s thigh to caress it in such a calming way. Osamu melts into Meian’s touch and body.

“Thanks,” Osamu is breathless. He doesn’t get the time to say anything else because they are pulling up to Meian’s place, and thanking their driver as they rush through the cold air to the door. Meian already has his key out when they reach the door and as soon as they set foot inside Meian’s lips are on Osamu’s, effectively pinning him against the wall. They struggle between kisses, pulling their shoes off, and trying to discard any outerwear before they make their way into the house proper.

Osamu is tangling his legs with Meian’s seeking as much friction as he can find, chasing his high. Meian gripping Osamu’s body with his huge hands makes Osmau feel so small. Meian’s hands have found their way to his ass again and he’s hoisting Osamu up, leveraging underneath his thighs. Instinctively Osamu wraps his legs around Meian’s waist; however, he also voices a protest.

“Meian don-” Osamu is cut off by a growling voice.

“Call me Shuugo,” Meian’s tone comes off softer than a growl should.

“Shuugo,” Osamu whispers it so reverently, like a prayer. He shakes his initial shock off to get back to his original thought, “Please put me down. I’m too big.” Meian levels him an unimpressed stare.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Meian orders, he’s so convincing Osamu’s spine snaps up as straight as he can manage, “Do you think I’m weak and I can’t lift you?” Osamu blushes at his words.

“That’s not what I was saying, but guys like me aren’t small enough to be picked up and tossed around,” his voice is tinged with embarrassment as he tries to avoid outright explaining his insecurity.

“Who told you that?” Was the only thing that came out of Meian’s mouth. “If you like to be picked up and tossed around you don’t need to be a certain size to enjoy that.” Meian’s find themselves pressing against Osamu’s rapidly heating cheeks, slowly making their way down his neck to his chest. Meian adjusts his grip on Osamu before moving them away from the wall and walking them to his bed.

When they reach his room, Meian deftly flips the light switch on and drops Osamu softly onto his bed. Meian pulls his shirt up and over his head, throwing it onto the floor behind him. Meian leans forward to kiss Osamu again, and their lips crash together again with Osamu moaning into Meian’s mouth. Osamu’s hands are traveling up Meian’s chest, tracing the broad planes and feeling every glorious inch of the man in front of him. Meian has the same idea, and his hands are working themselves underneath Osamu’s shirt trying to pull it up. Osamu can’t help but pull away, tugging his shirt back into place.

“I can just take my pants off,” Osamu says his voice laced with shame, “Most guys don’t want my shirt off, or if you want me to take it off we can turn the lights off.” He’s trying to pass it off as lighthearted but his voice keeps pitching due to his nerves.

“Are you okay, you seem like you’re not doing okay…” Meian’s tone is concerned, and Osamu almost breaks down right there. His concern sounds so much like he cares about Osamu beyond fucking him, and Osamu doesn’t if his heart can take that.

“I’m totally fine,” he says, like a liar, “It’s just in my experience, most guys aren’t too into big hairy chests, so we just turn the lights off and ignore it.” The look on Meian’s face is incredulous.

“Well,” Meian starts, shaking his head, “Then most guys are either stupid or blind.” It’s Osamu’s turn to be surprised. “I think your body will be amazing no matter what because I think you’re amazing. You’re bold and sweet; I really can’t imagine not wanting to see any part of you.”

“Fuck, of course, you’re perfect.” Osamu feels a lump begin to rise in his throat because he knows he’s about to self-sabotage. “Of course you’re perfect, and then there’s me. You know how weird we looked leaving the club together, most people will think you just have, like, a weird fetish for fat, chunky guys. And I’m just the guy who was lucky enough to land a chance with you.” Osamu can feel the tears welling in his eyes, as he prepares himself for Meian to come to his senses and ask that he sees himself out.

“I’m the lucky one,” Meian whispers, barely audible.

“What?” Osamu sniffs. Meian clears his throat.

“I’m the lucky one,” Meian says louder, “You looked like you were about to leave, and by some wild chance, you stayed. I didn’t want to miss my chance with you, and I was so nervous that you were going to leave. You didn’t even know my name, but that’s fine because we’ve never really met in person, I’ve just seen you so much on Miya’s Instagram.” Osamu is staring at him like he spawned a second head and four more arms.

“Wait,” Osamu’s voice is shaking, “You thought you wouldn’t have a chance with me?”

“I thought you were going to leave and would have to wait another few months before I saw you again… I thought if we hooked up, it might make you want to stay. But it seems more like I’m making you uncomfortable and you don’t want to do this with me. I’m really sorry for what I did to make you uncomfortable.” Meian just looks so earnest that Osamu can’t help it.

“I thought you wouldn’t like me because I’m fat,” Osamu confesses. “You aren’t making me uncomfortable, every other person I’ve slept with I guess convinced me that no one would want me if I’m not thin or muscular. It’s nothing you did, it’s just all in my head I think.”

“So what if you’re fat? It’s not a bad thing…You get to be soft and sexy.” Meian tone is insisting that he is right, and it’s so convincing. “I wouldn’t want you any way other than how you are right now.” Osamu’s lower lip trembles at Meian’s words; of course, he had to be so perfect. Osamu’s chest is tight and he hates this feeling, it would have been so much easier if Meian would have just shut the light off or asked him to leave.

“I’m sorry.” Osamu just wants to cry. Fuck, why did he have to be so nice?

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Meian leans in and kisses him so softly like he’s scared Osamu will try to make a run for it. “If you don’t want to do this anymore, we can leave off here and just hang out or whatever you feel comfortable with.” Osamu wants to kiss him again; kiss him so fucking senseless that neither of them will be able to remember their names.

“No,” he says softly, “I want to keep going. I really do.” Meian smiles at his words before leaning forward and enveloping him in a hungry kiss. Meian’s hands are cupping Osamu’s face while Osamu’s hands worry at the hem of his shirt before tugging it upwards.

They break apart for Osamu to pull his shirt up and over his head, dropping it next to him on the bed. Meian sucks in a breath, looking at Osamu’s now exposed chest. Meian’s hungry look sends heat pooling to Osamu’s stomach as he surges forward, wanting, needing more of everything Meian is willing to give him.

“Fuck,” Meian’s whisper is reverent, “How are you so perfect?” Osamu feels his whole body blush as his hips are stuttering trying to seek any friction they can find. Meian tugs Osamu to the edge of the bed, getting down on his knees in front of him. Meian’s hands and lips are everywhere, whispering quiet praises about how perfect Osamu is and how much he can’t wait to fuck his perfect ass. Osamu is so painfully hard as Meian kisses down his chest, moaning as Meian’s mouth inches closer and closer to his clothed cock.

When Meian reaches the waistband of Osamu’s jeans, he looks up at Osamu with questioning eyes, making sure he wants to continue. At Osamu’s nod, he fumbles with the button and zipper of Osamu’s jeans, tapping Osamu’s thigh for him to lift himself off the bed slightly so he can pull the jeans down to his mid-thigh before Osamu is struggling to pull his legs out the rest of the way. They make eye contact while Osamu is battling his jeans, and erupt into soft laughter as Osamu finally breaks free from his denim prison.

Meian is quick to lean down and mouth at Osamu’s underwear-covered cock, a wet patch forms as Osamu whimpers at the contact.

“Please, Shuugo, need you,” Osamu keens as Meian turns his attention away from Osamu’s cock and back to worship every inch of Osamu’s torso.

“Just a minute, baby,” Meian says against his soft stomach, looking up at Osamu, “I want to soak up every perfect inch of you.” Fuck. Meian works his way down to Osamu’s thighs biting and kissing the plush skin there. Meian was mumbling some nonsense about how sexy and perfect Osamu’s thighs are.

By this point Osamu has had enough; he uses both hands to reach out and cup Meian’s face forcing him to look up at Osamu. He begins to stand, forcing Meian to follow suit and stand up looking down slightly at Osamu. Osamu pulls him in for another searing kiss; his hands immediately going to undo Meian’s slacks. Osamu can feel Meian cock twitching beneath the fabric.

“It’s my turn,” he whispers against Meian’s lips, cupping Meian’s cock through his boxers. Meian’s body shudders against Osamu’s, anticipating what is coming next.

Osamu maneuvers the huge man so his back is to the bed and pushes him down into a sitting position. Straddling Meian’s lap, he leans forward to kiss him and grind down against him. Meian’s groan sends a shudder through Osamu’s body, and he grinds down more wanting to feel more.

His mind keeps demanding more, more, more where Meian is concerned. When they finally break apart, Osamu begrudgingly lifts himself out of Meian’s lap and works Meian’s boxers off. Meian’s flushed, leaking cock slaps against the broad planes of his stomach when Osamu finally works the waistband far enough down. Osamu involuntarily licks his lips as he stares hungrily at Meian’s cock, thinking about how he desperately wants that in his mouth.

He really does want to tease Meian the way he teased Osamu, but he can’t bring himself to do it, not with Meian’s cock sitting there in front of him just begging to be sucked. Osamu brings himself down so he is at face level with Meian’s cock before taking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the precum slicked tip. Meian throws his head back and groans, threading his fingers through Osamu’s silvery blonde hair before thrusting shallowly into Osamu’s throat. Osamu tries to relax his throat enough to take Meian’s massive length deeper into his throat, but he’s just so thick and it’s making Osamu’s eyes water as he stares up at Meian with his eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” Meian groans, “Fuck, you look so good like this. A good boy on your knees for me.” Osamu hums around Meian’s cock, as he palms himself listening to Meian praise him. He’s fumbling with his underwear trying to pull it down while trying to suck the man in front of him deeper into his throat. Osamu wants to pull every glorious noise out of this man if it’s the last thing he ever does. “Fuck I’m close. Please let me fuck you.” Meian’s voice is so raspy and gruff that Osamu almost cums on the spot.

Osamu hollows out his cheeks in response, sucking harder and making Meian’s hips buck up forcing his cock further into Osamu’s tight heat. Osamu pulls off, and kisses the tip of Meian’s cock as he maintains eye contact with the panting man in front of him.

“You did such a good job,” Meian’s hungry look hasn’t left his face, “Open your mouth for me, baby.” Osamu’s lips part and Meian leans forward spitting into Osamu’s waiting and eager mouth. Meian hand reaches out to grip Osamu’s chin, while he holds the spit in his mouth. Meian’s tongue licks its way past Osamu’s pliant lips. Their tongues intertwined mixing the taste of Meian’s cock and spit. After a few seconds, they part. Meian gives a big theatrical swallow before saying, “Delicious.” Fuck.

“Please,” Osamu whines, “please fuck me.” Meian stares down at his beautiful face, eyes watering and cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. Meian bites back a groan at the sight and steels himself for what he wants to see this man do.

“I don’t think you want it enough,” Meian says, “Beg for it,” Osamu whines staring up at Meian with big eyes. Osamu’s hands work themselves up to his chubby stomach and smooth over his nipples, making him gasp. Osamu twists and pulls at his nipples, moaning lightly. Meian’s cock twitches at every sound emitting from Osamu’s mouth as he fondles himself for Meian’s eyes only. Osamu inches closer, hoisting himself up to straddle one of Meian’s thighs.

“Hng, daddy, please,” Osamu’s hips begin to move as he rides Meian’s thigh, “Please fuck me, daddy,” Meian growls deep from within his chest, but he holds himself still watching this beautiful man fall apart with nothing but his thigh. “Fuck, daddy, pleasepleaseplease.”

“Do you think you deserve my cock?” Meian murmurs into Osamu’s ear, “I think you could get yourself off on just my thigh, like the perfect little slut you are.”

“Please, no,” Osamu keens, “I need your cock.” His hips grind down harder on Meian’s thigh, a wet patch forming where his cock is leaking. Meian’s hands grip Osamu’s plush waist, fingernails sinking into his soft skin creating indents.

“You can cum, Osamu,” Meian whispers, and it’s like that was what Osamu had been waiting for. His release coats the inside of his underwear as he comes with a whine, his hips still working and grinding against Meian’s thick, muscled thigh. Meian whispers, “Good boy,” against Osamu’s neck.

Osamu’s weight collapses against Meian’s chest as he catches his breath, Meian smiles down at him, as his hands' ghost down to Osamu’s underwear. Meian pushes past the elastic band and drags the underwear down as much as he can before he has to pat Osamu’s upper thigh to get him to stand so they can get him out of his underwear. Osamu groans as he stands, still leaning as much weight as he can against Meian.

“Do you still want me to fuck you?” Meian asks. Osamu nods as a shudder works its way down his spine. Meian adds, “I don’t hear you.”

“Yes, daddy. Please fuck me,” Osamu’s voice is slightly hoarse. Meian smirks, maneuvering Osamu onto the bed so he can grab the lube out of the nightstand. Meian gets back on the bed, hovering over Osamu and kissing him. Osamu’s hands immediately rush up and tangle in Meian’s hair, scruffing it up more than it already was.

They break apart as Meian clicks open the bottle of lube, slicking up his fingers as he leans back to line them up with Osamu’s twitching hole. Meian pushes one thick finger past the tight ring of muscle, marveling at how Osamu clenches around the intrusion and moaning through it all. Osamu’s hips move of their own volition, grinding back onto Meian’s finger trying to feel him deeper. Osamu’s desperate little cries and panting fill the room.

“Please, I need more,” Osamu begs, wanting, needing more. Meian doesn’t bother answering as he forces another finger inside of Osamu, relishing in the sounds Osamu makes as he gets filled more and more by Meian’s fingers. The fingers working Osamu’s hole open, scissoring him open a bit more before adding a third finger. Meian forces his fingers even deeper, finally brushing the bundle of nerves nestled inside Osamu, making him nearly scream in pleasure.

“I wish you could see how perfect you are right now,” Meian nearly growls, “It’s like you were made for me.” Osamu’s arms can no longer hold his front up, collapsing as he arches his back more for Meian. Meian’s other hand reaches up to squeeze Osamu’s ass, loving the way the other man’s skin reddens and the glorious sounds Osamu makes when Meian squeezes too hard. He smacks Osamu’s ass, watching the soft flesh jiggle while Osamu quietly moans.

“Please, Shuugo,” Osamu moans, “I can’t take it anymore. I need daddy’s cock.” Meian smacks his ass again.

“You need more?” Meian teases, head still spinning from hearing Osamu moan his name, “Does a slut like you need more to fill you?” Osamu just moans, but Meian is beyond caring as he pulls his fingers out so he can use more lube to slick up his cock.

Meian gives his cock a couple of strokes to fully cover it before lining himself up with Osamu’s winking hole. Meian begins to push in, groaning a quiet fuck as he pushes into Osamu’s still tight heat. He gives a few shallow thrusts, trying not to cum seconds into fucking Osamu.

“Ahn, harder, please,” Osamu demands, grinding his hips back. Meian is so entranced, he can’t even consider reprimanding Osamu for anything. His mind is blank with pleasure as he pulls almost the whole way out before slamming back in.

“Is this enough for you?” Meian demands roughly. Osamu’s reply is incoherent pleasured babbles that Meian can’t even begin to comprehend.

Meian looks down at where they are connected, almost dizzy with pleasure. He decides the most amazing sight on the planet is Osamu’s ass jiggling with each hard thrust into him.

“Fuck,” Meian groans, “ I can’t fucking get enough of you. You’re so perfect.” He wraps his arms around Osamu’s chest, grazing his nipples and making the other man unabashedly moan. Meian pulls Osamu to his chest so they’re both upright, with Meian still pounding into Osamu as the other man whimpers at the stretch of himself around Meian’s thick cock.

Osamu’s head falls back onto Meian’s shoulder as Meian’s hips begin to slow a little but reach deeper. His soft babble drive Meian crazy, as Osamu begs for something harder and deeper. Osamu’s babblings quiet to soft whimpers, as his eyes begin to glaze over in pleasure.

“Yeah?” Meian whispers to the fucked out man on his cock. Osamu clenches around him as he mumbles something slightly coherent. “What was that?” Meian asks, his voice smug.

“I want you to cum in me,” Osamu slurs, “wanna feel you.” Meian’s grip on Osamu tightens. Shit.

Osamu turns slightly and their lips crash together in a near-violent storm of moans and teeth. Meian fucks harder into Osamu, feeling that heat pooling in his stomach. He’s getting closer and closer, spurred on by Osamu’s whimpers of I’m close, and please let me cum.

“Osamu,” Meian pants, “I want to feel you cum on my cock. Now.” Osamu shivers and clenches at Meian’s demanding tone. His cock twitching and spurting thick ropes of cum as Meian fucks him harder through his orgasm.

Osamu’s body is practically jelly as Meian fucks into him chasing his own orgasm. He groans Osamu’s name as he spills into him, fucking Osamu like he’s Meian’s personal fleshlight.

“Fuck,” Meian groans as he pulls out, watching his load spill out of Osamu’s clenching hole and listening to the younger man whimper. Meian leans down to Osamu’s ass to lick up what is spilling out, relishing in the soft moans that still escape Osamu’s raw throat.

“You really are perfect,” Meian says as he leans forward to tenderly kiss Osamu’s cheek. Osamu is already drifting off as Meian asks, “Please stay a little longer?”

#hq smut #haikyu smut #meian smut #osamu smut #osamei #meian shuugo #osamu miya

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ryo-maybe · 2 years ago

Note

I am attempting to limp back to some degree of normality, and that involves getting back to the three directives: maintain wife's wellbeing, man the wall guarding the Oxford Comma in unceasing vigil, and extract nutrients from words. Today I plant the seed that I shall harvest and pound into bread. Simple and clean, your three words are Dubious, Tour, and Misapprehensions.

It begins like it always does. A mere, slow trickle, amniotic drops of hope squeezed out of the suffocating congealment of a thousand unseen stillbirths. It hurts, drawing this latest of a myriad first breaths. Air ill finds comfort within the atrophied confines of lungs forced too long to suffer the stillness of silence. Not yet, not now: pain sweetens the promise of a better tomorrow, makes it so easy to forget how many of those are now the bitter yesterdays upon a pile of which you rest, uncomfortable and regretful. It's the old song and dance all over again, inescapably repetitive, steeping in its own self-cannibalizing dullness. It exists solely to prove its unoriginal futility and ward off any attempts to revive it, but it hardly matters. For something squirms and churns, slowly yet surely breaking through the outer shell of what ought to be the corpse of things left unwritten, and brings to the white void the ripe freshness of a greeting:

"Gotcha, son of a bitch!"

Double D. Doublename taps on a nigh-imperceptible crack in the vast blackness of the surface his colleague Marantonio Carpaccio has been hitting with a sledgehammer for the past three hours. Sure enough, words trickle out like congealed blood from a papercut, viscous and malformed hints of unfinished ideas, concepts never realized, the lymph of potential narratives that could ripen, if only they were allowed to.

"There's no point. Look, it's already closing up." The Writer points at the hair-thin opening, tired eyes reflecting its already halved length. He is almost too late to retract his finger as the sledgehammer begins again to sing its percussive cacophony, underscored by the mercilessly forceful fall of the other Grammar Policeman's palm on his shoulder.

"So we're not gonna let it." Double squats just enough that each of his colleague's swings avoid turning his head into pulp by a matter of millimeters, scooping up a few words that dripped to the ground. "Because if it does, I'm shoving Tonio's lil' tool aaall the way up your rectum. Isn't that right, Tonio?"

"That he will, indeed. Headfirst, I should specify." Marantonio takes a moment between blows to warn the Writer and wipe his perfectly polite smile with a towel that has long since become too drenched to do its job properly. The Writer grimaces. His dubious gaze lingers on the other agent's digit, smeared with the remnants of paragraphs he remembers never finishing. Some by choice; the others, because of the massive monolith spanning the intersection between four of the City's blocks.

"Besides, it's either gonna be us or your neighbors." Squeezed between Double's index and thumb, the gelatinous narrative yolk dissolves into meaningless phonemes, flecks of punctuation scattering like dust in the wind. "They don't look that happy to have had that thing sitting here for… how long again?"

"One month, give or take." Marantonio's grin hardens, cutting a grunt between pearly whites. The crack has now widened into the shape of a frown, or perhaps an upside-down smile.

"And you didn't even bother to hit up any Eraisers? Fucking hell." The Writer can't help but wonder if Double meant that for the amount of time it took a Writer's Block to grow the size of a city block, or because the seepage of his leftover thoughts have left a smear on the agent's trenchcoat when he wiped his hand on it.

"I didn't–I had my misapprehensions about their ability to help with my, er, conundrum."

"Your 'conundrum' that's now the biggest civic disaster we've been sent to mop up in…"

"Weeks?" The question fills the gap in Marantonio's steady rhythm.

"Days, really. Things've been getting crazy for a while now… crazier, anyway. City's like a circus on tour all year round, I fucking swear."

The sound of Double's foot kicking the Block is drowned by the resounding echo of his colleague's continuous rain of sledgehammer blows. An act of such utter pointlessness that the Writer cannot help but be stirred out of his deadpan stupor because of it.

"I've tried, okay? I just–nothing. There's nothing."

"Buddy, I've seen nothing." Double's knuckles emphatically hit the obsidian wall. "This ain't it. It's a whole lot of anything but."

"That? It's an eggshell." The Writer scoffs, glaring at his Block at once with contempt and pity. All white and no yolk. Oh, it was full once - of worlds and themes, characters and emotions. Stories."

His palm hovers in front of the monolith's impenetrable outer layer, unable to decide between a slap or a caress. Fingers that once wove across a keyboard with confident zest curl on themselves, a spider killed by a crippling lack of decisiveness.

"Nothing. Others in the City have already written all there is to write, read all they should ever bother to read. There are no lessons to impart, no points to make. Jokes? The only one is that, for all the depth I crave, I'm stuck right in front of the most superficial level. There's nothing here. The selfish craving of a thousand voices that do not exist, clamoring for standards beyond my ability to even fathom. Break it, I say. Break it all down. I'm done. Let others speak who have something to say. Words for those who can write them. Me? I…"

"You're full of shit. Just write. You can think about what it means later, and if it doesn't mean jack to you, it'll probably do for somebody else. Or it won't. Fuck do you care? Look up. You wrote all of this. Don't make it more complicated just because."

And so it all comes crashing down in riotous rebellion, crumbles at the feet of the self-flagellating puppet going through its unstirring motions. The Writer witnesses in slack-jawed disbelief the rubbled prison of his insecurity, his bare uncertainty reflected across a speckled tapestry of translucent fragments. He looks - searches? For what? There. Stirring beneath scattered bits of amateurish contemplation, struggling to surface from the intimate privacy of the self to be witnessed by the bored faces staring from the surrounding buildings' windows. The Grammar Police's envoys hurry, digging through the rubble with zeal dictated by professionalism, a will to be done with this already, and something else spelled only in the frantic way they shove aside dreary clutter and stilted lamentations. In the gentle way Marantonio cradles the thing they eventually fish out, in the rough grin Double dons as he pokes the formless, sleepy blob and slams his palm on the teary-eyed Writer's back.

"Well, shit. It's as ugly as it possibly gets, but we still gotta start somewhere, huh?"

#Fragment Bits

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frostsinth · 4 years ago

Text

The Secret We Keep - Pt. 1

*bangs head against wall* .... Soooo I should be working on my ‘Deals with Demons’ Story. Or maybe on some of the art I have around. But I just COULD NOT get this idea to leave me alone until I started writing it down.

Slow burn, sfw, Orc x F. Human. Back to my roots. I hope you like it! I’ve got a great surprise in mind for this one. :DDD

MasterList

The first time I saw him, I thought a storm cloud had passed over the sun. The light streaming in from my window was suddenly snuffed out, and I looked up from my place behind the counter in surprise.

He was so big, even looking directly at him I still couldn’t quite make sense of what I was seeing. His torso filled the window frame from edge to edge, and I even squinted my eyes trying to figure out exactly what was going on. With a huff, I bustled over to the door, opening it with my shoulder.

“Excuse me!” I said, exasperated, placing my hands on my hips and looking up.

And up. And up. And up a little more, until the base of my skull was nearly flat against my back. The man before me must have been well over seven feet tall, with a body that looked more like the broad side of a barn than anything a living person could possess. He wore thick knotted and worn leather armor over his broad chest and legs, with a wide belt probably almost as big as I was. Each leg was as big as a tree trunk, and his arms bulged with muscles. His skin was a dark, washed out green that looked more grey in the shadows of his huge body and he had thick, messy black hair pooling about his shoulders and down his back. He had an equally messy scruff of the coarse black hair on his jaw and cheeks and down his neck, with two thin little braids dangling from the point of his chin. I snapped my open mouth back shut once I had fully assessed him, and cleared my throat noisily. It was rude to gawk.

“Excuse me!” I said again, louder this time.

At first, he hadn’t noticed me. Even when I had spoken. He seemed to be drawing big, deep wuffs of air in through his broad, flat nose nestled in between two massive tusks. A smaller set rested near the base of the first, and his thick bottom lip wobbled a bit as he turned to face me when I spoke a second time. He had to drop his chin to his chest to look at me directly, and one big, bushy eyebrow raised up. Perhaps it was surprise there, I wasn’t sure. I wondered how often tiny humans addressed the behemoth without preamble.

I jerked my head at the window. “You’re blocking my shop!” I told him, not perturbed in the least by his size.

His large, slate blue eyes rolled to look to where I had gestured. I saw them skim over the sign, perhaps even study what could be seen beyond the window. One big meaty hand came up and rested on the huge ax at his hip and he gave a deep grunt. I sighed, shaking my head slightly. Apparently I wasn’t going to get through to him with subtleties. I didn’t recognize him as one of the regular orcs that ambled through town occasionally. Perhaps he was new.

“I can’t see anything with you standing there. You block out the sun!” I explained, but gave him a friendly smile none-the-less. “You lost? Looking for something in particular?”

He still didn’t answer, dropping his hand and giving another mighty wuff with his nose. I saw his nostrils twitch, then his heavy brow furrowed a little. I decided he looked intrigued, and my grin grew by a few more inches.

“Ah! You’re hungry!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. “You have a good nose, sir, that you do! I’ve got a fresh pig on the spit and a fair large sampling from the last one on salt!” I turned, shoving the old creaky door to my shop open. “Come in! Come in! I’ll get you a sample! I’m sure you’ll love it.”

I stepped inside and held open the door behind me. The big orc paused, frowning deeply. His slate eyes ran over me, sizing my stout little 5’4” frame from head to toe. I couldn’t quite read his expression, but had already decided it didn’t seem remotely aggressive. I gave him another warm smile, waving him in.

With a shrug of his big, meaty shoulders, he ducked his head and scrunched up his bulk. Following me into my little butcher shop. I squeezed against the wall to be sure to make space for him, letting the door close on its own squeaky hinges and bustling back over to the counter. Once inside, he was able to stretch out a little, thanks in part to the high rafters and wide support beams. I saw him looking about when I glanced over my shoulder. I had a few pheasants hanging on the wall, and a good mess of rabbits and squirrels waiting to be skinned and prepped from the hunter who had come by that morning. On the opposite side, I had stag horns mounted for display, amid shallow bins of salted fish already smoke dried and waiting for sale. My jerky I kept at the counter, to avoid sticky hands grabbing at it when I wasn’t looking. A fresh roast sat on the cutting board alongside my favorite knife. It also happened to be my only good carving knife at the moment. There were some lamb chops on the low burning fire in the corner by the counter, and a few dripping cow haunches smoking overhead.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, making my way over to the counter. The orc was eyeing the lamb, and I saw his nose twitch again. I shook my head, waving him to the barrels that I used as makeshift tables in the back and pulling some of the salted pork from another near me.

“It smells good, but trust me, it’ll be a tough chew!” I told him, sighing as I brought the pork to the counter. I picked up the carving knife and easily shaved off a few sample pieces, placing them on a smoothed piece of wood. “Old man Carver was near desperate, selling off those scraggily little things. Barely any good meat on them! If I manage to slow roast them properly, I might just make them passable for food.”

I followed him over to the opposite corner with my little platter and set it on the barrel. He looked down at it, and I saw him lick his lips. I smiled up at him again, placing my hands on my hips again.

“But you look like a traveller! The salted pork keeps well, and you won’t find better flavor, I can promise you.” I assured him, bustling over to the small keg I kept by the water trough. “I’ll give you a good price if you like that; and I’ve got beef jerky and fish besides if you’d like to add some variety! Let me get you some ale to wash it down.”

Just as I was pulling down one of the cracked old mugs from the shelf, the door of the shop banged back open. I jumped at the loud sound, spinning about. I felt suddenly cold and my heart sank through my chest at the far too familiar sight.

The gnarled looking man gave me a gap toothed grin, sauntering in with his two mates behind him. He was not very tall, but fit as an old war dog with a scratchy beard and lopsided ears to match. His leathery skin was wrinkled from a life sleeping outdoors and working in the sun, and I swore a few flies always seemed to cling to him like he was shit haven. He grabbed his scruffy, beaten cap off his head, mashing it between dirty, calloused hands. His men spread out, effectively cornering me as their leader came over.

“”Ello again, lil lass,” Grinned the ruffian, tucking his hands behind his head to stretch out his lean chest beneath his filthy tunic. “Ye pourin’ us a drink? How ver’ thoughtful.”

“What do you want Erlif?” I pressed in a soft voice, hoping it wasn’t shaking as much as my knees beneath my skirts.

“Ye got yer taxes ready?” Erlif replied, sauntering even closer.

I quickly backed away, until my backside bumped into the counter. “I already paid you this month.” I told him breathlessly, nervously brushing my hands down the front of my apron.

His front tooth wiggled a little when he sucked in his breath, shaking his head. “Well, ya see lass, that was yer father’s tax. An’ we charge different by the head, ya kno’.”

I stiffened at the mention of my father, and my lips tightened. Erlif laughed, tucking his thumbs into his belt. He took a few more long strides, closing the gap between us.

“But dun ya worry, lass,” His grin had returned, and his calloused hand snapped out, snatching the mug from my hands. He seemed amused at my tiny gasp, and leaned closer. “I ‘ave another way ya can pay yer taxes if yer a lil’ short.”

There was the soft scraping sound of wood against wood, and Erlif’s companions shot an angry eye over to my sole patron; they must not have noticed him when they first came in. He had been tucked into the shadows of the back corner, but now he straightened to his full height, head nearly scraping the rafters. As they took him in, I saw the blood drain from their faces. They even took a nervous step back, eyes going wide. One frantically began shaking Erlif’s shoulder, still staring as the big orc took one menacing step closer. Unwilling to tear their eyes away.

“Waht, ye-?” The rogue’s angry words jerked to a stop with a small hiccup in his throat as he turned.

I thought his eyes might pop out of his sockets. His jaw dropped open and I saw that loose tooth dangle dangerously. He even dropped the cup in his hands, and it clattered loudly in the sudden silence in the shop. I found myself tickled at the sight, and almost smiled. The sound seemed to break the sudden terror that had settled upon the trio. His two companions didn’t waste another moment, quickly spinning on heel and darting out the door so fast one smashed his shoulder on the way out.

“S-sorry! Sorry!” Stammered Erlif, backing towards the door as well. He quickly smashed the cap back on his head, clutching his hands before him and hunching his shoulders anxiously. “P-please forgive me.”

Then he too spun and bolted. I stared after them, surprised. I had never seen that stubborn old thief move so fast or back down so easily. But a grin quickly returned to my face. I laughed, shaking off the last of my nerves. I ran one still trembling hand through my hair and turned back to the orc.

“Well, you certainly come in handy, don’t you?” I was still smiling as I bent to pick up the mug the lowlife bastard had dropped.

The orc turned his slate gaze back to me, and one thick brow twitched up again. His meaty hand was still on the head of his ax, and I supposed he might look quite imposing. Standing there with his huge frame filling the tiny shop and his hair a thick black shadow around his shoulders. But I was surprised to find it didn’t particularly bother me. I laughed again, looking down at the mug in my hand.

“I can’t serve you that piss poor excuse for ale after that. Come out back, and let me get you a real meal.” I looked back up at him, “As a thank you.”

He gave another deep grunt, shaking his huge head. He even started to open his mouth but I raised my hand to silence him.

“No sir, I won’t let you accept anything less. It’s the least I can do.” I moved over, shouldering the shop door firmly closed and sliding the mostly broken latch in place before turning to the door at the back behind the counter. “Come on then.” I told him, placing the mug on the counter. I didn’t wait to see if he was following me, slipping out the open back door.

Behind the shop was a tiny, open aired square, which is where I kept most of my in-progress work. It was nestled between the clay and wood walls of the tiny shop front and the little one room building set behind the tavern that had been my home for as long as I could remember. The two buildings were almost perpendicular to each other, making the square yard uneven. Alongside the largest wall, there was a good sized cow skinned and hoisted by its hind legs, and three great spits over a coal burning fire off to one side of the courtyard. Fats sizzled in the hot stones, dripping off the two pigs I had roasting there. The third spit had four whole chickens sizzling, and as I passed by I inspected the meat’s progress with a practiced eye. There was a small shambling stable on the opposite side, with a half stone wall in disrepair on the outside facing the main square. It was currently empty; I’d had to sell the old horse to manage rent last month, and the chickens were now on the spit. The wall beside my homemade smoke pits had a large wooden gate set into it to allow carriages and fresh product to be brought in. It was hanging off its hinges and had more holes than wood, but it managed to do the job still. There was a small pile of scrap wood and nails leaning on the wall. My father had intended to make repairs before he had passed, but I didn’t have any time or ability to even think to make the same attempt.

I half expected the man not to have followed me. He had certainly seemed reluctant at best. But when I glanced over my shoulder, he was there, looking around. I smiled cheerily when his gaze settled on me again, and jerked my head towards the door to my place. Again, I didn’t wait, making my way over. I had to put most of my strength into heaving the ancient door open, and gave a little grunt to emphasize the effort. The door complained loudly at the abuse, scraping heavily along the dirt floor.

“Make yourself at home.” I told him, quickly moving a pile of furs off the table and bench in the center of the room.

I dropped them onto my bed in the corner, then bustled over to the water bucket against the back wall. The house was wide, with the same high post ceilings as the shop. At one time, this had been the storage room and the main house had been the small tavern at the back. But I couldn’t remember a time when my family had owned both. Due to its original intent, there were no windows to speak of, save for a makeshift opening in the roof with a trap door made from a barrel lid propped over the top. I didn’t mind. I had hung herbs and various plants to dry amid the rafters, and the worst of the hot air filtered out through the trap hole in the roof. I lifted the old worn pitcher full of wildflowers to run a damp cloth underneath it over the worn, patched wood of the table, smiling as I saw the orc manage his last hurdle and scrunch through my tiny front door. I gestured to the bench, replacing the pitcher and turning to drop the cloth back in the water and open the tiny larder in the corner by the little stove. I had set a few big barrels alongside the little clay stove, and my sole tin pot waited on top of one. I pulled out a large helping of cheese, and an old bottle of wine, bringing both over to set at the table.

“Here, something to wet your pallet while I get a good chunk off the pig on the spit.” I told him, smiling again as he slowly eased himself onto the bench.

It groaned beneath his weight, and I worried it might not hold. But the old wood managed, and I sighed with relief. I hummed quietly to myself as I took the cloth off the basket of bread I had made that morning, picking the crispiest roll to bring to the table.

I took up a plate and ducked back out the door to the pits in the back. I considered the pair, poking one thoughtfully before tearing off most of one haunch to plate. I brought it back in, still humming to myself, and wiped the juices off my hands as I set it before him.

“You’ll have to tell me what you think,” I told him, “You can be my taster! Let me know if you think it needs a bit more vinegar, or maybe another few hours on the spit.”

The burly orc looked over the simple spread in front of him, then at me. Then back down. I noticed his thick, bushy brows were still raised as he gingerly reached out, ripping off a small piece of the pig. As if he was surprised. I wondered how often people treated the big guy just like anyone else. At least without getting to know him first, as he seemed a nice enough sort. He brought the dripping morsel of meat to his big mouth, feeding it slowly between his tusks almost hesitantly. As if worried it was rotten. His eyes widened with delight as his teeth worked at the meat, and I saw the corners of his mouth twitch slightly.

“It’s good.” He rumbled, sounding pleased.

It was the first time I had heard him speak, I realized. His voice was as deep and heavy as a boulder, and seemed befitting to his huge body. The big orc hunched over with his elbows on the table and began to dig into the haunch. He dwarfed the old beaten table, which would have comfortably sat at least four humans. This close to him, I could see a deep scar over one cheek, and a notch missing from his ear as well as a few flat iron rings in the remaining cartilage. His armor covered the cap of his shoulders, but his big muscular arms were also dotted with scars. I could see his meaty hands looked rough. Likely a laborer, I decided. Especially due to the shape of his body; more square than triangular.

“I’m Madara, by the way,” I told him, sitting at the bench opposite. He glanced back at me as he took up the roll and tore off a piece.

“Hanste’kosh.” He grunted, his slate blue eyes studying me. He looked down at his plate, then over at me again. One big meaty hand shoved it closer. “Eat.”

“Has.. Hanshet… Hankos…” I tried, fumbling over the long name. I reached over and peeled off a little of the pork, bringing it slowly to my mouth.

“Hanste’kosh.” He repeated, his voice rumbling in his chest like thunder over the mountainside.

I laughed, shaking my head as I chewed. “I’m sorry. That’s quite the mouthful!” He grunted, taking a larger bite of the pork and draining back a fourth of the bottle of wine. “Would it be alright if I called you Hans?”

His eyes turned to settle on me again. Seeming to really take me in. I tucked back a loose strand of hand hesitantly behind one ear under his scrutiny. I wondered what he was thinking. The deep scrunch of his brows made me think he might be questioning my motives, or wondering if I was making fun of him. I was certain most humans didn’t treat strange orcs nearly so nicely as I. But they had never bothered me. In fact, I found their blunt, straight to the point manners rather refreshing from most human’s passive aggressive behaviors. Preferable even. Finally, he shrugged his big shoulders, pulling the wedge of cheese over to himself and breaking it into pieces.

“Sure, why not.” He sounded almost amused, but it was hard to tell from the rolling timbre of his voice.

I smiled cheerily at him, tearing a small piece from the bread. “You can call me Maddie, if you’d like.”

He looked up at me from his hunched position, considering me again through long dark lashes. He chewed slowly for a moment, working his square jaw back and forth almost thoughtfully. I tilted my head to the side, curious but knowing better than to pry.

“Those men,” He began, his thick tongue snaking out to clear his lips, “They bother you much?”

I hesitated, and my face must have fallen a little, because I saw a scowl settle on his features. I quickly raised my hands and shook my head.

“Don’t worry about me. I don’t want any trouble started on my behalf.” I smiled at him, my eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can manage.”

He gave a long, deep ‘hmmm’. But returned to his meal without further comment. I watched him eating quietly for a moment, propping my elbow on the table and resting my cheek in my palm. I decided he was probably younger than he looked underneath all that hair. I wondered the last time he had given it a good wash and comb. Perhaps I might find someone not much older than myself if he did. I suddenly longed to take a stab at it myself, and moved to cupped my twitching hands on my lap under the table.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” I mused, “Are you just passing through? Or do you have business here?”

He licked the juice dribbling down his chops.

“Business.” He replied, sucking the last of the flavor off his thumb.

I smiled. “Well, you are certainly welcome back anytime... Hans.”

He grunted again, flicking his tangled black locks over his shoulder. He flexed his arms, stretching out a little before giving a sizable snort.

“I should be going.”

I jumped up, smoothing down the front of my apron. “Of course! I don’t mean to keep you.” I craned my head back to look up at him as he slowly stood. “Thank you for everything.”

A non-committal grumble answered me this time, and he turned, making his way out the door. As he ducked his head back into the shop, I scuttled after him, heading over to my stock of jerky.

“Perhaps I can pack you something for the road.”

He shook his big head, his meaty hands shuffling about his belt. “I’ve enough.”

I looked up right as he dropped a small pouch on the counter. It clinked as it hit the wood. I started to open my mouth, straightening from behind the counter. But he was already making his way out.

“Hey, wait!” I cried belatedly, still in a little shock.

Hans already had ripped open the stubborn door with a single flex of his big arm. I thought I heard the sound of wood splintering, but didn’t fully have time to register. I took up the bag, rushing out to the marketplace square.

Despite his size, or perhaps because of his long stride, the orc moved fast. Before I had time to even make it to the doorway, he was already halfway across the square. The people seemed to give him a wide berth, shooting whispers under their breath and glancing sidelong at the behemoth orc. It made me glad that I had invited him in; it must be tough to have people instantly judge you so harshly. But then I merely sighed, slumping my shoulders slightly. The tiny bag of gold coins felt strangely heavy in my hand, and I looked down at it. I gripped my fingers about it more tightly, then turned and made my way back into the shop.

...

Hanste’kosh was nearly to the outskirts of town by the time his lieutenant caught up to him. The smaller orc smacked a fist across his chest respectfully.

“Hey boss. Where’ve you been?”

He scowled at him, heavy brow knotted ferociously, making his second wince and take a wary step back. He put up his palms, patting the air as if trying to smooth over the situation. Hanste’kosh flexed his mighty shoulders, as if he meant to take a swing at the other man. His armor creaked in protest. Ready to remind him how disrespectful it was to pry.

“Sorry boss.” He mumbled, dropping his gaze. “Everything’s ready if you are.”

Giving a snort, the larger orc nodded. “Good.” He turned to make his way to the rendezvous point, but then paused, his heavy brow squinting. “Bar’tok, I have another job for you.”

...

UPDATE: Part Two HERE

#orc #orc lover #orc boyfriend #orc x human #slow burn #romance #dnd #terato #exophilia #monster lover #monster boyfriend #monster x human #the secret we keep

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violetvenom · 4 years ago

Text

What’s wrong with Quackerjack in DT17 in my opinion.

I don’t make a secret about it how much I dislike the DT17 style and hey, it’s okay if you disagree and the majority likes it. It’s a preference after all.

But I already saw how fans got attacked by other fans for simply not liking DT17. This is childish and pathetic behavior...I won’t accept that. Be better than that.

Now for all those who are curious why I think so, let me pin it down a bit.

When my bestie showed me the newest screens of the appearance of the F4 I didn’t know what to think first. Now after I literally stared at the one with Quackerjack long enough I think can explain what on that style..on him... bothers me so damn much.

I totally understand how all the fans are hyped and trust me, I would love to join that hype...DWD get’s some love after all those years and this is great....but I simply can’t. I look at the show...I look at screencaps... and I only can find mistakes after mistakes which not only bothers me but make me very sad and hurt my lil’ fan-heart. :(

Just look at this:

I circled the main things which I can’t wrap my head around.

Why did they not fill in the fool’s cap between his eyes?

It’s clearly something the changed on his design since the white gap is visible in every sneak-peak of him. But that’s not how his -or any other fool’s cap which covers the eyes- work...

Also what is going on with the edgy emo eyeliner? I thought we left this behind in the 00s? And eyebrows OVER the fool’s cap?

And do the animators actually know how a ruff works? It looks like Quackerjack has some kind of plate around his neck and not something out of fabric.

Look at the difference in the DWD cartoon:

That thing is made out of fabric and MOVES with the shoulders. Depending on the fabric it moves more or less, but it would never behave like a plate!

Back then they sure made their homework about such details. Those details make cartoons lively in the first place. That’s why I think DT17 looks overall very stiff. And that everything is so angular sadly doesn’t help with it.

And speaking about details...why are the folds in his pants missing in the first place? That’s also not how his pants work.

Also that pose in the robot (Why does it even look like him? His robots ALWAYS were toy inspired. He is not that narcistic!) is so bad I‘m not even sure how to redline this mess. I tried..I really tried but...I can’t! How does Quackerjack need to break his arms or dislocate his shoulders to make that work? It seems a part of his upper right arm is even missing!? Where is his elbow...where is the rest of his upper arm? And since the ruff behaves like a massive plate and Quackerjack’s left arm is coming from behind..it looks like his arm is way much longer than the right one and seems to grow out of his back!? @_@

And while I wrote this I noticed the screenshot of his first cameo isn’t that better. What are those arms? Why does he have the stature of Bernd das Brot?

Also why is his (and of the other F4 members) design in the art style so inconsistent? The most notable change is the beak. You can see without a second glance it got changed. I can’t even say it changed for the better or got worse since I overall think the beaks are drawn ugly in DT17.

I mean, changes can be good and sometimes are needed but usually you create a character sheet long before the cartoon is even created and then all animators stick to it. I just can wonder how consistent it will be between the scenes if the special comes out.

I can’t even really compare it to the old cartoon since back in the days a lot more studios were needed to draw and animate a cartoon. So don’t get me wrong. I’m totally aware that stuff like this happened back then:

Same characters, different episodes but same studio.

Yes, even the same studio couldn’t be consistent between the episodes, but they managed to somewhat be it in the episode itself.

So why does this bother me with DT17 so much, when even back then they couldn’t get their shit together and be consistent? Easy..it’s because back then everything was drawn and animated by hand. It was a lot more effort. Back then they couldn’t just use paste and copy. There was no eyedropper tool to get the right color quickly. There were no programs who can break down a model to seperate their parts so you can animate their limbs easily. There were no programs for simulating facial animation or lip-syncing. Everything was much more complicated. I don’t say animation became easier but it became different. That’s why it’s hard to compare old cartoons with new ones in some aspects.

But since cartoons nowadays are most solely made on computers...why are color mistakes still happening?

I want to believe this is a ref to the purple hand recolor mistake Quackerjack also had in the original next to several others because that would be hilarious. But seeing stuff like this

destroys that belief.

One would assume that such mistakes get reduced with all that modern computer programs, but it doesn’t seem so. Tbh color mistakes and wrong layering is something which I can forgive easily, but not breaking a characters whole anatomy and change his overall appareance to such a degree you just can wonder how this is supposed to be the same character. I look at DT17 Quackerjack and see Quackerjack but also do not see Quackerjack at the same time. It’s like my brain full on goes “this is Quackerjack...wait no...this is more a manic Quackerjack imposter with dwarfism but not the real deal.” and this each single time I look at him. The way he is shown to be portrayed actually makes it worse.

@raeloganthesonic06fangirl jokingly made a post how he got his spine finally fixed, but isn’t that terrible posture one detail why we loved that dork in the first place? :(

Also his facial expression. He already had a major character shift once.

...sure there were reasons but the comics were another can of worms I won’t open in this post here now. And pls don’t get me started on how ridiculous it is how Silvani draws his beak.

I just can hope DT17 will at least get his character right but...

This

looks more like

than

😟

#darkwing duck #ducktales 2017 #quackerjack #dt17 #this post took me too many days to finish because of my broken wrist -.-

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owillofthewisps · 4 years ago

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rosemary & thyme

notes: fun fact this was actually what started unspoken and as such this takes place in the same verse. i’d initially planned it to be in unspoken but sometimes things just don’t work like that. this is also self indulgent fluff for myself today bc my cramps are bad enough that i can’t stand for more than five minutes without starting to shake from the exertion lol

the third gif in this was what kicked this off the ground in the first place

title is from scarbourough fair, mostly thinking of the simon & garfunkel version.

also this is my 900th post on here lol

rating: teen. no real warnings, just fluff. maybe small hints of self-esteem issues and small hints of mostly dulled grief.

pairing: eskel/fem reader

word count: 2.5k

on a spring day, you re-paint the trim of your cottage. it is an old, old pattern, but you are determined to make something new.

“Must you?” you ask Lil’ Bleater.

You’re ensconced in a soft bed of clover that lines your cottage. The sweet, grassy scent of the clovers lingers in the air like perfume, a herald of spring. Hyacinths are dotted through the bed, swaying in the gentle breeze, their buds plump on their stalks, a promise of blooms in the soft indigo peeking through the edges of them, the last breath of a winter sunset.

Lil’ Bleater is intent on eating them.

She noses at a small clump of stalks, each tenderly green, still newly given life. The stalks break under the clamp of her teeth, and you sigh.

“Must you?” you repeat.

She glances up at the sound of your voice and considers you. Then she bleats, loud and indignant, and leans down for another mouthful.

You snort a laugh and turn back to your cottage. You trace your fingertips over the window’s trim, the wood worn riverstone smooth by the years and the rain alike. The paint has chipped, washed out to the soft blue kiss of a robin’s egg. Even the vines, each a delicate scroll of leaves unfurling, have faded into something autumnal, their color muted by nature’s touch. You follow one of them with your fingernail. They wind like the small trails in the woods, meandering yet purposeful.

Your father had steady hands. Even with you and your brother clambering over him, children gone woods-wild, his delicate brush strokes brought the forest to life in the walls of your home.

Sometimes, when the sun shines just right, you think you can see the past peeking back at you, imprints of images long painted over glimmering just beneath the coats of paint.

Lil Bleater butts against your back. “Ow,” you tell her, even though it’s only a short bite of sensation.

The goat prances around your seated form and flops into your lap, all hoof and horns. She squirms until she’s comfortable.

She’s still munching on a hyacinth stalk.

“You owe me new flowers.”

She ignores you.

You sigh and readjust. She’s a warm weight in your lap, the heat of her softened by the thick fabric of your skirts. The goat makes a miffed noise at your movement. You stroke a hand over her horns, the smooth bone cool against your skin, like a spring river just beginning to warm. She nestles down into the cradle of your skirts with a soft noise. Your attention returns to your cottage.

You touch the window trim again, lay your fingers against the faded paint once more. The small flowers - delicate little things, unfurling prettily in soft layers of petals - were your mother’s favorites. They go back to the oldest layer, you know. You trace the one colored for you, and then walk your fingers over to the one for your brother.The ache settles between your ribs, fills the hollow space there.

“It’s still here,” you whisper to Lil’ Bleater. “It’s just built upon, right?”

The goat snuffles, mouthing at the hem of your bodice.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s still here.”

You pick up your bowl, paint the color of the soft blue of the midmorning sky splashed up the edges of it, and sweep a broad stripe of it over the faded flowers.

*******

“Stop,” you tell Lil’ Bleater, pulling your paintbrush from her ever-hungry mouth. “You’re going to get paint on you, and then Eskel and I will have to give you a bath, and none of us will find that enjoyable.”

She’s relentless, butting lightly at your arm and nibbling at your sleeve. You nudge at her with a grumble.

“Trouble finds trouble, I see,” Eskel says from behind you, his deep voice lined with laughter.

“You’d best be talking about the goat on both counts, dear Witcher.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

He wrestles Lil’ Bleater off of you, gentle despite the goat’s squirming. The goat announces her displeasure loudly and butts against his knees. She darts away before he can stop her, pausing just out of reach and bleating at him before she prances off in a familiar direction.

“I really should fence in my garden,” you muse, turning back to the trim. The fresh coat of paint gleams in the afternoon light, shifting to something sea-bright, the sky melting into water.

Eskel sighs. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Me neither.”

He settles behind you, one arm looping around your waist, his thick thighs framing yours. The smithy has left its touch on him since this morning, a hint of soot scent sweeping over you. Eskel’s rough fingers flirt with the hem of your bodice, his thumb sweeping over the ridge of the embroidery. It is hard to keep apart from each other, the first few days after he comes back to you. You gravitate towards each other like small suns, anchor yourselves in each other’s space with unthinking touches. A quiet assurance that you are both here, together.

You lean into the warmth of him. He’s broad against your back, a pillar of strength, and then he softens. It’s just a hint, but you can feel the way he uncoils for a breath. He winds his other arm around you.

“Missed you,” you say.

He laughs, low and sweet, and the rumble of it resonates through you. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

“I always miss you,” you tell him matter-of-factly.

Pressed against him, you can feel it when Eskel’s breath hitches, catches in his throat.

You turn just enough to press your lips against the curve of his jawline. It is carefully placed, your soft kiss, just beyond the edges of his angry scar. He swallows, the muscles of his thick throat rippling. You hum softly, turn back to your cottage, and lean over to pick up the small stick of charcoal that’s half-buried in the clovers.

Eskel moves with you as you draw closer to the cottage. The charcoal stick scrapes against the paint as you sketch, soft clusters of yarrow flowers blooming slowly beneath your careful hands.

“This is a different pattern than the previous,” Eskel murmurs. His voice is rich against you, flows like warm, honeyed mead.

“Mhm.” You rub a thumb against a wobbly line, wipe it out of existence. “The previous one was my father’s.”

His arms tighten around you, scaffolding to keep you steady. “How many years?” he asks.

“Long before I was born,” you say, rubbing out another poor line. “He added to it throughout his life.”

“There was one for you, wasn’t there? One of the little flowers had your color in it.”

You glance back at him, at the sunrise of his golden eyes. Eskel has a gaze that strips you, sometimes, that peels away the world until it is just you and him. “Aye,” you say softly. “There was.”

He brings you trinkets, sometimes, in that same color. Little things from his journey on the Path. Nothing grand, but carefully chosen, often fitting into the niches of your cottage perfectly. Tiny curios to replace those you’d left behind in your first cottage, as if they can capture the first night he spent there with you soft in bed with him, tucked close around his broad frame.

Eskel slips a hand to your free one and slowly twines his fingers with yours. It’s almost shy, and you turn your palm skyward to better hold him. Your interlaced hands rest on the plush of your thigh, his thick knuckles pressing soft divots into the flesh.

You start to sketch again, adding a sweep of sorrel leaves to frame the yarrow, the soft curve of the leaves wrapping carefully around the buds.

Eskel is quiet behind you. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady like the tide, a cadence that feels as if it belongs solely to you.

Eventually, you pull away from your sketching. You tilt your head and examine it. It’s by no means fine work. You do not have your father’s steady hands, cannot bring life to charcoal drawings in the same way. But your months of practice have paid off. The yarrow buds match the ones speckled along the roadside, and the sweep of sorrel leaves could be the fields that surround your cottage.

“What do you think?” you ask.

Eskel shifts. He leans forward, just a hint, and touches just beside one of the veins of a sorrel leaf. Each inch of his chest is solid against your back. “You’ve practiced.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes your hand. “It’s nice.”

You laugh. “I’ll take nice,” you say. “I suppose.”

“Next time I’ll be more complimentary, then.”

“Good,” you say, and you let go of his hand so that you can wipe the charcoal dust off on the very hem of your skirt, already dirt streaked at the edges. Then you press the charcoal stick into Eskel’s hand. The small stick is dwarfed in his massive hand, and want pulses through you for the briefest breath. “Your turn,” you say. Your bold words have never sounded so shy.

Eskel stills.

That ache that fills the gaps of your ribs pulses, goes sharp at the edges, thorns against your bones.

You feel him draw in a breath.

“If you want,” you say, the words stumbling off your tongue. You keep your gaze ahead, focus on the sheen of the paint. It’s the same pigment your father used. When you crush the ingredients beneath the pestle, the scrape of it against the mortar sounds like your father’s voice. There has never been a blue that evokes such tenderness in you.

Eskel’s fingers close around the charcoal stick.

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s quiet, but not to him, you know.

Eskel always hears you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and though the words are steady and his voice is the same mellow, deep tone, there’s something wavering in him, an uncertainty that cloaks him.

“Yes,” you say. “I told you - I rarely change my mind.”

“Rarely is not never.”

You ache to glance back at him, to find the honey gold of his gaze, to see the map of his scars against his handsome features. You know you cannot. Something ancient in you knows that if you break this moment, it will never return.

“Eskel,” you say quietly. “Not about this.”

He swallows.

He shifts forward. The motion takes you with him, carries you forward like a wave to the shores. He hesitates just as the charcoal rests against the pristine paint above your sketches.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your lashes whispering against your skin, the barest breath of sound, and feel some of the tension melt from Eskel’s broad frame. You curl yourself into the cradle of his chest. The charcoal scrapes against the wood, a brisk sound softened by the murmur of the spring breeze. The fingers of the breeze stroke through the trees, rustling against the leaves until it’s something of a melody. You listen quietly, let the song of it wash over you, feel Eskel warm and steady around you, and find yourself drifting hazily through time.

The sound of the charcoal fades. There is only the wind now, only the breeze catching in the meadows red-veined sorrel before it slips between the trees. You wait, rubbing a thumb idly over the thick muscle of Eskel’s thigh.The sun is filtering through your eyelids, lighting even the shadows of your closed eyes.

Eskel fidgets. It’s the slightest of movements, but from someone so disciplined, it rings across your senses like a skipping stone leaving ripples across a pond’s surface.

You lay your head back against his broad shoulder and open your eyes. “Well met,” you say to him as he glances down at you, and his eyes burn bright, amber wreathed by sunlight.

“Well met,” he says back, laughter tucked just under his tongue, but then his eyes flicker away.

You nudge at his jawline for the span of a breath, and then you turn your attention to the window trim.

The ache filling the gaps of your ribs fades away.

Eskel has woven sprigs of rosemary through the sorrel stalks, the sharp-tipped herb softened by the dainty ovals of thyme leaves. You can tell where he began to draw. The charcoal is lighter there, not pressed firmly down, but the lines grow darker as the herbs grow more plentiful. The black of the charcoal is stark against the blue. They’re both oddly delicate, the sky blue softened to a pale robin’s egg, and the spider web of charcoal lines lies over it like fragile lace.

His arm tightens around your waist. You reach down and lace your fingers through Eskel’s, a woven pattern strong enough to carry both of your weights. His shoulders loosen. You can feel his slow, steady heartbeat.

“Come,” you say after a moment, “you can help me with the rest of the paint.”

“Dare I ask?”

“I hate grinding for the colors,” you say, rising to your feet and clapping your hands against your skirts. “It takes too long. But your Witcher muscles must be up to the task, yes?”

Eskel pushes himself up in a graceful movement, that sleek dexterity of a Witcher. “If I’d known it was only my muscles you keep me around for-”

“You’d have stayed anyway for the sex.”

He coughs at that, but his smile is broad. “You’re confident.”

You shrug. “It’s good sex.”

He laughs, a low growl of a sound. “That it is.”

You glance his way and find yourself struck by the sight of him. The afternoon sun is kind to him, makes his dark hair glisten and his eyes practically glow. You reach out to him with a small smile, wind your fingers through his once more. He lets you tug him along.

You pause just before the threshold of your cottage, glancing back as Eskel ducks inside. The clover still carries the mark of your bodies, the plush of them pressed down where you had been. There’s a bit of paint splashed across them. You idle for a moment, let the breeze tease at your skirts.

Things will be different once you cross the threshold.

With Eskel’s softly sketched herbs spun in a delicate web around your yarrow and sorrel, your cottage is no longer just yours.

You inhale softly, let the scent of the clovers wash over you. It’s grassy and sweet, with a hint of earthy dirt just beneath. It smells like home.

You turn around and go inside.

taglist: @tutuwho @witchernonsense @whitewolfandthefox @riviawitch3r @hina-chans-stuff @restingnurseface @raspberrydreamclouds @ambivertomnivore

#eskel x reader #eskel x you #eskel imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine

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melforbes · 3 years ago

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ask meme. what if. patching up. no I still haven’t seen source material

the way i completely forgot about this ask until i wrote like two paragraphs in this and was like oh shit lmao

the source material is getting an hbo series bb you're in luck also ignore anna whatever as tess yes i respect her as an actress yes she is talented in a bunch of things i have not seen but ms annie wersching is the only tess in my heart and also if i have to endure tess being reduced to a powerbitch stereotype i will start foaming at the mouth. but also i have no feelings about this whatsoever <3

WHAT IF: i will pick an important choice or event in my current project and write three sentences (or more?) about if it’d gone done differently

hmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMm

this is hard because i kind of had a stupid amount of confidence in the decisions i had them make in this and because i have ~a lot of experience~ in flying by the seat of my pants with writing lmaooooo a lot of the time with this ive had some degree of foresight when it comes to certain plot decisions. the only reason i have this in the first place is that with other things ive had kind of sort of plot revelations and then been like "well if i'd set that up three chapters ago it would have a huge impact i think but instead i guess it's just going in this one for a smaller impact" so i think i learned my lesson haha. also because this pairing nowadays has a small and sparse tag i really intentionally put in stuff to make it interesting (maybe the wrong word) to reread. like not Interesting interesting but i wanted there to be certain details that are more relevant on a reread than on an initial read because whenever i read stuff in small tags i tend to read it Multiple Times lmaoooooo and it's like if anyone like me is out there I Will Feed You. I Will Give You Food. you see i have this problem in which im like i dont want to act like i put thought into this because That's Embarrassing and i also dont want to seem like i take this too seriously because That's Embarrassing and also i dont want to act uppity or pompous or something But At The Same Time i do put a lot of thought into certain things and i feel like mentioning that and i dont really want to judge myself for that. it's complicated but also super uncomplicated. where was i going with this

OH right. so most of the plot decisions were made super concretely. like pre breakup arc in the nightmares chapters (which came out so much worse than i intended alkdjksjad;glksjg) when tess and joel talk about ellie Knowing (also legit it is such a trip to me that you dont know the context of that. a trip in a good way) she says we every time and he only ever says i even when she points out that this would affect both of them, and at one point i think he says that tess doesnt understand baseless violence which is 100% untrue, and then there's a bunch of window imagery i put in starting there because im a freak. so like For Once In My Life a lot of this was as planned as it could be. on occasion there's been Plot Revelations that get wedged in (the radio interlude chapter, which was a bit of an inelegant seam between prewritten things that didnt mesh well) but for the most part ive got tits out into every decision. like tess and ellie disagreeing about joel's choice was very planned though i imagine that kind of conversation could be executed many different ways i had my one way and stuck to it. so either way

where was i going with this. did i have a point.

OKAY. let's see. i think one of the big ~emotional beats~ so to speak was the ambush chapter and i think that's the favorite because that's usually where people comment if i remember correctly and initially i wasnt going to go with that tone At All haha. years ago i wrote everyday domestic scenes of mulder and scully from x files and had it all on this blog and it was plotless but largely in the same overarching universe (i say as if it was legit ever That Deep) and after writing this as a oneshot and being like you know? Kind of feel like doing that again. i figured i would just follow the same largely plotless path of legit just domesticity and leave it at that. and i think the first like five chapters are tonally different from the rest because i'd never really intended for it to have plot or really any depth whatsoever. in the end like. How do i say this in a way that wont be interpreted as uppity or something asldkjgalsdgjk like. when i did those mulder scully scenes i was very much a beginner and i think i didnt realize just how inherent that beginner-ness was to the concept itself. which isnt a bad thing! like people had fun with those so far as i remember. bizarrely enough i think people might still read those which. cringe. but you kno!!! but with a few years of distance from that kind of concept i think it was hard for me to Not try something else. especially with this universe in which it's just dense with storytelling opportunity. and also i felt as if the first few chapters were just like super super lighthearted and i wanted some angst factor. which is why in the end the angst factor plot itself is flimsy as fuck. like i did not care WHY they got attacked i just wanted that sweet sweet hurt/comfort cup of tea u feel. and after that i didnt really go for the plot too much But i did edge toward it a lot more. like i mean ultimately this is a romance like it was not intended to be plot heavy ever But it's more plot heavy than it couldve been. had i actually written it as i'd intended from the start i think it wouldve gotten old really fast. like nothing but lighthearted domesticity doesnt make sense in this context. for the first few chapters it doesnt necessarily kill the whole thing imo because like. that's the first few chapters. but after then if there was never any ~deeper thoughts~ i think it wouldve gotten reductive super fast.

hmmm what else. Because i am deciding to talk too much on the internet now.

oh in theory the whole breakup arc couldve been omitted and now in retrospect im like it's hilarious that like the next chapter after they got married i immediately peppered in hints that they would break up lkajsdglaksjgdlkj like wow. That lasted a long time. but like i mean i think with them it fits that they would do something like get married before they even said that they loved each other. like i can see them doing a massive workaround instead of doing a small and simple but vulnerable thing. makes sense 2 me. and like they definitely couldve stuck together in the end but 1 theres interesting storytelling in how maybe joel was too stubborn or maybe they grew apart in certain ways or blah blah blah and 2 I JUST LOVE A GOOD BREAKUP AND THEN RETURNING TO EACH OTHER ARC OKAAAAAAAAAY. legit. favorite trope. if i ever experienced that in real life i would claw my eyes out but in fiction it makes me FERALLLL. and also like i mean i lov these two for their dumb quirks but also like it would be a lil wrong to say there wouldnt be consequences for like. Not communicating haha. also again like the world this game is put in is so full of storytelling opportunities and im like Must Take Them All. like joel is stubborn as hell and shuts down when he's overwhelmed and there is growth in the first game (and in the second too but thats not really shown as much and is more left for the player to fill in the gaps i think) but also i think it would be super easy to regress in that sense and i had fun with putting him in those situations. and it's also super fun to have an additional person for the joel and ellie plots to bounce off of. like joel and ellie are two very stubborn people and having an extra person there to be like You Blithering Idiots has been a good time. im getting sidetracked. like it was fun to answer the question of how these two in a marriage neither of them can fully substantiate would communicate in hard times and the answer i personally found was that they both would end up breaking things. which was fun to write!!!!!!!!! but in theory couldve been prevented. maybe i just cant imagine this a different way haha. like Joel And Tess Learn Healthy Communication Skills Over Time. am i mean for saying that doesnt sound probable aldskjgalskdjgslkgj

OH LMAO THE MARRIAGE PART. that was also a big decision i guess. i wouldnt make it go differently alksdjglasdjg like. i definitely couldve written the context around that many different ways bc again this whole is full of opportunity But a frankly premature wedding just feels right to me. especially with like going from being stuck on survival to being safe for the first time in decades. and then having that sense of safety get boring and wondering why there was that super fast wedding in the first place. cant really imagine it going differently

there is later unposted stuff that could def have gone many different ways and that i tried to make go different ways but that would not be right to talk about akldsjaslkgdjsg so.

this got too long sorry <3

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thecoldremembers · 3 years ago

Text

Clint and Bucky: The Gods of the Gaps

It had been a reconnaissance mission only. Black market dealers, moving merchandise that he was told would go to muscling up a lot of Very Bad People in the world-- merchandise that, according to his source, existed as a direct result of Hydra's sudden exposure to the world a few years ago. It was a law of nature-- two of them, really. Nature abhors a vacuum, and living things always battle for resources. When Hydra was exposed, so were thousands of documents-- chemical compounds, blueprints, scientific research. Weapons. Mind control.

Super-soldiers. How to make them, how to control them, and how to bring them down.

The criminal element had pounced on that information like a starving tiger. It had become a localized arms race, with warring organized crime rings, factions, even gangs rushing to fill the gaps, and their coffers, and their power, before the other guys did. All over the world.

Including right here in New York.

Bucky's plan had been simple: go in dark, stay out of sight, scout the place out, gather intel, leave quietly to plan his next move.

He hadn't banked on the merchandise being people. Captives, terrified men and women blindfolded and in chains, secured in a neat line down the length of the back wall of the warehouse.

He couldn't be sure what they were going to be used for. A workforce, captive assembly lines, slaves who would put together the weapons and drugs and serums for their captors? Victims of the human trafficking rings operating in the city, often hidden in plain sight? Or something else, something that made his stomach turn to think on it-- subjects to be experimented on as the weapons and drugs and serums were tested and perfected, future soldiers to be brainwashed and controlled?

Dammit. Damn it all to hell.

He knew all too well what it was like to be owned, to be bought and sold, to have every stubbornly lingering trace of bodily and mental autonomy brutally, efficiently, systematically stripped away from him. There was no way in hell he was going to leave these people to suffer the same fate.

That was, of course, his undoing-- letting his emotions lead the way, that ever-present rage that always seemed to be boiling just beneath the surface, his fierce determination that nobody would ever have to suffer what he did, not on his watch.

Yeah. Brilliant move, Buck. Run in all half-cocked and furious and damnably reckless, and get your ass handed to you by the... whatever the hell the thing currently beating the ever-loving tar out of you is.

He didn't know the details, but he could guess. The guy had started out looking like a rather musclebound mook, with dark eyes and a crewcut and an accent that made Bucky think of putrid, humid swamps and rotting cypress, and he'd been giving the orders. His men had called him Gator. The bad guys always had the most ridiculous names.

There were a handful of them. But, he thought, like the damned arrogant idiot he was-- he had a bionic arm. He could take them! Beat up the bad guys, rescue the hostages, home in time for... well, breakfast. Or a nice, long, hopefully dreamless sleep.

Only Gator had... turned into something, not slow and painstaking, but fast. Something big, strong, and... scaly? Something that had to top nine feet tall, every inch of that height corded with powerful muscle and covered in leathery, grey-green scales.

And Gator could move. He struck with the power and speed of, well, his namesake, but Bucky was also fast, and the two engaged in a lethal dance for several minutes until one of Gator's blows hit home.

Bucky rolled with the blow, and Jesus, it hurt. The guy hit like he was packing a whole damned freight train behind that huge, scaled fist. Bucky came up, half kneeling, half crouching, supporting himself on his metal arm, the fingers of his flesh hand still curled around the handle of his KA-BAR. He spit out a mouthful of blood and snarled as the behemoth rushed him, diving out of the way and spinning at the last second, hurtling a leg out in a powerful kick that was meant to topple his opponent.

Gator whirled with a window-shaking roar, too fast, catching Bucky's booted ankle in a clawed hand and giving it a vicious twist. The bone snapped like kindling, and Bucky screamed. But he didn't surrender. Shifting his hips, he kicked out his good leg with all his strength.

Gator simply snatched that leg, wrenched him up in the air, and slammed him full-body into the wall hard enough that a crack formed tectonic-like in the concrete. His head struck with such blinding force that he was sure his brains had been liquified. One brain milkshake, prepared to order, comin' right up. Flavored like cocky moron. The monster's fingers released his leg, and he tumbled to the floor, the breath knocked out of him, head spinning. Something warm, thick, wet trickled down into his eye. Good thing I have a hard head, he thought deliriously, and he tried to stand, but Gator's foot caught him in the ribs, lifting him off the floor with the impact and slamming him into the wall again.

He tried to stand again. Again, Gator kicked him. He lost his breath as a rib or two gave way. "Stay. Down! Asshole!" Gator's voice was deep, gravelly, inhuman, and each word was punctuated by another vicious kick, each one harder than the last.

Then, seemingly caught in the throes of his own rage, Gator dropped to his knees, straddling him, and began raining blows down onto Bucky's face, his chest, his ribs, his stomach, screaming all the while. He tried to block, and got his flesh arm broken and his head slammed into the concrete floor for his trouble. Two concussions in one day, he thought, feeling strangely distant from the whole ordeal, as if he was sitting in the cinema with Steve watching a film. His body registered every blow, every slice of razor-sharp claws, every broken bone, but Bucky... Bucky was somewhere else. You're on a roll over there, Buck, Steve's voice said. Thought I was the one always gettin' beat up in back alleys.

This is a warehouse, Steve, Bucky retorted, then he grinned, and tasted blood, and Gator screamed something unintelligible and pummeled him in the face.

And then, almost abruptly, Gator seemed to deflate, panting, the crazed fire fading from his eyes, to be replaced with something infinitely cold and cruel. He reached down and closed a huge, clawed hand around Bucky's throat, and began to squeeze.

The world began to go dark. There was a roaring in his ears, a pounding in his head, and... music? A jaunty beat. Something that seemed wildly out of place here. It took his concussion-addled and oxygen-deprived brain a second or two to realize he was hearing a ringtone.

There was a quiet murmuring as someone answered, and then, "Gator? Man, you better stop. The Man wants him alive."

Gator stopped squeezing, though his hand remained locked around Bucky's throat. Through blurred, rapidly darkening vision, he could see the fear, anger, and doubt flashing through the creature's yellow, crocodilian eyes, and something else, something like... desperation.

Looks like The Man’s got somethin’ on you, buddy.

The creature's massive weight lifted from him, to be replaced by three-- no, four of Gator's henchmen or minions or mooks or whatever the hell they were, keeping him pinned down while something was injected into his neck. He could hear Gator's gutteral voice, but couldn't make out the words. Something rushed and burned through Bucky's bloodstream, and his limbs began to feel heavy, weak, sluggish. Well, more than they already were. Double concussion and all. Didn't help the nausea either, or the way patterns of light and color were dancing across his vision, swirling with the black creeping in at the edges.

A moment later, Gator was back, looming over him, a grin twisting what passed for lips on his lizard-like face. "It's yer lucky day, bud." The grin vanished, and Gator swayed for an instant, his breathing suddenly ragged, his eyes clouding over, and for a second Bucky thought he was going to collapse, but he quickly recovered, and planted another kick to Bucky's ribs (he wasn't going to have any intact ribs left at this point, Christ Almighty), as if affronted that his moment of weakness had been observed. "The Man thinks yer more valuable alive than dead, which means you and me gonna have a lil quality time together."

Hooray, Bucky thought as the darkness closed in around him. Can't fucking wait.

#friendlyneighborhoodmess #here you go #bucky with his chaotic idiot energy #have fun :P #long post #whumpy threads #dissociation tw

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