#hes like barely even visible amongst all the paper wear and tear but hes there i promise

[mackeralsauce]

who loves making weirdly specific fake documents relating to my headcanons about inkling medical science and pre-gtw society? meeeeee :3

[clairdelunelove]

Closer Than We Seem

kyoutani kentarou x f!reader

genre: slight angst, fluff, comfort, romance, mutual pining 

warnings: cursing, implied past physical abuse, mentions of physical/verbal harassment 

synopsis: college!kyoutani demanded to know the source of the obnoxious arguing that kept him awake throughout the night. The thin walls barely filtered out the yelling and he had a 7:00 a.m. class in the morning. Venturing out to immediately put an end to it, kyou stumbles upon a person with a past that changes both their lives- and romance ensues. 

a.n: 5.0k words of some kyoutani content! enjoy!

He was sick of it.

Amber eyes, bloodshot around the edges, shifted to glance at the digital clock seated on the nightstand. The dark plastic is well worn as the illuminated screen is covered in cracks. Undoubtedly, the piece of technology was victim to his annoyed clobbering whenever the alarm went off.

Smothering a plush pillow over his ears, the blonde fervently attempts to block the commotion. His fingers press tightly against the only source of comfort that keeps his sanity at bay. A raised vein etched across his jawline as his teeth grind together and he forces out a grunt. 

2:25

“It’s been two damn hours.” 

Kyoutani’s gravelly voice is barely heard over the yelling in the next room. Disgruntled, he removes the pillow from his face and tosses it beside him with a roll of his eyes. The part-time college student is openly miffed by the lack of peaceful sleep he could be getting. He, quite honestly, didn’t appreciate showing up to morning classes with eye-bags as dark as the eyeliner that he meticulously lined his eyes with. Over the past four months, adequate rest is a miracle for him to discover each day. 

“And they’re still arguing,” Kyoutani rambles on while using the bottom of his hand to hammer the pillow onto the mattress, “who the fuck argues that long?” 

Scrunching his thin eyebrows, he tries to comprehend the mere logic behind quarrelling in the middle of the night, especially on a school night. By all means, Kyoutani isn’t a saint amongst sinners but in a couple hours the blond has a chemistry quiz, a subject he’s gloriously failing, and sleep was needed. 

Another frustrated shout rips through the popcorn textured walls which doesn’t muffle the noise due to the poor insulation covering. The voice is distinctly a male’s and it takes all of Kyoutani’s willpower not to roar back to assert his dominance. Instead, his fingertips rake through his cropped hair while letting out a grumble. 

His eyelids feel like weights are strapped to them, progressively drooping shut, as his vision becomes blurry. A rare silence drifts through his cramped dorm room. The place resembles a battle zone with clothes tossed to the bed, papers scattered over the desk, and empty protein bar wrappers cascaded on the floor. Yet, Kyoutani adored the small freedom he finally had at the university dorms. 

The silence lulls him to close his bloodshot eyes, a deep exhale flares out his pointed nose, and a relief floods through him. He might actually get some rest for once. 

“Get out!” 

At the obnoxious yell from the neighboring room, the blond is far too annoyed to logically comprehend his actions before his bruised knuckles are knocking at the wall. The numbness of rapping at the wall is barely registered over how livid Kyoutani is at the intrusion to his sleep. 

“Shut up!” 

He throws in the bellow for good measure and stops his onslaught of assault on the wall. It seems awkward scolding the wall and his hand slowly drops to his lap. His sharp eyes track the movement of his fingers, dimly noting that he needs to trim the cracked edges. Perhaps his unpolished fingertips are the reason for his missed spikes on the volleyball court lately. 

A solid thump resonates back to him, to which Kyoutani dumbly blinks at. Hairs at the back of his neck stand and he can literally feel the heat leave his ears as his blood boils. The college student’s temper has simmered down since high school but hearing the other person’s unperturbed knock ticked him off. It was almost like they were taunting him. 

“Oh that’s it,” he mumbles and kicks away the blanket that interlaced his figure. 

Stretching across the small room, his legs move on its own accord and he reaches to twist the knob of the door. Using the expanse of his muscular shoulder, he pushes the wooden structure open in hopes of confronting the rowdy student that resided next to his dorm room. 

Permanent frown plastered on his pale lips, the blond urges to dramatize the expression. He crosses his arms after knocking on the neighboring door and the action displays his athletic build as a result of years of sports. The irate appearance was perfected as a scare tactic that he used to his advantage in varying situations. Petrifying the student next door wasn’t excluded out of the list.

“Could you shut your mouth? You’re being too damn loud, man--”

Kyoutani allowed himself to commit a double take before hastily shutting his own mouth, only for it to part as a sharp inhale almost made him sputter. His onslaught of vulgarity, a script he’d previously rehearsed plenty of times, fell lost on his tongue as he eyes the female in front of him. 

You’re unfairly pretty. 

It pains him that the first thought that races within his mind is a compliment when your mascara is smudged at the edges. Your frizzy hair is at a disarray, strands sticking up even when it’s pulled into a ponytail. The hoodie that you’re wearing is far too large as the end hits above your midthigh and his thoughts short circuit when he drags his gaze upward to see that you’re already giving him a sheepish smile. 

“Sorry,” your voice pitches higher at the sudden appearance of the male, “were we being too loud?” 

“N-no? I mean yes,” Kyoutani sputters the first words and finishes his reasoning with a pathetic remark, “chemistry.” 

Your face lights up, visibly amused with his lack of speech at the moment while understandingly nodding, “you have a chemistry test?” 

“Yeah.”

“And you need to get some sleep before it?”

“Yeah.”

His responses are pitiful- even he knew- but there was only so much he could verbally say when focusing on the way your lips curved up when smiling. Plus, perhaps he was delusional with the lack of sleep, but your curiosity seemed to dip to his lean physique.

“I’m so sorry,” your eyes follow the blond’s movement of leaning against the doorframe, “we’ll try to keep it down so you can get some rest.” 

His brain disconnects with the small ounce of logic he carries when your sleeve sweeps across your nose to sniffle and he recognizes the dried tears that stain your face. Kyoutani isn't the best at handling emotions or being touchy-feely but he’s not ignorant.

“You good?” He asks while cautiously taking a step forward.

His defensive instincts, honed by years of avoiding other people, raise at the wary glint in your eyes. The blond’s inquisition is answered with a meek nod of your head and your nose scrunches to halt your sobs. Upon closer inspection, the sleeves on your hoodie is drenched in what he infers are tears.

Your feet remain rooted to the ground, neither welcoming him or pushing his intrusiveness away. He’s aware of the slight shake of your body and his golden eyes widen at how unnerved you were behaving. 

“My bad,” Kyoutani falters as his own doubts consume him, “I didn’t mean to make you cry-” 

“Who’s at the door, (Y/n)?”

The new voice, startling you with the sudden shout, comes from within the room. Distinctly, it’s the same tone that was hollering while Kyoutani was trying to sleep. The blond’s keen on how you were shifting your weight to each foot and the fidgeting only increased when footsteps resounded on the creaking floorboards. 

“Oh,” you squeak as your evasive gaze connects with his, “my dorm room neighbor.” 

Pulling your hands away from your face, a naive expression is plastered on when a male comes up behind you. The stranger is shorter and less lean than Kyoutani is. Yet, when the male captures your stare, you’re reeling back by fiddling with your fingers behind your back. 

The unpleasant male, brunet but his darker roots were peeking out, regards Kyoutani with a sniff, “can we help you?” 

Something about the male irked the blond and a frown tugs at his lips. He predicted that the guy was your boyfriend or had some type of connection with you. Being in university led to freedoms such as relationships. Although Kyoutani was a stranger to such involvement, he knew the attachment or void others were attempting to fill during these years.

“Yeah, you can,” the blond responds with a miffed scowl, “noise complaint.” 

There’s an uncomfortable silence when the brunet eyes Kyoutani with an agitated glower. It’s painstakingly silent. He’s surely showcasing his superiority within the uneasy situation. Though, the volleyball player is grateful for his decision of wearing a tattered, sleeveless shirt because the other male loosened into an apprehensive gaze. 

“She wasn’t listening to me, so,” the other male jut a thumb towards you and shrugs his shoulders, “sorry, dude.”

Raising a sharp brow, Kyoutani’s expression is dubious when noting how the blame is placed on you when the other male was clearly the only one hollering beforehand. It clicks that the uneasy flickering within your eyes is due to the other male and disgust engulfs him. 

His fist clenches, displeasure rolling off of him in waves before speaking up, “I’m pretty sure I just heard your loudass screeching. Just keep it down.” 

The brunet clams up at the jest, forehead wrinkling just enough to cause worry that lines would permanently stay there. Kyoutani watches the way the other male’s jaw tightens before he’s storming off. The blond regards the other’s lack of positivity with a roll of his eyes and mutters an insult under his breath. 

A whisper, faint but lingering in the silent air, leaves your lips, “thanks.” 

“Nah,” his amber eyes flicker to yours, “don’t need to thank me. ‘Ts about time someone put him in his place.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“I could,” Kyoutani pauses to toe at the floorboards and the cheap tile chips at the touch, “if you’d let me.” 

The words tumble out of his mouth before it can be filtered and the result has him reeling back. His cheeks are warm, probably matching with his reddened ears. The invitation is annoyingly corny and the staleness makes him want to hurl. 

“Sounds like a deal.” 

Your response has his attention locked onto you again and he’s internally thankful that he’s not the only one embarrassed by his impromptu. Thumbing at the sleeves of your sweater, a lopsided grin etches across your face and the blond freezes up. His mind is functioning as quickly as a bullet train but his expression only stares back at you with a stupidly blank look. 

Your giggle snaps him out of his stupor before putting him into a daze over how charming the noise sounds. An entertained peek casts over him as you tuck your hair away from your face.

“I guess I’ll see you around-”

“Kentarou,” he discloses with a respectful yet hurried bow of his head, “Kyoutani Kentarou.” 

“(Y/n)(L/n). Call me (Y/n),” you mention before begrudgingly edging the door closed, “and good luck on your chemistry test, Kentarou.”

The next day, it irritates him that he can only conjure up an image of your smile when he should be solving for Planck’s constant.

-

“Whatcha doing there?” 

Keys dangling in his grasp, he halts at the front of his dorm room door. It’s unwelcomely cold today and the brisk wind has his fingers alike to popsicles. The blond’s tried to fight off the chill with his customary varsity jacket and black beanie. Ideally he didn’t toss on the hat because he couldn’t bother with styling his hair- of course not. 

You’re situated on the floor with your knees pulled up to your chest while balancing a notebook atop of your makeshift desk. The lined paper has quick notes jotted down, highlighted words, and doodled diagrams that Kyoutani is able to discreetly peer at. A twinge of satisfaction tugs at him when your study habits are exactly what he’d picture they would be. 

“Studying,” your eyes never leave your paper as you respond to him. 

Uncapping a pastel highlighter, you exaggerate the action by underlining a phrase written in your notebook and raising a brow at him. The incredulous look on your face only comes off as sarcastic as Kyoutani rolls his dark eyes at your mockery. A grin curls on your lips while raising your shoe to nudge the side of his boot. He’s recognized each one of quirks, including your friendly banter.

“No shit Sherlock,” the blond pulls his hand away from the door and tucks the keys into his pocket, “coulda sworn you were sleeping.”

Crouching on par with you, he extends a finger to poke at your cheek and indicates the dark bags underneath your eyes. It’s lighthearted payback for the attitude he received just a second ago yet there’s a concerned glint in his stare. The darkness that surrounds your eyes is apparent even with the dab of concealer you managed to slap on in the morning and an embarrassed hand covers half of your face. 

“Kyou!” 

The threat isn’t laced with malice but the jab at his shoulder sure proves that humiliation is a strong consequence of emotion. He lets out a groan while gingerly rubbing the ache that emits from the bundle of muscle you punched. 

Childishly sticking out your tongue at his dramatics, you declare, “that’s what you get.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He pauses and then recognizes that the position you’re in is one that seemed too familiar. Your gaze flutters back to the flimsy notebook, aware of how perceptive Kyoutani was when it involved the wellbeing of yours. 

Inviting the blond to warm up to you was certainly a gradual process but you did not regret it. Shy smiles transformed into late night talks over the phone. The two of you had a special yet uncharted compassion for each other that had bloomed over the last two months. 

“What,” the words taste like venom in his mouth and he desperately wants to spit it out, “he locked you out again?” 

You feign interest in your notes, physiology facts are sprawled onto the margins, while avoiding Kyoutani’s heated gaze. His hand balls into a fist, dull fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. He knows that you won’t answer the seemingly obvious question even when you’re slumped on the floor in a feeble heap and it tugs at his heart.

Unfortunately, when Kyoutani faces displeasure he’s only adept to outwardly show his emotions. Ever since he was born, it was a rule to allow oneself to be impassioned about hobbies, beliefs, and avocations. The blond applied the rule to showcasing his appreciation to the people he deemed as special, as per usual. Except, he didn’t have the best grasp on handling his intense emotions. 

“He’s always treating you like shit,” the next part comes out like a scoff that rages within him, “and you’re always falling for it.” 

The weight of the words felt like a blow to your face, leaving a stinging sensation that resonated within you. The confrontation shook you to the core. Not once has the male ever blamed you for your boyfriend’s inconsideration. 

Kyoutani’s chapped lips form around the syllables of the offense and he automatically knows that he just messed up. Curses sling together within his mind as he pitifully watches your reaction. A silent wince morphs upon your delicate face. You’re recoiling away from him, shrinking yourself into the crevice of the wall. His fingertips reach for you, the action is subconscious, and the next words spill out of his mouth like an off brand remedy. 

“Listen, (Y/n), I didn’t mean it like that-” 

“No,” you speak up with newfound acrimony, “that’s exactly what you meant.” 

Lifting your head up, your narrowed eyes connect with Kyoutani’s wide ones. A part of you desperately wishes to become agitated with the blond. Envy grips a hold of you at the thought that he’s able to live his life freely without the burden of an overbearing significant other. By all means, he had all the attributes to attest your relationship- or lack thereof. 

Your furrowed expression mellows.

Yet, his comment awakens a self reflection that you’ve casted away to maintain some dignity. Your boyfriend’s attitude toward you equated to virtually nothing. Countless nights of arguing, getting locked out, and being pushed aside were bouts of normalcy to you. It was your responsibility to get the respect that you deserved. Cutting out toxicity, even if the future frightened you, was an initial step. 

The golden hue outlining Kyoutani’s eyes, intense in many cases, recast into a softened stare. He’s mindful of the gears shifting in your head and the tremble of your bottom lip settles it. Unknowingly, you just received a life changing message with his chiding. The doors of independence and freedom swing open. An exhale passes through your lips. 

Crouching closer to you, the blond compels your attention with a tilt of his head, “sorry.” 

The apology is gruff, likely the result of his avoidance toward wrongdoings, but the intent is clearly there. Chewing on his bottom lip, he gestures toward your fragile stance with a shifty gaze. Your cowering behavior scared him immensely. It wasn’t often someone else was willing to interact with his loner self. He can’t mess this up even when his pride is screaming at him to bicker.

“It’s not your fault,” you shake your head in reassurance, “I know that it’s mine.” 

Unintentionally, your demeanor frees open with his genuine apology and you can’t help but be soothed at the gentle prod in his scrutiny. He appreciates that you’re able to acknowledge his opposition because the male wasn’t planning on taking his comment back. The truth may hurt but it’ll ultimately improve your mentality in the long run. 

Perching on the heels of his feet, he repositions himself to improve comfort. His arms are draped over his knees and the jacket bunches at the ends due to his movement. The blond is close, alarmingly near your face, and an aromatic whiff of dry cedar invades your senses. 

“You’re just,” his confession smoothly slips out, “too good for him.”

The side of his face rests against his forearm while he awaits your response. He’s content when your eyes light up, gleaming in reverence, at his blunt compliment. Lips tugging upward, your lopsided grin is all he has to witness as he hops to his feet. His palm pats at the faded denim of his jeans before offering his free hand to you. 

“C’mon,” he easily pulls you to your feet in a quick motion, “you can hangout in my dorm room, I guess.” 

“What do you mean, ‘you guess’?” 

Kyoutani catches your teasing eye roll while organizing your school materials that are cluttered on the floor. He’s nimble, stacking your books into a pile and swinging your backpack over his wiry shoulder. 

“I mean, let’s go.” 

With the grace of a dancer, the blond balances the items while fetching his keys and unlocking the door. He nudges it open and steps aside to let you enter first. Certainly the male must’ve picked up the chivalrous acts in a sappy movie or television show because your heart thumps against your chest. It’s absurd in reality. A person helping another is ordinariness yet you feel like you’re flying when he looks at you expectantly.

“Thank you,” the gratitude is a whisper as you tug your sweater tighter to your body and eagerly slide past him.

“Don’t mention it.” 

The room is comfortably warm, easing away the shivers that racked throughout you while seated in the middle of the dorm hallway. Its surprisingly tidy, which also comes across as a shock to Kyoutani because the scrunch of his nose indicates that he’s accustomed to a messy room. However, upon closer inspection, you note that the blond is the one readily cleaning because he scoots aside a stray snack bag with his elbow. An embarrassed pout conforms to his face when he hears your amused giggle.

Gently placing your stuff on the desk, he notices your awkward stance in the middle of the room and gestures to either his bed or desk chair. You respectfully, minus the internal debate you had, settle on the chair and only then does Kyoutani move over to lounge on his bed. It’s eerily silent despite how comfortable you both are with each other. 

Indefinitely, he flops onto the mattress, much like a child would, and folds his hands behind his head to stare up at the popcorn ceiling. A couple months beforehand he would’ve despised being locked up in his dorm room without having anything to do. Now, however, his nerves were bouncing off the walls.

Peering over to your rigid position, he takes your fiddling fingers and shy demeanor with scrutiny. Not once in his life did he think he’d actually invite a person into his sacred place. Yet, when his gaze locks with yours and you return a coy smile- he’s praying that this won’t be the last time.

“So, I only let you in because I don’t get this chemistry problem-”

“Kyou!”

-

Treading backward, a sense of urgency rushes through you as you narrowly avoid the aggressive hands. It’s bewildering that he’s willing to physically confront you in public. The dorm hallway was bound to have university students frequent the place and prying eyes were not on your current wishlist. 

“What are you doing? I told you that we’re over!” 

The incredulous question goes over his head as he refuses to outrightly answer or perhaps he just didn’t wish to. Before this incident, you attempted to just force in a power nap before your next class that was situated across campus. Your ex boyfriend, however, had other plans as he lingered by your dorm room while you were unaware of the unwanted surprise. 

The unruly male is clearly tipsy and his wandering hands are not in your favor as he lunges for you once more. Thankfully, you sidestep away while your shoulder bumps against the wooden frame of a door. Your blood turns to ice.

“Come here and give me a kiss, babe,” your ex boyfriend garbles. 

The stench of alcohol overwhelms your sobriety and a part of you yearns for the familiar scent of dry cedar musk. You longed for the latter of the aromas to engulf you in a reassuring embrace but grabby hands motioned for you again. A slight tug at your cardigan fuels the hatred that ignites within you. Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, inwardly loathing how you managed to date such a pathetic excuse of a person. 

Your hands defensively jab at your ex boyfriend’s chest, “get away from me!” 

“Bitch!”

The sudden force propels him backward, giving you an inch of breathing room, before he’s barreling towards you again. His furrowed brows and snarl illustrate that you’ve unlocked danger. Sweat trickled down your temples, gathering at your hairline and your tongue sweeps across your chapped lips. The thrashing of your heart is the only sensation you’re aware of at the moment. Eyes fixated on his response, you don’t dare to blink. Your ex boyfriend raises a hand, a sign you’ve been introduced to before, and you instinctively flinch at the action.

A lean figure abruptly steps in front of you to provide protection from the physical onslaught. Dry cedar breaches your uneven inhales but you’re holding onto that scent like it was a lifeline. He was your salvation. 

Landing a hit on Kyoutani’s sturdy chest, your ex boyfriend promptly pulls away with a confused glance, “get outta the way, man-” 

“Didn’t you hear her,” the blond barks out and shoves him, “get the fuck away.” 

Waves of animosity radiate off of Kyoutani, a scene that you’ve never witnessed in your encounters with him. He’s absolutely livid. His teeth gnash together while his hands are clenched at his sides. The veins on his brow protrude as a result of his creased forehead. Kyoutani’s damp in perspiration from his hurried movement, a deduction you’ve assumed. 

The male is clad in exercise attire, probably coming back from a run, and his dri fit shirt conforms to his physique. His pullover and snug joggers were clear indicators that Kyoutani was in excellent physical shape, causing a wary stare from your ex boyfriend. 

If the muscles rippling off of Kyoutani’s body isn’t a fright factor then his black, rimmed eyes are intimidatingly adequate. Yet, your ex boyfriend has intelligence compared to a newborn so he still lurches forward to attack Kyoutani. The blond dodges, grasps your ex boyfriend’s wrist, and twists it behind the other’s back. His defensive response is swift- almost alarmingly so that you wonder if Kyoutani ever brawled before. 

“Seriously, cut the shit,” the blond warns, “leave (Y/n) alone.”

When your ex boyfriend utters a curse embedded within your name, the blond pulls the seized wrist tighter and a sickening crack echoes. Your hand flies up to your lips. Yowling in pain, your ex boyfriend’s mouth instinctively shuts to avoid further punishment. 

“‘Ts alright,” Kyoutani rolls his eyes at the other’s dramatic behavior, “I didn’t break it. Yet.” 

Your ex boyfriend’s eyes widen, irises dilated at the gruesome image conjured up in his mind, and pitifully begs, “I-I’ll leave you alone! Please. I’ll do anything! Jesus Christ, (Y/n), who is this guy?” 

Turning his cheek, your ex-boyfriend gets a glimpse of Kyoutani’s face and the recognition dawns on him. He’s seen the aggressive blond before. Months ago, when your ex boyfriend was hollering at your lack of intimacy and the other’s lined eyes glared at him to surrender. One side of the blond’s lips raise, a snarky smirk directed towards the other male. Triumphant reigns within Kyoutani. 

“Her new boyfriend.” 

Raising a freshly cut eyebrow, Kyoutani incites a victorious expression as your ex boyfriend’s eyes are downcast at the message. The blond sneers. A sense of satisfaction, you suppose that’s the rare emotion, floods within you at your offender’s misfortune. You toss Kyoutani a grateful smile and he’s left faltering. He blinks- once, twice, three times- before regaining his intimidating demeanor.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Kyoutani shoves the other male forward when acknowledging the lack of resistance, “or I swear I’ll invert your ribcage.” 

Your ex boyfriend doesn’t need to be reminded, sprinting off with his tail tucked between his legs and stumbling on his uncoordinated strides. You and Kyoutani regard the pathetic male with a deplorable frown. Then, the blond is tugging you close while burying his face into the crook of your neck. You don’t mind the sweat that gathers onto him and instead delve into comfort. A giggle resounds to reach him and he lets in a shaky inhale. He was indebted to the pure luck of running back to you. The thought of you getting injured or reliving the trauma you’ve initially faced was heartbreaking. 

“Kyou,” your nickname to him was like a secret prayer you voiced, “I love you.”

He’s steadfast, a physique of strength and warmth, giving you a perfect invitation to cling onto. Respect, loyalty, and adoration were qualities that you didn’t have to force out of him. Violence, in any form, were taboos that he never crossed. The blond is undoubtedly the beginning of your journey towards self-love. 

“I love you too.” 

The genuine moment lingers on when your teasing nature resumes upon hearing Kyoutani’s forthright confession. Your hand comes up to trace his jawline, collecting perspiration that hasn’t dried up quite yet. He’s still cradling you, fingers protectively pressed against your waist. The sentiment is seldom, yet welcomed, and Kyoutani’s drawing you closer. He’s earnest. Scrunching up your nose, you jokingly flick at his forehead and he’s grumbling at your childishness. 

“You didn’t tell me you’d gone out running,” you motion toward his frazzled state. 

“Phone died.” 

He fishes out his phone from his back pocket. Sure enough, your reflection is illuminated on the dark screen and you nod in acknowledgement. Your head dips to lay on the junction of Kyoutani’s chest. Allowing yourself to get swept up in his embrace is habitual, the addiction smothering an unmistakable itch inside you. 

He’s silent before remarking, “I got us takeout though.” 

Golden eyes don’t miss your gleaming ones and you’re beaming at the mention of food. Raising your head, the narrow stare he’s given causes him to motion to the forgotten bag that’s placed on the floor. Boxed cuisine was cast aside when Kyoutani saw the trouble you were caught up in. 

“What’d you get?” 

“Pizza,” he pauses, “and mozzarella sticks since you liked that stuff.” 

“You’re the best.”

Lifting on your tiptoes, you press a gentle kiss on his cheek and you emit a carefree giggle. His ears burn crimson yet the presumptuous grin on his face brings butterflies in your stomach. Fingers pressing into the sides of your cheeks, he responds with a chaste, insistent kiss on your lips and hums in covert satisfaction. 

It’s dizzying. Your mind is flooded with images of Kyoutani- his appeal in usual clothing, each line of muscle on his physique, and the carnal desire that swirls in his gaze when he pulls away. Your knees are putty as you’re rooted to your spot. The observant fixation is all you need to recognize when he’s aware of his effect on you and he raises a smug brow. 

“Your room or mine?” 

His question is in the form of a drawl, mostly uttered to raise impatience, but it only adds to the adoration you have for him. Your rooms are, quite literally, twenty feet apart. 

Taking a step forward, the blond grasps the large takeout bag while slipping your hand into his free one. His thumb drags across your skin and you’re shivering at his tenderness. Kyoutani proudly rakes his gaze over you, openly compliant and completely in love, before slowly chuckling. 

“Not that it matters, I guess.”

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Three Is Company (Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes)

Summary: The first thing you felt upon realizing who your soulmates were was fear; you spent years avoiding the two men whose names were engraved upon your skin, dreading the day they met you and realized how ordinary you were. Your fear of disappointing them haunts you until one fateful day when the universe brings the three of you together... 

A/N: Hello! I’ve been itching to write a Soulmate AU, and when a wonderful anon suggested this story idea, I just couldn’t resist. WARNING: This fic contains dub con/non con. Read at your own risk! And please let me know what you think!!! 

It was hot outside. Intensely so. The asphalt and concrete of the city had trapped the summer’s heat in until it was stifling, rising up in thick heatwaves from the pavement. Your studio apartment was situated above an old, crumbling used bookstore, and your ancient A/C unit had given up three days ago during the hottest week of the year. Your landlord was getting it fixed soon, but you’d slowly been going insane as you spent your days laying beneath your ceiling fan, only getting up to retrieve glass after glass of ice water from your kitchen.

It was the heat that drove you out of your apartment on that fourth day, and it was the heat that made you break your usual self-imposed rules in regard to your choice of clothing. Ever since your 20th birthday, you’d vowed only to ever wear short-sleeves in the privacy of your home, and you kept your hair long enough to cover the nape of your neck, never daring to pull it up unless you were also wearing a turtleneck. It was safer that way, you’d told yourself.

No one but you could know your secret.

That day, though, you left your apartment in a pair of shorts and a white tank top, your hair thrown up into a bun as you nervously made your way down the street to your favorite café. You squinted in the sunlight and dug through your purse for your pair of sunglasses. Once they were securely on, marched onwards, eyes scanning the street around you closely. You dug your right hand into your pocket, keeping your forearm pressed against your body, and you’d left a few fly-away hairs loose at the back of your head; you could feel them tickling your neck with every step you took in your canvas-colored high-tops.

When you finally reached ‘Cool Beans’, you nearly moaned as a blast of air conditioning licked at your heated skin. People were scattered about the coffee shop; you hadn’t been the first to come up with the idea of seeking refuge within its walls. You ordered a strawberry smoothie for yourself, and when it arrived you pressed the cold, sweating plastic of its cup against your cheek as you made your way to a vacant sofa in the corner. You sat down and pulled your notebook out of your bag, seeing the flash of black letters against your skin with every movement of your right arm.

James Buchanan Barnes

You sighed, pushing the man out of your head as you started jotting down an outline for your next three chapters, hoping that no one saw. You’d made sure to sit with your back facing the wall, not wanting anyone’s eyes lingering on the name scrawled into the skin beneath your neck. Steven Grant Rogers was a name that too many people were familiar with.

Not everyone had a soulmate; in fact, only about a third of the population did. It was even rarer to have two, but you’d been among the lucky few. Or unlucky was more like it in your case.

You were terrified of both of the men whose names were permanently seared into your skin. Their lives were dangerous, full of villains who would stop at nothing to tear apart anything or anyone they cared about. You weren’t cut out for that lifestyle; you couldn’t handle constantly looking over your shoulder.

Or at least…that was what you told yourself.

On the days when you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore, on the days where you drank your feelings until your head spun, you knew that you were really just terrified of yourself, of not living up to them. They were both as powerful as they were beautiful, and you were just…you. A little girl living in Brooklyn, her head in the clouds of whatever novel she was working on at the time. The universe must have been laughing when it chose you to be their third soulmate. How could you live up to the two titans you were meant to love? And how could they ever want you?

You were so certain that you would disappoint them that you fell off the grid, keeping the identity of your intendeds secret to everyone who knew you. You published under a pseudonym and deleted all of your social medias, letting your fear control you.

Now, your 20th birthday was long past you, and it was the first time you’d been around so many people with your soulmarks visible. As you sipped on your smoothie and focused on the scratch of your pen against paper, though, you were starting to relax. No one had so much as batted an eye at you, and inspiration was finally taking hold as you planned out the course of your lasted work-in-progress.

You became so focused on your thoughts, in fact, that you didn’t even notice it when a hush suddenly fell over the coffee shop. People whispered amongst one another all around you as two sets of feet started making their way to the line in front of the barista. Your ears perked up when you heard the word ‘autograph’, though, and after finishing the last sentence you were writing, you glanced up towards the front of the café.

And you swore that your heart stopped beating.

Captain America – no, Steve – was smiling good-naturedly at the girl behind the counter as he scrawled his signature on the napkin she’d offered him, handing it to her while saying something you couldn’t quite make out. The man standing next to him was almost as tall as he was, and his long brown hair was pulled up in a bun. Despite the heat, he was wearing leather gloves and a long sleeved Henley, but you would recognize him anywhere even with his metal arm hidden.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were standing less than thirty feet away from you, and you couldn’t fucking breathe.

You couldn’t help but stare as they placed their orders before shuffling around to the end of the coffee bar, waiting for their drinks as they talked with one another. Bucky said something that made Steve laugh, and you gulped as his eyes lit up and his mouth split into a wide grin. They were even more handsome in person…

You shook your head and looked down at your notebook as your heart beat frantically. You squeezed your eyes shut, pushing yourself to just think. They were right there – they could see you. You needed to leave, but what if they noticed you when you stood up? Maybe you should stay and lay low? But that would just be stupid, right?

Your breathing was heavy as your eyes darted upwards, and you felt your blood run cold when you found two pairs of blue eyes looking right at you. It was the look on their face that made you shiver, though. They knew you. They recognized who you were, despite you having never met. And that was when your instincts kicked in. Run, your brain whispered. Get. Out.

You immediately stood up on shaky legs, shoving your things back into your purse while keeping your right arm pressed to your abdomen. Your knees wobbled as you headed towards the door, and you forced your eyes downward as you watched your unsteady feet move.

As soon as your back was to them, though, you heard one of them suck in a breath, and that was when you remembered the name on your neck. You froze where you stood and clapped your left hand over it, spinning on your heel to look at them with wide eyes.

For a long moment, all three of you just stood there, not knowing what to do. You were starting to feel numb from shock, and your throat was growing tight as tears filled your vision. Not like this, not now, not them…

But then Steve said your name, the question just barely audible as it left his lips. Your arms fell limply to your sides, and Bucky’s eyes widened when he finally saw the words on your forearm.

“It’s you,” he murmured.

A sound that was dangerously close to a sob escaped your lips, and without a second thought, you turned and ran, pushing the café doors open and turning towards your apartment. Your sneakers slapped against the concrete, and you didn’t even feel the heat as you heard two sets of feet chasing after you.

“Please, wait!” Steve shouted. “We just wanna talk!”

You didn’t turn back, sprinting until you came upon the used bookstore. You almost tripped as you turned down the alleyway, not even aware that you couldn’t hear Steve and Bucky behind you anymore. Huffing and puffing, you climbed up the rickety stairs to your front door and fumbled with your key, shoving it into the lock roughly and jiggling it until it opened.

As soon as the door closed behind you, you leaned back against it, closing your eyes as you caught your breath. A flurry of emotions were raging within you, and your heart was hammering in your chest. You let your eyes close as sobs started to shake your body, and tears were starting to make their slow descent down your cheeks.

But that was when you heard someone clear their throat. Your head snapped up, and your lips parted in shock as you watched Bucky and Steve walk out of your bedroom, your open window just barely visible past the broad expanse of their shoulders.

“How…” Your voice trailed off, and your throat felt dry as you swallowed thickly.

The two men shared a glance, seeming to be able to read one another’s thoughts. They turned to you in tandem, and Steve took a deep breath in through his nose before speaking.

“…I really don’t know where to start,” he sighed. “This isn’t how we wanted this to go.”

You bit your lip to stop it from trembling, wincing when you heard the gears in Bucky’s arm shift as he clenched his fist.

“Why did you run from us?” he demanded, his shoulder brushing against Steve’s as he took a step towards you.

You shook your head and looked away, hugging yourself as they started closing in on you.

“I… I can explain-“ you began, but Steve just huffed and shook his head.

“Explain what? Why you tried to run away from your soulmates?” he asked. “Or how about why you’ve been running from us since you woke up with our names on your skin?”

You blinked in surprise, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, doll, you think we haven’t known about you?” he scoffed. “You know who we are. We could track down anyone we wanted to.”

“Then why-“

“We didn’t want it to go this way,” Steve repeated. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you, waiting until you seemed ready for us. We didn’t mean to run into you at the café. But now that it’s happened…”

His fingers drifted towards your face, but you flinched away, suddenly realizing just how close they were to you.

“Wh-What do you mean, you’ve been keeping an eye on me? Have you… Have you been spying on me?”

“We’ve been making sure you’re safe,” Bucky insisted. “You don’t exactly live in the nicest part of Brooklyn, doll.”

“And since you made it clear that you didn’t want us around… We kept our distance. Tried to do this right,” Steve added. “We didn’t wanna scare you.”

“Well you’ve failed!” you exclaimed, shoving past them and backing up towards your bedroom. “I’m terrified. You tell me that you’ve been stalking me, and then you act like I’m the one to blame?”

“We didn’t ‘stalk’ you-“ Steve started, but Bucky stomped towards you, his jaw clenched.

“We wouldn’t have had to watch you,” he growled, “if you’d have just…just accepted us.” His voice broke, and you felt your heart clench as you watched him blink away tears.

“Are we… Am I,” he corrected, “really that frightening?”

You frowned, not understanding what he was implying, but then his eyes drifted towards his metal hand and you understood; he thought that he was the one to scare you, that his past was what kept you from wanting them.

“I… That’s not why,” you insisted. “That has nothing to do with it.”

Surprise flitted over the Winter Soldier’s features, and he seemed too stunned to respond. Steve sighed and set a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“I told you, Buck,” he murmured. He turned back to you, and that feeling of unease came back in full force. “But what was it, then? What was the reason why you didn’t want us?”

“It… It doesn’t matter now,” you stuttered, shaking your head. “You two are scaring me; I want you to leave. This isn’t… This isn’t right-“

“But it is right,” Steve insisted, caging you in between them. “The universe itself wants us to be together, hon. That’s why our names are on your body. And its why yours is on ours.”

He rested one hand on your shoulder, keeping you securely in place while the other pulled back the neckline of his t-shirt. In bold black letters, your name was scrawled over his heart. Your eyes widened, and you felt your fingers twitch with the sudden impulse to touch it. You refused to listen to that thought, though, and tried to turn around, but you only found yourself face to chest with Bucky. He brought his metal arm up to rest on your hip, and you couldn’t help but enjoy its cool sensation in the sweltering heat.

His eyes never left yours as he pulled the hem of his shirt up, and you bit your lip when you saw your name arched across one of his hip bones. Steve’s name was written across his ribs, just above yours, and you felt tears spring to your eyes. They were right here in front of you for the very first time, and you were starting to feel so much more than fear.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, jolting when you felt Steve’s lips descend onto the soulmark of his name written beneath your neck.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Whatever the reason was for your running, it doesn’t matter. We have you now.”

“And,” Bucky added, grabbing your wrist to bring your forearm up against his mouth, kissing his name, “we’re never gonna let you go, doll. It’s gonna be ok; you’re with us now. Where you belong.”

You struggled one more time, but they were too strong; you didn’t even budge. Their smell was overwhelming – sweat and sandalwood cologne – and it was starting to drown out your better judgement. Steve’s mouth was working its way to the side of your neck, and you gasped when his cool tongue lapped at your skin before he started sucking a mark into it. Bucky, for his part, was running his vibranium fingers up your waist, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His flesh hand reached out, gripping your chin and tilting your face up to his.

“Don’t you want us, baby?” he whispered. “We feel it too, you know. The pull. Why do you keep trying to fight against it?”

You blinked away the moisture gathering in your eyes, feeling your resolve start to crumble as you stared up at his crystalline eyes; he was right. You did feel the pull – it was as if there was a string tied between your hearts, forever linking and binding you to them. It had always been there, but now that they were here with you, touching you, it was harder than ever to resist it.

“What if…” You gulped, looking down at his combat boots. “What if I’m not good enough? What if I disappoint-“

“No.”

Steve’s voice was hard as steel, and you found yourself being turned around by his hands, maneuvered like a ragdoll. His face was stern, commanding, as he looked down at you.

“I don’t ever want to hear you saying something like that,” he demanded. “Forces that are powerful and wiser than you or me have decided we’re meant for each other; it’s disrespectful of you to even doubt for a moment that they’re wrong.”

You let out a sob, trying to push him away, but he grabbed your wrists, holding them against his chest. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling as you looked up at him, finding that his countenance had softened considerably as he watched you.

“And, doll… You are everything we ever could have hoped for and more,” he promised. “We’ve been watching, remember? Everything about you, even the parts you think are ugly, only make us want you more. How could we ever be disappointed with such a gift?”

Maybe it was the years of self-doubt, or maybe it was the bond between the three of you, or maybe it was your own fear that made you act next. You knew, in the back of your mind, that red flags were still flying; you were still horrified that they’d stalked you, and the arms wrapped around you were no less constricting. But a wall came crashing down within you upon hearing Steve’s words, and with a soft noise of weakness, you cupped his cheeks and pulled him into a kiss.

It felt as if his lips were made of fire as he kissed you back. Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips as Steve’s came up to your shoulders, playing with your flyaway hairs as he moved his mouth against yours. Though you had initiated it, he took control quickly, wasting no time in swiping his tongue across your lower lip. He forced it inside of you, licking into your mouth as you clung to him. You couldn’t fight back the moan that arose when Bucky planted his own mouth on your neck, his teeth worrying at your flesh gently. Your toes curled in your sneakers, and your heartbeat threatened to drown out the wet sound of the kiss.

As soon as Steve pulled away, Bucky was moving to take his place, and you only had a second to gulp down a breath before he was kissing you. His lips were more chapped than Steve’s had been, but he was even more certain in his movements. His tongue brushed against yours expertly, and when he nipped at your lower lip, you let out what could only be described as a squeak. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, but Bucky only chuckled and leaned in for another kiss.

Steve was not idle, though. His hands started playing with the hem of your shirt, pushing his fingertips beneath it to map out your heated skin. At first, it tickled, and you couldn’t help but smile against Bucky’s lips. But then his hands started moving upwards, and you were tense all over again. You pulled away, taking a step back and moving to shove your tank top back down, but both men didn’t let you gain any distance.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” the brunette chided as Steve tsked. “It’s just us. And we’ve waited for so long…”

Your eyes widened at his insinuation, and once again the Captain reached for your shirt.

“W-wait, I don’t… I don’t think I’m ready for, um…that,” you stammered, but all you succeeded in doing was making them laugh.

“Oh, my god… Stevie, she’s fucking adorable.”

“So innocent… C’mon, doll, don’t you trust us?”

You narrowed your eyes at their smiles, about to say that no, you didn’t trust them considering the situation. But you didn’t get to say anything before Steve was pulling you into another bruising kiss, hands on your cheeks. Bucky moved behind you once more, and this time you yelped when you felt cold metal against your stomach. A harsh ripping sound was heard, and you felt your tank top fall away. You tried to turn your head away, pushing at Steve’s shoulders and kicking at his legs, but he didn’t move a muscle. He just ignored your protests, seemingly wrapped up in your kiss.

Bucky hummed and ran his fingertips up the curve of your spine.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” he mused, sounding as if he were talking to himself. “So much prettier than any dame I’ve ever been with.”

You tried to scream when his fingers went to the waistband of your shorts, and Steve pulled away with a heavy sigh.

“Baby, c’mon,” he chided. “This’ll help us grow closer. I promise it’ll feel-“

“Please,” you cried, your nerves coming back with full force. “Please, I… I liked the kissing. We could just kiss; I promise I won’t run anymore.”

Bucky hummed, his nose brushing against your shoulder as he kissed it.

“Sweetheart…” You jolted when you felt something hard press against your ass, and Steve pushed his palm over your mouth when you tried to call out for help again. “Does it feel like I just wanna kiss you? No, baby. I want so much more than that.”

“We both do,” Steve added. He grabbed one of your wrists, pulling your hand to the bulge in his jeans. Your eyes widened when you felt the hardness there, and you tried to pull your hand away, yanking your arm back so hard that your shoulder ached.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he smirked. “Unless… Wait, have you never done this before?”

Bucky froze, still gripping your shorts by their beltloops, and you nodded frantically. Steve pulled his hand away, and you once more took in a deep breath.

“I’ve never… Please, I don’t want my first time to be like this,” you pleaded. “I’m not ready; this is all happening so fast…”

But it didn’t seem like Steve or Bucky were listening to you. They were looking at one another intensely, as if they were reading one another’s minds. And, hell, maybe they were, to a degree – when you knew someone for as long as they’d known each other, you must be able to tell a lot just from one look.

“…C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky suddenly said, “You’re longer.”

“Yeah, but you’re thicker,” Steve reasoned.

“I’ve actually been with virgins before. Remember how good I was for your first time? We do not want a repeat of when I first let you fuck me.”

“I’ve gotten better! You know I have; last night I didn’t hear any complaining.”

“That’s cuz I had to teach you how to stretch me! Jesus, that first time I’m surprised you didn’t split me in half-“

Your eyes grew round with terror when you realized what they were arguing about, and you started flailing again, desperate to get away. No, no, this couldn’t be happening…

Your sudden frenzy drew their attention back to you, and both of them gripped you tight, holding you still against Bucky’s chest.

“Woah, woah, woah,” the soldier breathed, his long brown hair tickling your neck. “Calm down, baby girl. Neither of us is gonna split you in half; we can go nice and slow, ok?”

“Let me go!” you wailed, kicking at Steve. He easily dodged your legs, though, maneuvering you so your legs were off the ground, his pelvis pressing against yours. You winced when you felt just how big his erection had gotten, shying away from him. All that did was press you harder against Bucky, though, which he misinterpreted completely.

“See, Stevie? You’re scaring her. Just let me-“

“I don’t want either-“

You were cut off by Steve’s hand on your mouth again, and the two men shared one more look. Eventually, Steve relented, sighing and giving Bucky a nod.

“Fine,” he groaned. “But you owe me.”

You turned your head just in time to watch Bucky press a peck to Steve’s lips as he grinned coyly.

“Don’t worry, baby. I know how I can repay you later.”

He finally turned back to you, and you found yourself being carried into your bedroom. You gave up on your struggles, quickly realizing that there was no use in trying to fight them; you were no match for either of the super soldiers, much less both of them.

“That’s a good girl,” Bucky praised, setting you down on the mattress. He sat down beside you, and you scrambled away, pressing your back against the headboard.

“Now, doll,” he said, pinning you with a look. “This can go one of two ways. You can be good and stop your whining, or you can keep on fighting. But both of us know that fighting won’t get you anywhere. And if you just let us be with you… Hon, I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

You looked between the two men, feeling your anger start to drain out of you. Because in spite of yourself, of what they were doing, there was a part of you that wanted this. It was the same part of you that had kissed Steve; it was the same part of you that had wondered about your soulmates ever since your 20th birthday. You knew that what Bucky was saying was true; there was no escaping this situation.

After a while, you heaved a sigh and met the Sergeant’s eyes. You gave him a hesitant nod, and that was all he needed to see before he was pulling you towards him by your ankle. You yelped as your head hit the pillow, but the weight of him laying between your legs quickly took up your focus.

“Good, baby,” he sighed, rutting against you. “I knew you would come around.”

You felt the mattress dip beside you as Steve lay parallel to your body, running his hand tantalizingly down your thigh. You winced when he suddenly gripped your flesh and pulled on your leg, maneuvering it around Bucky’s waist. You could feel his hard-on grinding against your shorts, and shame seeped through your blood when you realized you were enjoying it.

Wordlessly, Bucky once more grabbed the waist of your shorts, finally starting to push them down your legs. Your panties rolled down with them, leaving you in just your bra, and both men moaned at the sight of your damp folds.

“Knew you wanted me,” Bucky sighed, his metal hand moving up to cup your pussy. You flinched at the sudden change of temperature, trying to close your legs, but Steve’s firm hand prevented you from doing so.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the Captain chided. “You’re doing so well. Just give in. Relax.”

Your body was still tight as a bowstring despite his words, and the man on top of you huffed out a little laugh.

“It’s ok to be nervous, doll,” he assured you. “But don’t worry. I’ll have you begging for it in no time.”

His fingers started spreading your folds, the vibranium gliding along your heated flesh smoothly. You bit your lip when his digits skimmed over your clit, and you could see Steve lick his lips out of the corner of your eyes.

“So pretty and pink, doll… Your pussy is so cute.” Bucky smirked, and one of his fingers slid inside of you without warning. You whined, letting your head fall back at the intrusion – it was only a finger, sure, and you’d fucked yourself with your little pink vibrator before, but it still stung.

Your breathing grew heavy as he started pumping his finger, curling it and working it in and out of you as the heel of his palm pressed against your clit. You shifted your hips, gasping at the friction it created against your bud, and you once again rolled them, this time upwards into his touch. It was fucked up, being used like this against your will, but your body didn’t seem to mind the violation.

Within seconds, Bucky was adding a second finger, and though you would never admit it, you welcomed the stretch. Your brows were furrowed with the effort it was taking to hold in your moans, but neither of your soulmates seemed to care.

“God, can you hear how wet she is?” Bucky breathed. Steve nodded, starting to unbuckle his belt.

“She’s gonna feel so good, Buck. I just know it.”

You chanced a glimpse over at Steve, and your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you watched him reach into his jeans, pulling his throbbing cock out. Your eyes widened at the size of it, and you quickly snapped your gaze away as he started stroking it lazily. Bucky caught your eye and gave you a wink, smirking as he started to scissor the fingers inside of you.

“See something you like, dollface?” he murmured. “Just wait till it’s inside you. Fuck, I can’t wait to see those big, pretty eyes roll to the back of your head.”

You gulped, opening your mouth to protest, but your words died on your tongue when he added a third finger. A moan escaped your mouth unbidden, and you clapped a hand over your lips to silence yourself.

“Hey,” Steve grumbled, pulling it away. “No, no, baby. We wanna hear you.” His words were thick with his suppressed moans, and you watched as his lips parted in pleasure as he pumped his cock.

“Fuck it, I can’t wait anymore.”

Your head snapped forward once again, and you whimpered as Bucky pulled his hand away and started undressing. He shed his shirt, first, leaving you to watch his muscles flex and contract as he started working his jeans off. Your gaze lingered on the angry scar that was wrapped around the line where skin met metal, and you winced at how red and irritated it looked.

Bucky caught you staring and grunted, throwing his jeans and boxers to the floor with an impatient flick of the wrist.

“Don’t look at it, baby,” he whispered. “I know it’s hard to take in. I’m still all man, though.” He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm before guiding it down his stomach. You closed your eyes as your fingers brushed against his cock, trying to tune out Bucky’s moan as he rutted against your palm. “See that, baby? That’s all for you.”

“You’re starting to make me feel left out over here, ya know,” Steve grumbled, his hand stilling on his cock as he quirked an eyebrow up at Bucky. The former soldier only smiled, though, and leaned down to kiss the blonde’s lips. You felt your pussy clench as you watched their mouths move against one another, biting your lip when you saw Bucky’s tongue slide into Steve’s mouth. You felt as if you should look away, not wanting to encroach on such an intimate moment, but when Steve pulled back and pulled you into an even more searing kiss, all of those thoughts went out the window.

As he was kissing you, Bucky knelt between your legs and spread your thighs wider. Your eyes snapped open you felt the head of his cock bump against your entrance, and Steve pulled back, pressing his forehead to yours and forcing you to look at him.

“It’s gonna hurt for a second, baby,” he told you. “But just relax; Bucky’s gonna make you feel real good.”

With that, you felt him start to push inside of you, and you wailed as he stretched your virgin pussy inch by inch. The moan that escaped his lips drowned you out, though, and you watched as he tossed his head back, the muscles in his throat working as he slowly bottomed out.

“Fuck, doll,” he panted, pressing a quick peck to your lips, “God, you’re fucking tight. Tightest pussy I’ve e-ever fe-elt…”

He moaned once again, biting his lip as he started circling his hips. Your pussy felt white-hot with pain, but you couldn’t deny that it was accompanied by a sense of pleasure. You were so wet, and so full, and the noises that both men were making went right to your cunt. You shut your eyes tight and tried to follow their advice, tried to relax beneath Bucky as he slowly started thrusting his hips.

“That’s good,” he praised. “Just enjoy it; lay back and let me take care of you…”

His thrusts started out shallow, just barely pulling back by a few inches before pushing back in, but he was still managing to graze your g-spot with every shift of his hips. His hair hung in loose tresses around his face, and his skin was already starting to grow slick with sweat. Steve, meanwhile, had already shucked off his shirt and his pants, and he was working on shimmying his boxers down when Bucky started moving faster.

“I-I’m sorry, doll,” he grunted, “I know I should be going slow, but you’re so fucking good…”

You let out a moan as he started snapping his hips harder, and your fists clenched around the sheets on either side of your hips. Your legs were splayed out wide, swaying with the movement of his hips, and once Steve tossed his boxers to the floor, his hands were on you. One of them trailed down between yours and Bucky’s body, his fingers seeking out your bud. His other hand was in your hair, pulling your head back as he attached his lips to your neck. You knew that, come tomorrow, you were going to be covered in bright purple bruises.

Your breath caught in your throat when Steve found your clit, and Bucky let out a sharp moan when your hips instinctively bucked up against his.

“That feel good, baby? You like it when Stevie plays with your cute little clit?”

You felt yourself nodding, and suddenly Bucky’s hands were behind your knees, pushing them up towards your chest as he fucked deeper into you. In this new position, you swore you could feel him in your stomach, but between the way his cock was hitting against your g-spot and the swirling of Steve’s fingers, you knew you wouldn’t last much longer. Your fear, your pride, they both faded into the background as you were fucked into the mattress, and you were only vaguely aware of your own voice, moaning and begging for more, yes, more, please I need it so bad…

“You want me, baby?” Bucky growled out from behind clenched teeth. “You want this? Then prove it. Cum for me; I know you’re close. Cum all over me; do it now, doll, cum for me-“

Your head pushed back against the pillow beneath it as your body suddenly went taught. A strangled gasp left your lips as the knot inside of you burst, and just moments later you felt warmth flood you as Bucky found his release. Both of your voices were hoarse as you came down from your high, hips lazily rocking with one another as you rose out your orgasms. His eyelids were half closed, and his lips were just barely twisted up into a tiny, satisfied smile.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby… You did so good.” He leaned down, strands of sweaty hair brushing against your forehead as he pressed soft, gentle kisses to your temples and cheeks. You allowed it without complaint, feeling weightless the pleasure finally ceased washing over you. You leaned into the cold metal of his hand as he brushed some of your hair out of your eyes, and his smile grew as he watched you.

“Not to ruin the moment,” Steve said suddenly, “But I’m still waiting for my turn.”

Bucky let out a chuckle and rolled to your left, and two strong hands suddenly gripped your hips and pulled on you. You didn’t struggle as Steve manipulated your body, making you straddle him as his hands rested against your ass.

“I know you’re tired, baby, but look how hard you got me.” You looked down obediently at his cock, flushed a deep red and leaking a bit of precum. “You can do this, baby. I’ll help you. Let’s see if I can make you cum one more time.”

He guided your hips, and when you felt his head press against your entrance you gripped his wrists, your nails biting into his skin.

“N-no, wait-“

Your protests were ignored as he made you sink down onto his cock. Despite just getting fucked, your pussy still felt stretched as he slid inside, but you were so wet that he met with no resistance. Bucky had been right earlier; Steve’s cock was longer, and you felt it brush painfully against your cervix as your pussy finally rested against his pelvis.

“Oh, god…” You planted your hands on Steve’s chest for support, watching his eyelashes flutter and his lips part as he felt your tight, wet heat. “Fuck, doll, you’re… Shit, this is so good…”

“Language, Stevie,” Bucky snarked. You glanced over at him; his arms were crossed beneath his head as he watched the two of you, and his lips were bright pink and swollen from kissing you. You winked at you, actually fucking winked, and Steve let out a growl as he reached over to swat at his thigh.

“Shut up, jerk,” he grunted.

His hands once more found your hips, and you gasped as he started moving them.

“Ride me like this, sweetheart,” he begged. “Please, just… Move those little hips for me, just like that.”

Despite having just cum, you let out a moan as you did as he said, starting to roll and bounce your hips just like he’d instructed. Your walls were sensitive, and every time Steve bottomed out, you winced at the feeling of his pelvis brushing against your clit, but it still felt so good, so unlike anything you’d ever felt while pleasuring yourself alone at night.

You gradually started finding your own rhythm, leaning back to press your palms against Steve’s thighs for better leverage. The new angle made both of you let out a deep, drawn out moan, and unbidden you started to move faster, chasing your second release as it started building up inside of you.

Steve’s hands closed down on your breasts, squeezing them and watching them bounce as you rode him. His thumbs tweaked your nipples and you preened, arching your back at the foreign, pleasant feeling.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” he murmured. “How ‘bout this?” He leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, letting his bottom teeth just barely graze it before letting his tongue lave over it, tracing tight little circles against it.

You nearly screamed at the sensation, bouncing faster on his cock until he had to let his head fall back, his eyes screwed shut tightly.

“Shit, doll, you’re gonna make me cum,” he grunted. “Don’t stop; don’t you dare fuckin’ stop…”

His hands closed down on your hips again, and you glanced over when you heard Bucky moan. He was still watching the both of you, but you gasped when you saw him thrusting into his fist, his cock hard once more. He was biting his lip, eyes focused on your face, and suddenly your second orgasm was hitting you like a freight train.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your lips parted in a scream as you felt your pussy clench around Steve’s cock. You heard a muffled curse escape his lips, and he started thrusting up into you as your cunt fluttered around him. Once, twice, then three times, and he was spilling his seed inside of you.

You slumped against his chest, his cock softening before he shifted his hips, pulling it out as both his and Bucky’s cum started leaking out of you. If you had felt more present, you would have been ashamed of how that must look, but you didn’t give it a second thought as your head rose and fell with the cadence of Steve’s breathing.

“…Fuck.”

Both of your soulmates let out a laugh upon hearing you say that one little word, and you were tempted to crack a smile of your own. But then the gravity of what had just transpired washed over you anew, and you sat up in shame, looking between the two men who had just… They’d just…

“Shhh, doll,” Bucky cooed, pulling you down to lay between them. Two sets of muscular arms wrapped around you, and you felt a sob wrack your form as dread started to overtake you. “It’s ok, shhhh…. I know, I know. You’re feeling a lot of weird emotions right now. But it’s all gonna be ok.”

“He’s right, princess,” Steve murmured, ghosting his lips over your hairline. “Everything is gonna work out; you’ll see. Me and Buck are gonna take such good care of you. You’ll see, in time. You’ll love us, just like we love you.”

[fierysafrina]

Need You Now | Satan x f!reader

Fandom: Obey Me! Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3.600 Genre: Smut | Slice of Life | Romance | Fluff Additional tags: Breath play | Fingering | Double penetration | slight Voyeurism | Hair pulling | Dirty talk Summary: Who knew a trip to a library will bring you this far? Notes: And here it is. At long last! I wanted to post this yesterday on his birthday, but didn’t find the chance, so here it is. One day later, but not less filthier asdfghjkl I apologize ahead if there are mistakes left cause I’m running on time, but I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

If there was one thing you knew, it was that libraries in the human world held nothing against the Royal Library in Devildom. Not even infamous Tianjin Binhai and Alexandria libraries could measure up to it. With many floors beneath the surface, Royal Library was one of the most stunning libraries you had ever seen. It made you wonder how in the whole wide world, Celestial Realm and Devildom did Satan get a job in this one. Then again it was Satan we were talking about. He could devour book after book with no stopping, knowing of things you didn’t even know existed just like you didn’t know demons and hell really existed.

Which was why you were currently gaping at the bookshelf after the bookshelf while Satan was calmly walking in front of you. As someone who loves books and even has a small share of them at home, this felt like living in a dream. It was too good to be true. You pinched yourself into the same place as you did ten times before and no wonder a small redness was already visible.

Not hearing your footsteps behind, Satan stopped and turned. He raised an eyebrow when he saw you peeking behind a bookshelf, eyes unable to stay in one place for long before you walked to the next bookshelf and repeated the same thing. He let out a silent sigh and shook his head, unsure how to keep you distracted.

“You know,” you began slowly when you finally stopped by his side. Your eyes were still all around the place, still unsure where to look before you finally looked at him. “I love this place. Tell me, is there a house built in? An apartment? If you say yes, I’d believe you without checking the facts.” you said ever so seriously and Satan believed you.

“I must disappoint you, but there are no apartments in this library.” He chuckled. “Rooms for staff yes, but nothing else.” He began walking once more, but this time you followed right away. “Each floor has three rooms for staff. One on each side and one in the middle. Makes it a better help when searching for books.”

“Okay, but how many … demons are working here?” you asked.

“Too many; but then again there are always at least two by the counters beside those rooms, at least three inside to prepare books if you check them over the computer you saw on the ground floor and there’s always at least five returning the books to their right places.” He explained and you nodded intently. “Although lately, especially in the floors beneath the surface, we’re trying with a different approach to return the books. It’s something similar to the Harry Potter wizarding world.”

Your eyes widened at that. “You mean like magic?” you wiggled your fingers in front of your face and Satan laughed, nodding. “What about Little D’s?”

“They’re mostly behind in the archive, but they’re also looking if the books went to the right place.” He answered and stopped in front of the elevator. “If you wish we can check it out later.”

“I’d love to!” you agreed without hesitation.

Satan smiled at your enthusiasm before you walked inside the elevator. “I hope you don’t have other things to do today. It could prolong too late.”

“Don’t worry,” You waved with a hand. Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you wrapped your arms around yourself, smiling. “If I could, I'd live in a library.”

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, curious. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” With a shrug you followed Satan out when you reached the second floor. Your eyes widened, feeling like you just stepped into a castle instead. Shaking your head, you paced to Satan’s side, continuing; “I love books. I have two bookshelves back in the human world. I want more of course.” you grinned.

“So what kind of books are to your taste?” Satan asked as you walked down the hallway.

You kept looking around, almost missing his question. “Criminal, sci-fi, stories based on real events are cool too.” You murmured and stopped when you spotted a sofa chair amongst all those bookshelves. “Are you kidding me?” you looked at Satan, scowling. “You guys can literally sleep here on those chairs and no one would bat an eye?”

Satan looked behind you and smiled. “Sleep over the night no, but something similar.”

“You guys are no fun.” You pouted before you continued your way. “Hey, since I’m here, can I look around?” you asked, pointing behind yourself.

“Sure,” he nodded and before he could say anything else, you were long gone. Satan stood there, in the middle of the hallway, watching your fast decreasing form with wide eyes. He laughed, shaking with his head and continued with his work.

Stretching your arms, you straightened on the sofa chair you were sitting. With legs beneath you and book on your lap, you completely lost track of time. Checking the time on your D.D.D the corners of your lips twitched when you saw a couple of messages from Satan. The last one seemed to be from a couple of minutes ago, asking for a second time about your whereabouts. Feeling guilty for not responding, you decided to call him instead, after all, you didn’t exactly send him where you were in this big library.

It only rang once, when he picked it up.

“Where are you?”

Smiling nervously, you looked around. “Among … history, I think?”

“You think? I’ve been trying to contact you for the last hour, sending you message after message only to get no response. I was ready to overthrow the whole library.”

“I’m sorry!” you were quick to apologize. “I just got so absorbed into the book that it completely slipped my mind to text you where I’m at.” Placing a paper among the pages, you closed the book and stood up, but not before putting on your shoes. “Where are you? I’ll meet you halfway.” You said and looked around, noticing no one around.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there quickly.”

You pouted. “Then I’ll look around a bit if you don’t mind.”

Satan chuckled. “I don’t. But try to be in a visible place.”

“Aye, aye sir!” you were grinning from ear to ear. Hanging up, you placed the phone on top of the book before you disappeared among the bookshelves once more.

You were humming to yourself when you felt hands on your waist. Your eyes widened and you turned your head enough to see blond hair. Satan was leaning his forehead on your shoulder, his grip tightening until you were sure it would leave marks in its wake.

“Satan?” you called quietly, softly and tried to turn, but he didn’t budge. “What’s wrong?” you asked worried and narrowed your eyebrows.

The moment his lips brushed against your skin, you remembered the incident with syrup. You blinked, but before you could speak, Satan bit on your shoulder. You flinched and the moment you took a step forward, Satan pushed you, caging you between his arms and bookshelf. You barely caught yourself only to be turned around and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. Your eyes were wide at his actions that seemed rushed and needy. Your cheeks heated up in a second when you felt a familiar sensation in your stomach.

“I’m sorry…” Satan panted, his warm breath tickling your neck.

A shiver ran down your spine as you tried to control your sudden need for more.

“I-I’ll explain everything, but I need you right now…” his grip tightened before he nibbled on your neck, leaving a small bruise behind.

You unconsciously shut your eyes and parted your lips, a silent moan escaping. With one hand, Satan held your chin and turned it his way, his lips capturing yours while with the other he began to grope your chest. You felt something wrap around your leg.

“Can-can I?” Satan stuttered.

You found yourself nodding and Satan wasted no time to press himself closer to you. You felt his hardness through your clothes and unconsciously ground yourself against him, wanting more. The kiss was anything but soft and gentle. It was needy and rushed. He was holding you by your shoulders before he sneaked one of his hands down your arm and thigh.

Feeling goosebumps on your arms, you shiver when his hand sneaked under the vintage dress that you’re wearing. He half groaned, half moaned into the kiss when he felt your panties already damp and you felt your cheeks grow hot because now he knew. He could feel what he was doing to you. Placing hands on his shoulders, you supported yourself from falling to the floor because the next moment he pressed a finger to your heat, making you gasp in anticipation.

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” Satan cursed when he pulled away and it only dawned on you in that same moment he already had one finger inside. He looked into your eyes. “Is this your first time?” he breathed out as he pulled the finger back out, rubbing at your clit instead.

You moaned at the loss, but shook with your head. “Well…” you began, but stopped. You were the first to avert your gaze, feeling embarrassed to admit it. “I-I tried d-different things.” You stuttered and moaned when every once in a while he slid his finger inside. His fingers felt completely different than yours did. It felt so much better. He was already filling you with just one. How much fuller will you be when he penetrates you?

Leaning closer, Satan began to trail his kisses down your jaw and beneath and then to your neck, making it almost impossible to focus on anything else. You closed your eyes, your fingers going through his blond hair that felt so soft to the touch. Adding another finger, you gripped his hair tighter when you felt something wrap around your panties and tear them apart. Eyes widening, you looked down and bit your lower lip, seeing his tail forming and twirling around your waist.

“Does it bother you?” Satan spoke, his lips peppering your shoulders.

You shook your head and he cursed silently when his fingers easily slipped inside.

“You’re so wet…” he growled, gritting his teeth. “Does it turn you on to see my tail?”

You felt the tail wrap itself around your waist harder, its sharpness almost prodding through the dress and into your skin. You were dripping over his fingers, but couldn’t find it in yourself to care more than you did for the fact that you wanted more. More of his touch, more of him.

“Tell me …” Satan whispered against your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “What did you do? How did you do it?”

“M-mostly w-with fingers—” You gasped when his fingers went deeper inside you.

“And?” he growled, relishing at watching your expression.

“P-pillow!” you stuttered with a moan following right behind. “Fuck, Satan!” you gripped on his upper arms, biting your lower lip.

“Did you do it since you came to Devildom?” he asked, his green eyes focused solely on you.

You parted your lips, panting as your hips rocked against his hand, wanting more friction. A whine escaped you when he stilled his movements, which made you look at him with tears brimming in your eyes.

“Answer me, kitten.”

“Yes!” you nodded rapidly. “I-I did it here a-as well!” you stuttered, cheeks hot both from embarrassment and lust that was overwhelming you each second more. “I-I wanted to do it with you so much…” you admitted and widened your eyes when you realized what you just spoke.

Satan stilled completely, his own eyes wide as he stared at you. The edges of his tail prodding through your dress and digging into your skin. It was wrapped around you possessively, marking you with its sharp edges like it wanted you to remember to whom you belonged.

You covered your face and moaned at the loss of his fingers inside you when he pulled them out and grabbed your hands instead. He pried them off your face and you realized his cheeks were dark.

“You have no idea how long I waited to hear this.” He was the first to break the silence only to capture your lips with his, shoving you against the bookshelf. His hands gripped yours tight as his tongue slipped into your mouth, deepening the kiss. He released your hands soon after and you went with fingers through his hair, tugging on the edges, making him moan.

He grinded against you and you could feel his bulge which made you grind back, trying to match up with him. This time you didn’t care if someone heard you, because the next moment he was sliding into you painfully slowly, relishing at every gasp and moan that left your lips as your fingers dug into his scalp.

“Fuck, you’re so tight …” he growled against your lips. Once completely inside you, he stopped to let you adjust before he began to move slowly. He raised one of your legs for better access and you let him.

Your eyes fluttered open, looking up into the ceiling. There was pain, but it slowly turned into pleasure and you wanted more. “F-faster, please…” you whispered and Satan complied.

His thrusts became faster, slamming into you harder. His hands were on your waist, trying to keep you in place as his tail trailed up your side, swiping itself over your lips. You parted them and it slipped inside. You shut your eyes, moaning around his tail, completely oblivious to green eyes that watched you. Your walls clenched around his cock and Satan groaned. He leaned down and nibbled on your neck, leaving a small bruise in its wake.

“I-I was always-ah thinking of you …” you moaned.

“Y-yeah?” Satan stuttered. “What were you thinking? What was I doing to you?”

Your cheeks heated up. "Y-you took me from be-behind while I was supporting my-self on the w-wall." you stuttered.

Satan leaned forward and began to kiss your neck and collarbones. "What else?" He whispered, taking his time in pleasuring you as his thrusts became rather painfully slow and teasing.

"You-you used fingers y-you make me c-come t-two times in a row…" you gasped when he stilled completely inside, his cock reaching even deeper. His tail wrapped itself around your neck, making it slightly harder to breathe, but not enough to make you unconscious. You shut your eyes, your walls clenching around his cock more than before.

"You like that?" Satan asked as his tail tightened its grip just a bit harder.

You parted your lips, moaning in answer.

"What a filthy girl you are." He snarled and began to pound into you, taking you by surprise. You yelped and held onto his shoulders, unable to hide your moans and pants, your nails digging into his shirt.

"If you won't stay quiet someone will come to check." He said against your lips. "But maybe that's what you want," he gritted his teeth; "since you're swallowing me more than you possibly can." His tail lessened it's grip around your neck and it trailed down, sliding along his cock.

Your eyes shot wide open when it slid inside along his cock. "Satan!" You hissed his name, tensing at the sudden penetration.

Satan began to pamper you with kisses on your cheeks, over the tears that escaped. You panted, trying to relax, but it was hard because he began to move slow, yet stilling every now and then. You leaned your forehead on his shoulder, unconsciously biting into the soft material beneath, as pain began to turn into pleasure and you soon started to beg for more. And Satan gave in.

Watching your expression filled with nothing but pleasure edged him on. He reached for your hands, fingers intertwining as he leaned them on each side of your head on the bookshelf behind you. He completely ignored the book that fell down by your feet.

"Shit!" You cursed, feeling you were close. "Shit, shit, shit…" you painted and Satan paced up, his pants, hot breath mixing with yours. "I'm so close, Satan. Please!" You begged and looked at him with tears in your eyes.

"I'm close too, kitten. S-so close." He whispered and when he felt your walls tighten around his cock, he pulled you into a kiss that prevented you from moaning even louder. He didn’t want to have more company than there already was. With a few more thrusts he was quick to follow you, stilling inside you completely. He grunted with eyes shut and it was your turn to pamper him with kisses along his face, a small smile breaking on your lips.

Satan mirrored it, pulling you into another kiss that was gentle, soft to touch.

After you both caught your breath, Satan pulled out of you and you felt his cum dripping down your thigh. A shiver ran down your spine at the odd feeling, but frowned when you saw Satan was staring at you. He was quick to dress himself and thankfully you wore a dress so you didn't need much fixation aside from your hair.

"What?" You asked, head tilted on the side, trying to ignore the slick on your thighs that freely ran down.

"Have you checked the books you wish to bring along?" He asked like the two of you just didn't have sex between the bookshelves.

"I don't need any." You smiled and reached for his hand that he didn't hesitate to take. He raised it and pressed a kiss on the back, smiling as he stared directly into your eyes.

Your cheeks heated up, but your head snapped towards the footsteps that were coming closer. Your heart paced up and Satan chuckled as he pulled you closer and turned you both around so he managed to hide you completely. Peeking over his shoulder, you spotted a Little D with green horns. Your eyes widened, recognizing it.

“What?” Satan’s voice was slightly harsh, directed at the Little D, who didn’t seem to be bothered by it. As a matter of fact it looked slightly disappointed, which confused you.

His green eyes stared at Satan before they focused on you. Blinking a couple of times, he turned and left, not a word spoken.

“What was that?” you murmured more to yourself than to Satan.

Satan pursued lips into a thin line. You looked at him and he couldn’t resist kissing you on the lips. Your eyes widened at his gesture and his lips turned into a smirk.

“Don’t pay attention to him.” he said, his fingers intertwined with yours, giving your hand a small squeeze.

You hummed and tilted head to the side. “Why?” you asked, looking at him. “I wanted to talk with him.” you pouted and Satan laughed.

“You’ll have many chances later.” he pulled you to his side, his tail wrapping itself around your waist.

Your breath hitched before you felt something being put over your shoulders. Your eyes widened seeing it was his jacket and you looked at him confused.

“For your dress.” he mumbled under his breath, his cheeks turning into a darker shade.

You blinked and looked down, seeing it was slightly torn around your waist. Covering your face, you couldn’t stop the heat from spreading over your cheeks and ears, remembering how his tail felt around you. You buried your face into his chest, hands clinging on his shirt as you groaned. He chuckled, kissing top of your head.

“Come on, let’s go back.”

“What about the books and your work?” you were confused.

The corners of his lips twitched into a teasing smile and it dawned on you.

You gaped at him and you slapped his arm. "I can't believe you!" You hissed, feeling the embarrassment three times more. "We could've gotten caught!"

"But we didn't." He said. Who was he to tell you that you had a small company towards the end? "Also it's been one of my many ideas to try out." He admitted and added; "Don't deny it wasn't yours either." when you were about to argue.

You closed your mouth, unable to say anything, because he was right. It was indeed one of your many ideas to go through with. Letting out a sigh, you shook with your head, murmuring; "Can't believe you did this to me." more to yourself.

Satan's chuckle reached your ears and you slapped his arm once again, trying to glare at him, but unable to do so for long. It was something you came to realize soon after you arrived into Devildom. You had an abnormal weak spot for the Avatar of Wrath.

"So," Satan woke you from your thoughts. "Where do you want to try next time?"

Blinking, you stared at him before you burst into laughter. "If I say Diavolo's throne would you dare?" You smirked.

It was a joke, you wanted to say. But the way his expression remained serious and rid of any emotions as he thought it through sent a chill down your spine. It was of excitement and not of being terrified that you even came up with that idea. Instead of saying anything you continued to remain silent as you waited for his response.

Satan blinked at you before he leaned down and whispered into your ear; "Well if you truly wish to do that, who am I to tell you no? Do you think he'd notice?"

[oriigami]

stolen things

[A catalogue of things stolen by, for, and from Princess Vivi of Alabasta with regards to a certain thief, as documented by her long-suffering captain of the guard. Namivivi, Rated T. Read it on AO3 here!]

(1. a necklace)

It starts small, comparatively speaking; a month or so after the rain returns to Alabasta and the country’s pain is soothed at last, there’s a little package of folded cardboard addressed to Princess Vivi buried in amongst the palace’s morning mail. This, in and of itself, isn’t terribly unusual. The princess has taken on a significant portion of the country’s day-to-day administration since her return while her father recovers, and she has many friends and contacts across the country she’s been corresponding with to aid in the rebuilding. 

What is unusual, though, is the way it’s addressed. Ordinarily, missives to the princess will be addressed to Her Grace, Princess Nefertari Vivi, stamped in formal black ink on clean white paper and packaging. This one, though, just says Vivi, written in an exceedingly neat hand with nonetheless a few trembles in the lettering, as though the writer had been, perhaps, aboard a boat when penning it. 

There’s no return address or sender name- instead, a pinwheel of four thick spiralling lines with a small circle attached to the uppermost swirl has been drawn where one would normally be.

Pell frowns, and breaks the seal on the back of the package. One of the many duties he’s resumed since returning to work (a feat that had required shouting down Chaka, the princess, and the king when they’d tried to insist he remain bedbound) is checking the mail, after all. And he’s been especially vigilant about the princess’s safety. 

After everything she’s been through in the past months and years, from her infiltration of Baroque Works to the inevitable nightmare of the civil war to the slow and arduous reconstruction of a devastated country, he can’t think of anyone who more deserves to rest easy at night.

He opens the little package with due caution, and tips its contents out onto the table. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not the shimmer of gold that spills out onto the dark wood. It’s a necklace. A pendant shaped like a compass rose hangs from a thin golden chain, with what looks suspiciously like a diamond set at its center. 

Well. Unusual, perhaps, and definitely expensive, even Pell’s untrained eye can discern that much, but certainly not dangerous. He carefully replaces it in the package and makes his way up to the princess’s rooms, knocking on the doorframe. 

(It had become common knowledge around the palace after the first week or so that it was unwise to surprise the princess. She had developed a newfound tendency to stash those tiny daggers of hers in the sleeves of her dresses.)

“Come in,” a slightly distracted voice calls, and so he slips inside. Vivi is bent over her desk, where she always seems to be these days, brow furrowed in thought, worrying the end of her fountain pen between her teeth. She glances up when he enters, and he can’t help but worry, just a little, at how tired she looks. 

She’s taken a lot onto her shoulders. He always seems to find her at her desk these days, if she’s not in the council rooms or talking to the citizens or poring over the newspapers or-

“Pell,” she says, smiling slightly. “What is it?”

“Ah.” It takes him a moment to remember why he’s here. “This was sent for you today,” he says, crossing the room to hand her the small package. 

She frowns slightly, confused, as she takes it- and then he can see the moment her eyes catch on the little symbol drawn in the corner, that odd pinwheel shape, because she lights up, a smile immediately spreading across her face and brightening her eyes like he hasn’t seen in weeks. She tears into the package like a birthday present, and in seconds the necklace is cupped in her hands, gleaming under the light of her desk lamp. 

She swallows hard, and for a moment her face scrunches into a look Pell knows well. Ever since she was a child, she’s always made the same face when struggling not to cry. It’s only a moment, though, and then it passes, leaving her with just a wide smile and shining eyes. She nearly drops the necklace in her fumbling haste to fasten it around her neck. 

The compass pendant falls perfectly into place on her chest, the gold bright against desert-dark skin, and she smiles down at it with a softness that makes Pell abruptly feel like he’s intruding on something personal.

“Pell,” she says, and he straightens to attention automatically, “bring all future packages with that symbol on them directly to me, if you don’t mind. No need to check through them.”

“Princess-” he starts to object, but thinks better of it when she shoots him a look that makes him automatically swallow back his protest on behalf of her safety. “...As you say,” he concedes.

She’s always had grit and iron in her, ever since she was young and scrapping with Kohza amidst the sand dunes, but her two years away have tempered her into a pirate in truth, a sharp-eyed young woman who digs her fingernails into everything she treasures and won’t let go no matter how it hurts. 

But then, it was pirates who saved Alabasta. Maybe that’s the kind of princess they need.

He turns, and is half out the door when he can’t help but ask, “It’s from them, isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t need to specify who. Vivi doesn’t confirm aloud, but when he glances back over his shoulder she’s looking at the wanted posters pinned to her wall with an aching sort of look on her face, and that’s answer enough. 

When the next package marked with the same symbol and addressed in the same neat handwriting arrives a month later, he takes it straight to her. 

(2. a newspaper)

The sun is rising over Alabasta as the king and princess break their fast. Pell tosses the morning newspaper to the table, and no sooner has it hit the wood that Vivi is snatching it up with all the desperation of a marooned sailor grabbing for a thrown lifeline, nearly tearing through the paper in her urgency. 

Pell can’t say he’s surprised by the response, because the front page headline reads STRAWHAT PIRATES LEVEL ENIES LOBBY, printed in striking bold lettering above a photo of a grinning boy wearing a straw hat with all the confidence of a king’s crown. Vivi opens the paper and a sheaf of wanted posters fall out of the centerfold, scattering onto the table. 

There’s at least one face among them that Pell doesn’t recognize, and one that he definitely does recognize (clutch-) but certainly hadn’t expected to see grouped among the Strawhats, but neither is the poster that Vivi’s focus falls on first.

Instead, the Princess’s gaze is drawn to one of the lowest bounties of the lot, an dark-eyed woman giving the camera a playful smile over her shoulder, hands tangled in her orange hair and a familiar spiralling symbol emblazoned in deep blue ink on her shoulderblade. Cat Burglar Nami, the poster reads. Wanted Dead or Alive. 

Vivi reaches out and brushes fingers against the paper for just a moment, a complicated sort of look on her face that Pell couldn’t begin to put a name to, and he sees her lips move in a whisper of a name. Then all of a sudden she seems to remember she’s not alone, and hastily snatches up the sheaf of wanted posters together with the newspaper and clutches them to her chest like they’re infinitely more precious than mere ink and paper.

“I’ll- be right back,” she says, the words rushed, and then she’s gone from the room before the king can do more than send a slightly befuddled look after her.

Pell sighs, more fondly than anything, and goes to find another newspaper for the king. He has a feeling they won’t be getting that one back. 

(3. a kiss)

It’s four months after the Whitebeard War, four months since any word of the Strawhat Pirates has reached Alabasta, and four months of Princess Vivi staring out the windows of the palace and clenching her fists so hard her knuckles go white, when Pell realizes there is an intruder in the palace. 

Whoever they are, they are very good. It’s not a broken window that alerts him to their presence, or a scream- nothing so blatant and clumsy. Instead, it’s a faint footprint, left in the thin dusting of sand on the railing of one of the third-floor balconies, just barely visible in the fading light of the setting sun. If not for the inhuman eyesight his devil fruit grants him, he surely would have missed it completely.

The princess’s rooms are nearby, and his heart crawls into his throat. He’s not an idiot. He knows the princess has enemies. He’s seen her slipping out under cover of night to negotiate with pirates and smugglers, words sharp and spine unbending. 

(There are times when Pell wishes, for the sake of his peace of mind, that she was just a little less fearless.)

He slips down the hallway silently. There’s light shining from under the princess’s door, and muffled noises from inside the room. He rests one hand on the hilt of his sword, eases the door silently open with his other hand. 

It takes him a moment to register what he’s seeing, it’s so far off from what he’d half-feared he’d find. 

The princess is pressed against a wall by a woman with orange hair and tan skin who Pell recognizes immediately from the wanted poster on the wall as Cat Burglar Nami. Vivi has her legs up around Nami’s waist and her hands buried in her hair, and she’s kissing her like it’s the end of the world, even as tears run down her cheeks and her shoulders shake. 

There’s words murmured between them, too quiet to make out, blurred by voices thick from crying. He hears war, and lost, and should have been there, broken up by kisses and sobs, and he wonders just how much weight his princess has been truly carrying on her shoulders these past months. 

Pell takes a step back and noiselessly slips the door closed again, to give them their privacy. 

Well. At least she’s not in any danger. He’s going to have to tell the king he really, really shouldn’t get his hopes up about those marriage prospects. 

The pirate haunts the palace for another week and a half, and Pell can’t help but be reluctantly impressed by her elusiveness. Her presence only shows in how Vivi’s started to always keep the door to her room tightly closed, in silent footprints on the balcony and the low hum of nighttime murmurings, and in the smile the princess can’t seem to drop. 

He has to grab her by the shoulder one morning before she heads into the council chambers and advise, in a quiet voice that can’t help but be long-suffering, that she apply some makeup to the blossoming bruises on her neck. 

And then Nami is gone again, like a sea breeze, like she was never there, like pirates are wont to do. A pair of Vivi’s favorite earrings goes with her. The princess doesn’t cry, at least nowhere that Pell can see. She still wears the golden compass necklace every day, bright against her chest, close to her heart, and he thinks he understands, now.

He’d thought the necklace a present from the Strawhat Pirates at large at first, but it isn’t that. It’s a memento from a lover, from a cartographer- a compass pointing ever north. Someday, no matter what, find your way back to me. 

(4. a heart)

It doesn’t exactly take a falcon’s eyesight to see that Princess Vivi’s heart doesn’t belong to Alabasta anymore. Or, at least, not wholly to Alabasta. There will always be a part of their princess buried in the golden sands and fed on the oasis waters, and Pell knows that’s why she’s still there with them, and not far away on an unknown ocean with salt in her hair and a rolling deck beneath her feet. 

But there’s something about the ocean, about the sea winds and the endless horizon and the boundless freedom it brings, that takes. Pell has known a lot of sailors, and they’ve all had the same look on their eyes that Princess Vivi bears all the time now- always looking, searching for the waves, for the horizon, for the next adventure. 

He feels for her. He has always belonged, heart and soul, to Alabasta, and someday he will be buried in its sands. There will never be any other home for him. The princess, though, is torn in two, between two homes and two loves and she can never have one without leaving the other, and that’s a cruel fate, for someone who deserves nothing but kindness after all she’s been through. 

It’s one of the reasons he always has to bite his tongue when the king takes it into his head to push the concept of marriage again, floating the names of thoroughly-vetted suitors, even as Princess Vivi gently shuts him down cold. The princess’s heart will go to no respectable young man, that’s clear as day. It’s already been stolen.

That’s what pirates do, after all. They take, just like the ocean they live and die by. 

The cat burglar could have asked for any riches Alabasta had left, and the king would have probably honored her request, even gutted as their country was by drought and famine and war. But instead she fled with their princess’s heart in her hands, one treasure that could never be replaced.

(5. a princess)

It’s a dazzlingly bright desert morning in Alubarna when the Pirate King’s navigator arrives at the palace. 

There’s no sneaking this time, no scaling walls and vaulting balconies under the cover of darkness. Nami walks right up the sun-bleached stone stairs, all tanned skin and lean muscle, bold as brass for a wanted pirate with hundreds of millions of beri on her head, and Pell doesn’t make a single move to stop her. The tattoo on her shoulder reminds him of a little cardboard package, sent and delivered years ago. 

The princess meets her at the doors with a packed bag already on her shoulders, crashing into her arms without even a shred of royal dignity, and Nami doesn’t waste a second before sweeping her up into her arms and into a hungry kiss, like it doesn’t matter in the slightest that there’s dozens of eyes on them, the everyday traffic of guards and politicians and citizens through the palace stopped dead in its tracks. 

Maybe it doesn’t, for pirates. Maybe pirates only know how to love like they could be dead tomorrow. 

A few of the guards are shooting him confused and somewhat panicked looks; Pell just shakes his head and signals at ease. In all honestly, he’s almost surprised this didn’t happen sooner- but then, Vivi has always been loyal to her country to the point of martyrdom, and it’s only in the past year or so that all the tireless work she has put in to build the country up has finally blossomed to a point where her constant presence is no longer necessary. 

The country is safe, and healthy, and at peace, after countless days and nights of fighting with steel and ink to make it so. She can rest now, at least for a time, and she deserves nothing less. He knows the bag on her shoulders now has been ready in her room for weeks. 

Nami and Vivi finally break apart for breath, and Nami rests her forehead against the princess’s, grinning like she can’t stop. “Ready to go?” she asks. “Everyone else is waiting with the Sunny at the river port.” 

Vivi casts a glance over to Pell, silently questioning, and he bites back a chuckle. “Go on, then, your majesty,” he says, waving a hand, and can’t help but add, to Nami, “At least you had the decency to come to the front door this time, instead of climbing in the window.” 

The blushes that decorate both their faces at that are more brilliant red than any desert sunburn he’s ever seen, and then he does have to laugh in truth. And then Vivi is burying her red face in her hands and wheezing with laughter, and the look that Nami gives her is so impossibly soft that Pell feels comforted about his princess’s safety then and there, no words needed. 

Once Vivi can meet his eyes again, he smiles, and just says, “Be safe.” 

“I will,” she promises, and there’s freedom in her voice.

No one moves a finger to stop them as the laughing thief flees down the front steps of the palace, a stolen princess beaming to outshine the desert sun in her arms.

[shygeek1999]

I’m Sorry

Disclaimer!

As much as I love My Hero, these are not my characters. They belong to someone else and I just like to make them suffer. With that on to the fic!

          It started with a small fight. What about? Neither boy could tell you. One second they were fine and the next Bakugou and Midoriya were screaming at each other in the middle of the dorm buildings kitchen. Horrible words spilled from the enraged blonds mouth. Cursing the green haired boy loudly, drawing the attention of all of class 1A. The class watched on from the hallway leading into the kitchen as the boys fought, completely unaware of their presence. It was then that the whole argument turned against them.

           “STOP IT DEKU! YOU ARE SO FUCKING ANNOYING! JUST LEAVE ALREADY!”

           “IF THAT’S HOW YOU FEEL THEN MAYBE I WILL TAKE YOUR ADVICE AND KILL MYSELF!”

           They both fell silent. Bakugou stared at Midoriya in shock while Midoriya covered his mouth. “I…I’m so sorry…” He muttered.

           “What is he talking about Bakubro?” Kirishima asked as he steped forward, making them both aware they had an audience and have had one for a while. “You didn’t actually say that….did you?” Bakugou’s head had dropped and he stared at the floor, unable to look his friend in the eye. “Bakugou tell me you didn’t tell him to kill himself!” Kirishima demanded. Still the blond kept his eyes to the floor. Tension rose in the air as Kirishima got pissed. “TELL ME YOU DIDN’T SAY THAT!”

           “I CAN’T!” Bakugou yelled back. Finally making eye contact with the fiery red head. “I DID IT! I TOLD HIM TO AND I CAN”T TAKE IT BACK!”

            Yelling broke out amongst the students as they all looked at Bakugou. He took each hurtful word, knowing he deserved it. They all called him horrible things which he knew he deserved. His friends taking turns to yell and even slapping him a few times.

Shouts of “How could you”s rang through the dorms as the Deku Squad carefully pulled Midoriya away. He too had crossed a line. There was an unspoken rule between them that the “incident” would never be talked about. He had broken the rule and now Bakugou was paying the price for it.

           “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” Midoriya mumbled to his friends.

           “You did nothing wrong Deku. Bakugou should never have said that to you.” Uraraka said as she pulled him into a hug. “Don’t worry. We will take care of everything.” He cries at her words. Knowing that she didn’t know the whole story, or how they both had grown. It just made everything worse as he cried harder.

           After he had calmed down he explained everything to his friends and how Bakugou had changed since coming to UA. It made Bakugou sound worse. Especially when they found out Bakugou hurt Midoriya physically, with and without his quirk. They told him it was ok to tell them and everything would be fine.

           Things weren’t fine and absolutely not ok.

           That day Aizawa was informed about what happened and many things happened. A new seating chart was made with Bakugou in Hagakure’s  seat and Midoriya in Uraraka’s. Jirou was switched with Sero and Bakugou’s old seat was now Satou’s. Bakugou was now surrounded by people that could physically stop him if he became aggressive. He was also forced to wear a quirk suppressor collar, to ensure no quirk use was possible. He had mandatory counselling three days a week, community service on the weekends, and was no longer allowed to be less then three yards away from Midoriya. And so much more.

           In less words, his life became hell.

           Bakugou attempted to talk to his friends but they ignored him or pushed him away. When he tried to answer questions in class he was overlooked. Even when he got hurt in training now Recovery Girl healed him to the bear minimum before kicking him out of her office. No one wanted him.

           The realization of this hit him like a ton of bricks. No one cared about him anymore. They all hated him and for good reason. Who would want a bully as a friend? This caused him to spiral into his darkest thoughts. I hate myself. Unworthy. Cruel. Mean. Villain. Villain. Villain….

           His thoughts were repeated every second of everyday. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, making him nauseous. He stopped eating to get the feeling to go away but it didn’t work. Neither did the sleepless nights he started to have more frequently. He had taken to writing out his thoughts. His counselor thought it would help to get his emotions out in a less destructive manner.

           This worked for awhile but as he became more depressed so did the writing. His depression made him uncaring, not his usual way but worse. He stopped caring about basic needs like eating, sleeping, bathing and things of that nature. He stopped caring about school and homework. He didn’t care about his perfect attendance anymore. Bakugou had become a shell.

           When he explained it to his counselor she prescribed him an antidepressant that was supposed to help…….That was weeks ago. And Bakugou had never felt more sad and alone since.

(START OF TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELFHARM)

           He found that pain helped him feel alive after stubbing his toe one day. It was the first time in a long time that he felt anything besides crushing despair. He started with small things. Pinching himself. Running into things on purpose. But that got boring fast.

           He stepped it up after getting a paper cut from his journal. The small cut caused him to feel so much more and he craved it. He started cutting himself with his razor, scissors, pencil sharpener and any thing else he could find. He took to wearing long sleeves and sweatpants. He never cut his upper arms as they were visible in his hero suite. They all stayed where his gauntlet would cover.

           Finally feeling something, he got back into school work. He had started putting up a front that he was ok. Fooling everyone, even his counselor, except for the small green haired boy who knew him best.

(END OF TRIGGER WARNING AND START OF A NEW ONE FOR MAJOR CHARACTER INJURY)

           His secret came to light during training. Bakugou and Satuo were teamed up to fight a special hero guest, Gang Orca, when a building with “hostages” started to collapse. Before Satou could turn or Orca says that that wasn’t a part of the training, Bakugou moves.

           He didn’t think. It looked like Midoriya out there instead as he moved into the building. Everyone in the booth watched as “hostages” were thrown out of the doorway. One. Two. Three, four. On the fifth one the building fully fell, trapping Bakugou inside.

           “KACCHAN!” Midoriya yelled as he raced out of the booth and to the rubble. His class followed him but stopped short when he, Aizawa, and Gang Orca started trying to dig him out. “HELP US!” He yelled.

           “Midoriya….why should we help? He’s been nothing but mean to you. He’s just a villain.” Mineta said.

           Midoriya turned to him. “Why? Because he’s my friend! Because even after everything he has done, I know he is a good person! Everyone makes mistakes! He never actually meant it! He had already apologized but you all made him feel horrible! Its your fault, all of you, for making him so sad!” he yelled. “If you don’t help, then you are not a hero. You are a villain, and I’m not friends with villains!”

           His words shocked everyone to their core. Midoriya was right. They had seen the change but didn’t care. If the situation had been reversed they knew Bakugou would secretly help them. He would have talked them through it. Because he had to live with the guilt every day. And they made it worse.

           Slowly they all broke up and started to help uncover the blond. It wasn’t until Kirishima moved a large slab of concrete that things got worse.

           Bakugou was under it, barely awake and breathing hard. His head was bleeding profusely as were the parts where the rebar were sticking out. His gauntlet was destroyed and gave everyone a good look at his arms. The scars and new cuts on full display as he struggled to breathe.

           “BAKUGOU!” Kirishima yelled. He got down next to him and started trying to stop the bleeding with parts of his costume. “SOMEONE GET RECOVERY GIRL! CALL AN AMBULANCE!”

           Bakugou coughed a bit as he looked up. “Ki-kiri?”

           “I’m right here man. I’ve got you.”

           “I’m……I’m sorry.”

           Kirishima teared up. “No. We did this to you. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry ok? Please, please just hang on for me.”

           “It-…It doesn’t hurt…..not- not anymore.” Bakugou mumbles. “I’m dying…..aren’t I?

           “No. You are going to be fine. Just hold on.” Kirishima pleads.

           “It’s ok…I’m finally…what I wanted to be. I’m-….I’m free.” Bakugou smiles as he closes his eyes. A cough causes blood to well up into his mouth as the rest of his former squad comes over. They speak softly to him, apologizing for not being there when he needed them. For being mean. He just chuckled around the blood. “Idiots. I never h-hated you…….” He says weakly. His eyes slip closed as he mutters “I f-forgive y-you….” and falls limp.

                                           THE END….For now.

If you would like to see a part two where everyone says sorry then like this post and give it tons of attention. Bakugou isn’t dead I promise so don’t worry about that. Hope you enjoyed and feel free to request more fics. Stay Angsty!!!

[cakelanguage]

Merry Christmas @okay-sky! I’m your secret Santa for the @fmasecretsanta2020 #fmasecretsanta

I had an absolute blast writing this for you and I hope you like this RoyEd piece as much as I enjoyed writing it. Have a happy holidays and I wish you the best.

You can also read this on AO3

--

The snow was a foot deep and maneuvering through it was a pain in the ass, but Roy was determined to make it to the post office in North City. Normally, Roy rarely makes the trip unless he's on the last dredges of his food supply but the potential for one of Ed's letters to be there had him pushing onward. 

For the short amount of time he'd gotten to spend in Central, he'd spent a large amount of it enjoying the company of the Elric brothers, specifically Ed. It was like an old wound had finally stopped aching when he got to see the man. And he was now. A man, that is. A maturity he never thought he'd see from the older Elric permeated his actions. While he still had a temper he didn't bare his teeth at the smallest of teases. He seemed wiser now and Roy wondered what he'd experienced in this other world. 

His interest and desire to spend more time with Ed wasn't one-sided either. The man--amidst Roy’s own scramble to steal his attention from Miss Rockbell and Alphonse-- found him at all hours of the day to discuss anything. From alchemic theories to the property damage done while he was away, the two never seemed to run out of things to talk about.

When he'd been forced to return up North, Ed had been the one to suggest keeping up a correspondence through letters. Roy didn't mention that he’d have to essentially hike to the post office and instead happily agreed. Ed promised to write often and Roy said he'd do the same. 

And he intended to. 

Which brought him back to his every other day trek.

He didn't know when he'd receive his first letter so he just kept coming back. For the first time, Roy was thankful for the cane that the doctor suggested he get for strenuous exercise in case the scar tissue flared up. He'd been adamant about not using it for the longest time, but out here -- where he wasn't surrounded by people who unintentionally put him on a pillar-- using the cane didn't matter.

His breath puffed in the frosty air as he took a moment to rest his legs. He could already see the city so he'd only have around another 30-minute walk if he continued at the pace he was going. 

North City was as lively as it could be for one with near-constant snowfall. While the population consisted mostly of military personnel there were still plenty of families and small businesses dotted amongst the abundance of government buildings.

These little businesses felt like they’d been plucked out of a different location, the warm glow of the fluorescents glimmering through the large windows. Roy's favorite was a little bookstore that specializes in customer requests. They'd take a poll from an assortment of people to find out what they wanted and go from there.

Roy indulged in much of the literature they had to offer and the sweet family-run shop told him he was welcome to make any requests he wanted.

Ed would've salivated at the thought.

On the outskirts of the inner city lies the post office. It was never terribly busy which was a blessing so Roy had no trouble siddling up to the counter. 

"Well I'll be," the scruffy man at the counter whistled, "you're back again already."

Roy gave him a tired smile. "Glettner, I just don't want to miss the letter I'm supposed to be getting."

"I guess, but you don't live in the city so you gotta walk here." He shuddered. "Couldn't pay me to make that hike more than once a year and I've lived here for over a decade." 

"I want to be punctual."

Glettner rolled his eyes, but those eyes only held mirth in them. "Well Mr. Punctual, you're in luck, a letter for you arrived yesterday evening."

Roy wasn't sure what his reaction was but it garnered him a chuckle all the same. 

"Ah-ha!" Glettner cried victoriously and walked back over with the letter. "This person must really like you if they're willing to use four stamps and Express delivery." He shook his head. "Express is always so expensive.”

The letter in his hand was hefty with Ed’s tell-tale god awful handwriting on the front. He brought the letter close to his chest with a content hum. 

“Ugh,” Glettner whined, “Go read your letter somewhere else if you’re gonna be looking like that when you only read the cover.”

Roy sent him a flat look. “I’ll see you, Glettner,” Roy called over his shoulder, tucking the letter safely into his coat. “Stay warm.”

“Speak for yourself! Try not to get yourself killed walking to the post office you flame-brained moron.”

Glettner always did say the nicest things. 

Back in the relative safety of his cabin, Roy was able to settle down and open the letter. Carefully, he pulled the small bundle of papers jammed inside, out onto the table. Offhandedly he stoked the fire a little more with a snap of his fingers. 

Admittedly, he’d missed the ease that using his alchemy allowed him with certain tasks. 

Colonel Bastard,

Roy snorted and shook his head. He’d already told Ed he wasn’t a colonel anymore, but apparently, the fact hadn’t stuck in the shrimp’s mind. He wondered if Ed still had his infamous temper tantrums about his height. 

Something to find out later.

The other man seemed to have grown up a great deal in the past two years, but Roy doubted Ed would’ve been able to calm himself down when it came to his height and the lack thereof.

I hope this gets to you fast, and that you haven’t frozen solid up there. Havoc told me about your cabin and I’ll be honest: sounds shitty. But they did say you had a fireplace so maybe it isn’t too bad as long as you don’t move from in front of the fire. Though now that I know what your job entails I can honestly say that you might be fucked. 

Seriously, who wants to stand out in all that snow to watch for potential attacks from Drachma? That’s what Briggs is for. So get your ass back here before your ass freezes to a chair or something. 

He couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from him. The letter was just wholly Ed and it almost felt like the other man was here in person. 

Al wants me to tell you he says hi, so that’s from him. He’s doing okay, he’s kinda got everything figured out now. I mean he obviously did before, he was doing fine while I was gone. He’s made a name for himself even if he did kinda steal my look. 

He doesn’t need me anymore. 

The ink is smudged and blurred in spots and Roy’s heart clenched in his chest when he realized that those were probably tears. 

I expected it and I’m glad he was able to keep moving forward with everyone’s help. I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realize how that’d make me feel when you were here. You’re kinda distracting even when Al’s around.

No higher praise than being able to pull Ed’s attention away from his little brother. 

Resembool is the same, which is weird. Germany seemed to change every day. There were always new people coming through or some kind of showcase going on. Did I tell you about the rocket we were building? It’s hard to remember that I’m no longer in a world governed by the laws of “modern science” instead of Alchemy.

I wish you were here. I miss your stupid, smug face. 

Oh did he ache for Ed to be able to insult him in person. 

It’s your turn to write a letter.

-Edward Elric

Beside his name, Ed had drawn what he assumed was a self-portrait of him sticking his tongue out in a cartoonish style. Charming.

Roy set the letter on the table and rubbed at his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Somehow, the letter only made him miss Ed more. He wanted to ease Ed’s worries and reassure him that he was needed. 

Well, he had a letter to write.

--

Fullmetal,

I thought telling you four times was enough, but maybe your ears were too tiny to hear me correctly. I’m not a colonel anymore so the name isn’t correct. Haven’t we known each other long enough to be a little less informal?

You’re right, it’s freezing up here, and staying warm is near impossible without the fire. I wear two layers of wool socks and I’m still wary that I’m going to get frostbite on one of my watches. 

Briggs is in charge of guarding our border. I’m just in charge of keeping watch on the trading routes that weave along the mountain valley for any sign of trouble. 

Al may not need you in the same capacity that he did, but I guarantee he’s happier than he’s been in the last two years now that you’re here. From what I’ve heard from both Hawkeye and Miss Rockbell, he always seemed to be looking over his shoulder for you when he’d accomplish anything. 

You are absolutely needed, and not just by Al. Never forget that Edward. 

Small towns don’t change often so I’m not surprised it seems the same. People grow older, but small towns keep to themselves for the most part. Every once in a while fresh meat joins the community and they’ll be a stir and things might change a little, but generally go back to normal quickly. 

City life is vivacious and ever-changing. A bigger place and more people means more changes. My aunt runs a bar and I remember how often the city would change around us. 

If by rocket you mean the one you released into that crowd of people, then yes I remember you telling me about it. But feel free to tell me again, you have a knack for storytelling that I didn’t think you’d have. 

I wish you were here too. I miss your impish face. 

-Roy Mustang

--

A week later, Roy received his second letter. 

Glettner gave him a wry grin and presented it to him with a flourish. “Your sweetheart replied,” he tittered, “should ask for a lock of hair in your next letter or a care package.” He winked at Roy. “Maybe something for those long, lonely nights.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Roy grouched, “it’s not from a lover.”

Glettner sighed dramatically. “Well, certainly not with that attitude! You’re clearly pining, can’t you see it?”

He raised his only visible eyebrow at the man. “Really?”

The other man waved him off. “Nevermind, just get out of here. I’ll see you in a day or so.”

“Take care, Glettner.”

“Yeah, yeah, go read your damn letter.”

--

Bastard,

FUCK YOU, I GREW. 

Not that much Ed, Roy thought with a chuckle. 

I hope that’s a better name for you. And I’m not Fullmetal anymore, not really. Sure plenty of people are going to keep calling me that, but I’m not part of the military right now. Still gotta prove I’m not dead and shit. 

Do you know how hard it is to try to reinstate documents after they’ve listed you as dead? I was literally two seconds away from straight-up murdering a lawyer who was at city hall because he kept saying I needed more identification. Which is bullshit because I’m DEAD to the government. 

This would’ve been really handy when Al and I were running from the military, though. But not now! Luckily, it is being sorted out and I shouldn’t have to wait much longer before I have all my documentation in order.

That was good. Ed had just started the whole process when he left to return to his post and it’d given him a headache just thinking about it. 

So you lived with your aunt? Did you grow up in Central?

As much as I’ve traveled, I’m a hick at heart. I still enjoy the peace and quiet of the countryside more than the noise and life of the city. I can live in either though. 

A corner of his mouth lifts. Ed preferred anywhere he could read and learn without interruptions. That hadn’t changed.

Are you lonely up there by yourself? I feel like you’re probably spending way too much time criticizing all your past actions and moping. Fuck that. Tell me about something you want to do when you come back to Central. What’s on Roy “Smug Bastard” Mustang’s agenda?

-Ed

Oh, and thanks for saying that. I think I needed to hear that from someone. I’m glad it was you.

--

Ed,

I guess if you can so kindly call me something else, I can just use your name. And as much as I appreciate your affectionate nickname for me, you can just call me Mustang or even just Roy, it wouldn’t bother me at all. But if you insist on a nickname I suppose I can give you one too, shorty.

I haven’t had to deal with retracting a declaration of the deceased before so I honestly don’t have any advice for you. I’d suggest going through all the hoops that they line up for you to jump through even if a shortcut looks promising. Other people were claiming to be you for fame or what-have-you so they aren’t intentionally trying to be difficult. 

Why am I not surprised you actually thought about how useful the situation would’ve been back then… Maybe you’re getting predictable. 

I did grow up with my aunt as my legal guardian. Both of my parents passed away when I was a young boy and she took me in. It was a rocky start. I was mourning my parents and terrified of my new living situation. But Chris Mustang always did her best to make sure I was comfortable and taken care of whether it was food or new clothes.

But she also put me to work. I obviously couldn’t work at the bar, but I bused tables and cleaned the place once we closed for the night. 

Her bar doubled as an information network with her girls -- my sisters-- acting as spies while going about their business. People talk a lot during sex and will let their guard down if they feel comfortable. I learned my networking strategies from them.

I don’t know if I can imagine you as the typical hick. It’s something about all that rage and attitude that makes me think more of small town punks. But there is something nice about the quiet of the countryside.

It’s not I’m not I suppose I am a bit lonely out here. I don’t really have much communication to speak of besides your letters. They’re the highlight of my days. The only other person I normally talk to right now is the man who runs the post office. I feel like I’m disconnected from people nowadays. Whether that’s because I was part of a coupe that unsettled them or my demeanor is just off-putting. Let me know what you think. 

When I get back to Central, the first thing I want to do is look for an apartment. Then I’m not sure. Maybe go back to pursuing the title of Fruher. After the whole Homunculus debacle, I stepped down in a rush to… run as far away from what had happened as I could. 

After that… would you like to go out sometime? Get something to drink, eat a good meal with good company?

You’re probably going to have to fight to spend time with me at first. The team kept reminding me that when I was there that they missed me. But I’ll make plenty of time for you.

-Roy

--

“Roy, you have a package,” Glettner commented the third time he came into the post office that week. “Did you take my advice and ask for a token from them?” He leaned over the counter with a lewd grin. “There’s no telling what’s in here.”

Roy huffed and held out his hand. “Box, Glettner,” Roy ordered. He thought Glettner was funny and the man reminded him of an older, grayer Havoc with all his teasing and good-natured ribbing. It made him miss his team, though.

Glettner deposited the box in his hands before holding out a box cutter, handle-first to Roy. “Can I convince you to open it here? I can even let you use the back room for some privacy if you want.”

Roy shook his head with a put-upon grin. “You seem more excited about this package than I am.”

He shrugged “I don’t think you realize how boring it can get here. Usually the most exciting thing I get in this place is the military personnel transferring sensitive documents.” He scrunched his nose. “I don’t know, guess the whole thing makes my romantic heart sing.”

“You trying to get me to feel sorry for you so I’ll open the package here?”

“That depends, is it working?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Fine, take me to your backroom.”

Glettner threw a fist in the air and gestured to a door on the right. “Follow me, lover-boy.”

He grumbled but followed after the perky man. They weaved through the stacks of boxes and came across a desk. Glettner shoved a few papers to the side so Roy had a spot to put his package on. 

Roy set his box down and carefully ran the knife along the taped edges. He shifted through the newspaper that’d been carefully positioned around the gift. 

And what a gift it was. 

Nestled inside the box was a phone that was almost the exact one that’d sat on his old desk. He gently pulled it out of its protective paper. Now that he could see it fully he noted the wear on some of the parts. The rotary dial was a polished bronze and looked to be the newest piece on the phone. The body of the phone consisted of a few welded pieces of metal but the job was near seamless so unless Ed knew someone who could weld, he’d probably done it himself with alchemy.

He thumbed at the handset and couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. It felt like the same metal as Ed’s new arm was made of and he knew Ed had made that choice on purpose. 

“They sent you a phone?” Glettner asked, interrupting Roy’s casual admiration of his gift. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s so we can call each other in case we don’t want to wait for the mail system to deliver our messages,” Roy explained. 

The other man turned his attention to him sharply. “So I won’t see you anymore?”

Roy shook his head. “No, you’ll still have to see me,” he nodded his head at the phone, “Even with a phone I won’t have a guaranteed connection with where I am, but it gives us the option if we…” He paused, his smile going from soft to joyful, “to hear each other’s voice.”

“Aw fuck,” Glettner sniffled, “you’ve got that mushy look on your face.”

Roy’s face closed off. “Better?”

The postman shook his head. “I think whatever you two are, it makes you better.” He rubbed at his nose and shrugged. “Take that as you will.”

--

Setting up the phone was relatively easy after he finagled a makeshift antenna to the roof of the cabin. He’d picked up a few pieces of scrap steel and transported his load back to his cabin. With a quick transmutation, he’d constructed an antenna that would ideally not break if the storms got bad. 

Ed had suggested he use steel in his letter and if he trusted anyone when it came to metal knowledge it’d be the Fullmetal Alchemist, Edward Elric.

He glanced over at the letter he’d set on the table and reread what Ed had written.

… Winry and Al pointed out to me that I could be calling you if I didn’t want to wait to get a letter. But when I asked Riza how to call you she told me you didn’t have one.

What kind of bullshit is that? I figure everyone has a phone but then you get relocated and haven’t bothered to get a phone in the two years you’ve been gone?

There's a large inkblot on the dot of his question mark as if Ed had paused to gather his thoughts but forgotten to pick up his pen.

 Sounds like you were in a bad place. 

Ed had always had a special gift of understanding why Roy did what he did. Even more so now that he'd matured more and had gone through a similar mindstate.

I get that. I’ve been there. But I’m taking away some of this forced isolation you’ve coveted for yourself. 

I’m not telling you that you have to start talking to people now that you have a phone, but try. You may have lost an eye, but you aren’t blind. And you have tons of people who care about you and I know you can see that so don’t keep shutting them out.

Like that. 

Everyone else had given him ample space to adjust to his vision change and his disillusionment of the government he'd put so much time and effort into. But that space became hard to contain and soon he'd pushed almost everyone behind the protective wall he'd crafted for himself. 

He needed someone to tell him that what he was doing couldn't-- nor should it-- continue. 

I’ve written everyone’s number down on the back of this letter just in case you forgot, old man. I hijacked the Rockbell’s landline so I can have a phone in my room. Feel free to call whenever after seven. 

I don't care if it's ass o'clock in the morning, call me if you need me or wanna talk or whatever. 

Talk to you soon, hopefully.

-Ed

He didn't use the phone for a good three hours until the hands on the clock were just shy of eleven. He tried two fingers of scotch to help him sleep, but it left a smoky aftertaste in his mouth that brought up too many memories of being a walking crematorium. 

He finished spinning the dial and waited for the call to be picked up or ignored. It wasn’t that he thought Ed was lying about being able to call whenever, but Ed couldn’t guarantee he’d be by the phone at all times.

There was a click and then a familiar voice echoing through the receiver. “Rockbell Automail, the store hours are from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. but if this is an emergency we’ll see what we can do,” Ed recited before continuing with a knowing tone, “Unless this is a certain soldier out in the middle of nowhere up North who received his package and decided to give me a call.”

Roy wasn’t one you would call a religious man, but he considered praying for patience. “Hello, Edward,” he conceded. 

“Fuck… holy fuck Roy,” Ed said with the sort of casual blasphemy only he would dare. There was a shuffling on the other end of the line. “You actually called.”

“Time hasn’t made you any less explicit,” Roy teased. He imagined a metal middle finger jerked at him in return. 

“It’s been what? A month?” Ed snorted, “If my cursing hasn’t changed since I was a kid then a month has no chance of changing it.”

He grinned and propped his head up with his hand. “You’re right about that.” He looked around the room for something to focus on, landing on Ed’s letter. “How are you?” The question came out softer than he’d like, but it’s what he meant.

Ed made a noncommittal noise. “It’s weird. The old lady and Winry keep treating me like I’m still a little kid. Maybe it’s because they didn’t get to see me grow up over the last two years. But they’re doing their best to adjust.”

Roy hummed in understanding. “It’s not dissimilar to a person coming back from deployment. They know the person who left, not necessarily the person who comes back.”

“Yeah, I guess… It’s still taking some getting used to. How come you didn’t treat me like I was the teen you last saw?”

“You’re a brat, but it was easy to see you’d changed.” That golden hair pulled back into a ponytail instead of his signature braid. The broad shoulders that filled out his brown trenchcoat and the bookish outfit underneath. He might mourn the loss of the man’s leather pants, but he looked every inch of the man he’d become. His thoughts made him brave. “You’ve become quite the looker, Ed.”

A sputter from the other line had Roy chuckling into his shoulder. It’s enchanting to hear Ed’s embarrassment over the phone and a longing yawned in his chest to see the ruby flush against the man’s cheeks. To see the way he’d turn incredulous eyes to gawk at Roy like he’d spoken gibberish. To see Ed fight the smile that’d reveal his teeth in joy instead of a threat.

He just wanted Ed. Here, with him. Or him with Ed. Together. 

Glettner was more aware of Roy’s feelings than he was.

“-up! I hope you’re not mocking me you ass,” Ed grumbleing finally making it through Roy’s thoughts. 

“I’m not mocking you, you really are beautiful.”

The line remained silent for a stretch and Roy wondered briefly if he’d pushed Ed a little too much. That he’d made the man uncomfortable with his sudden forwardness. 

“You look pretty good yourself,” Ed mumbled.

His heart skipped a beat in his chest and his cheeks grew warm. “Not much to look at compared to you,” Roy managed to say.

“Yeah, okay, sure,” the eye roll unmistakably tacked onto the statement. “I’m guessing you couldn’t sleep.”

“Couldn’t I have called you because I wanted to hear your voice?”

Ed actually laughed at that. “You could and I’m flattered, bastard, but I can hear the exhaustion in your voice.”

“Alright, yes I can’t sleep.” 

“What do you want me to do about that?”

What indeed. He already felt better after hearing Ed’s voice so perhaps more of that? “Tell me about your day.”

“As long as you're willing to pay anything the Rockbell’s might be charged for the long-distance call, I’ll talk all night.”

“Just until I fall asleep should do the trick.”

“Well get comfy and I’ll tell you about my return to city hall.”

Roy settled as comfortably as he could on his couch and closed his eyes, letting himself drift upon the lilts and steadiness of Ed’s voice. 

--

As they reach the two-month mark of their separation, Roy was getting antsy. His transfer back to Central seemed to be in a stalemate. Too much silence from both sides for Roy’s patience to tolerate. He already sent another letter to Ed to inform him that he still didn’t have a timeframe for his return. 

With no set date for his relocation, he got wrapped up in his thoughts. The snow bit angrily at his cheeks and he’d started moving his post office trips to every three days because he couldn’t get his body to plow through the snow. The cabin’s walls were thin and the flames fanned uselessly in the fireplace no matter how close Roy put himself to the heat source. 

Loneliness he’d been able to ignore for years was near intolerable now. He’d talked to his team, reconnected with Riza, or at least started mending the relationship that’d been damaged in the wake of Bradley’s defeat and the loss of his eye.

But ever since his realization during the phone call with Ed, nothing seemed to fill the Ed-sized space in his heart. He pondered on the feelings he’d developed for Ed, questioned why he loves him but only came up with Ed himself as the reason. 

He took a sip of his tea when he heard a knock on his door. 

The suddenness of the noise was enough to startle him into almost dropping his mug and he turned a wary eye to his door. He didn’t get visitors, not out here. The only time anyone had visited him it’d been about the strange phenomenon that ultimately led to Ed returning home to them. 

He doubted something that severe would pop-up again in such a short span of time, but stranger things had happened so he couldn’t rule out the possibility. 

Slipping on his gloves, he cautiously approached the door. He waited until he heard another knock before he openned the door, his fingers poised to snap.

And there’s Ed.

Snow and ice clung to his clothes and he noted that Ed’s trench coat seemed to now be lined with a fur of some kind. He took in Ed’s wind-chafed skin and red nose, saw the ice crystals that had attempted to attach themselves to his lashes. 

This couldn’t be real. He must’ve fallen asleep and he’s dreaming. He had to be. 

Except Ed was waving his hand obnoxiously in his face, grinning at him with the pride of a show dog. “You still in there or did I break you?” Ed asked.

He gaped uselessly at the figure that stood in front of him. “Ed?” He rasped, still not believing his eyes. 

“The one and only.” He tilted his head to the side, his smile going lazy. “Are you gonna make me stay out here much longer? Because I’m pretty sure my toes have fucking frozen off and I only have five. I really can’t lose them.”

Roy snapped his jaw shut with a click and stepped back to let Ed in. “Yeah, of course, come in.”

Ed blustered in with all the hesitation of a tornado, stripping out of his dripping coat and unwinding the scarf from around his neck, hanging both over his kitchen table. 

“Thank fuck you have a fireplace,” Ed grunted, holding both of his hands out towards the heat source. “If Winry and Granny hadn’t hooked me up with this new automail I would’ve really gotten frostbite.”

Roy nodded absent-mindedly, still stuck on the reality that Ed was here in his cabin. “How-How did you get here?”

Ed’s forehead furrowed. “Well after I took a train up here I asked around if anyone knew where I’d find a soldier with an eyepatch, the postman pointed me in the right direction.” He shrugged. “Then I walked here.”

He'd have to thank Glettner the next time he saw him. Or avoid him at all cost because the man was never going to let him live this down. He probably felt like he was some sort of matchmaker, guaranteeing Ed made it to him.

“Through all the snow?”

The man squinted at him. “Yes?” It came out as a question more than an answer. “Are you okay? You’re really stuck on this whole ‘Ed’s here with me’ thing.” 

And what’s he supposed to say to that? That he’s still convinced that this could only be a dream because this sort of thing doesn’t happen to him. “I just never expected you to come here.”

He gets a bemused expression from Ed for that. “Why not? I got your letter.” He huffed and lounged on his couch. “So they can’t even give you a date?”

He shook his head. “Not now, maybe in a week or two, I’ll get an answer from them.” Roy shuffled awkwardly for a moment trying to decide what to say. “Do you want some tea?”

Ed snorted, his nose crinkling. “I could go for some tea, but I’m fine with something stronger if you've got it.”

He cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms. “Don’t you mean if I’m feeling generous?”

“Nope,” Ed chimed.

“Let’s start with tea,” Roy snagged the only other mug he owned and poured Ed a cup, “get you warm first. After that?” He handed the mug to Ed who took it gratefully. “We’ll see about alcohol.”

Humming in agreement Ed took an aborted sip, cursing as the liquid scorched his tongue. “Fuck, dammit you could’ve warned me it was this hot,” Ed grumbled, glaring at his mug. 

“I didn’t know you were expecting cold tea.”

“Bastard.”

“Brat.”

The jibes were gentle despite themselves and Roy felt the familiar contentment in his being that he’d been getting when he was with Ed in any capacity. Whether it’s a phone call or in-person or even in a letter. Ed remained a stained glass masterpiece in his heart.

They sat in campanionable silence. The flickering of the fireplace casted a red glow around the room except for Ed. Ed’s always an exception. Instead of the red overlay across Ed, he glowed gold. 

His skin -- tanned and scarred-- reminded Roy of wedding rings and sun-warmed bronze. His eyes of finely crafted jewelry and the lace-gold details in famous paintings from the west. And his hair. The finest silk, bundled into a ponytail that trailed to at least the bottom of his shoulder blades.

He desperately wanted to say something to hear more of Ed’s voice. A voice that had haunted his mind for the past two years. A desperation to take, take, take until he had all of Ed. 

“I didn’t get to say this before,” Ed said, finally breaking their silence. “But I’m a fan of the eyepatch.”

From anyone else, he would’ve ignored the comment, but Roy knew that Ed was being serious right now. “It was a necessity after Bradley got it,” Roy said, setting his cup down and bringing a hand to the patch. “It isn’t a pretty sight, even Hawkeye had trouble looking at it.”

“I doubt that,” Ed took another sip from his drink, “if anything she probably still feels guilty that you lost it at all.”

He made a noncommittal noise. “No one should feel guilty about this, I got it taking Bradley down. And I survived.”

“You did.” Ed grinned at him. “And I think the patch makes you look rugged.”

Roy snorted and quirked a brow at him. “Sure that’s not just from living out here for the past two years?”

Ed’s eyes rolled so hard that Roy’s surprised they didn’t just pop out of his skull. “You haven’t grown any stupid facial hair yet so I’d say it’s the patch.”

“You don’t think I’d look good with facial hair?”

The tips of Ed’s ears flushed. “I didn’t say that,” he mumbled, “I am saying you’d look god awful with a moustache.” 

There is a niggling temptation to grow one just to get on Ed's nerves but he pushed that thought aside. He heaved a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I'll refrain for now." 

Ed laughed and it reverberated through him with the warmth of an embrace. He wanted to bottle the noise up and tuck it into the spaces between his ribs. Roy couldn't remember the last time he felt this content.

The other man was still looking at him when he focused back on their conversation. "Can I see it?"

Roy’s face closed off and he shifted awkwardly on the couch. “You… you want to see it?” He clarified because surely he'd heard wrong.

Ed shrugged and scooted a little closer. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He asked like it should be obvious to Roy, but doesn’t comment on it. Roy couldn't bring himself to deny Ed something that Roy was readily willing to give. Wanted to give. And maybe there's a small part of him that wanted to show someone. To not have someone shy away from the topic. To look at all of him now and not who he was before. 

Maybe he didn't just leave Central because he wanted to still help his country through a corrupt system.

Maybe he was tired of hiding.

He reached his hand up towards the strings that held his eyepatch in place but hesitates. "Are you sure you want to see it?" He wondered if he would want to see it if this was someone else. He knew for sure that he’d want to see Ed. Roy swore to himself that he’d never hesitate to look at Ed’s scars, not a single one of them would be skipped by his eyes.

Ed's eyes softened and he moved himself closer to Roy. They were barely a foot away from the other, their knees knocking together. The solid press of Ed’s automail knee against his own was surprisingly grounding. He wonderd if anyone else felt this way about Ed’s prosthetic limbs.

Ed didn't hesitate when he cupped Roy's face with his metal hand. He expected the harsh metal to be icy to the touch – unlike his leg that was still covered by the thick material of Ed’s pants – but it was heat-licked by the fire. Roy couldn't help but lean into the touch with a pleased sigh.

Mirth twinkled in Ed's eyes like honeyed gold. He ran his thumb along the bottom edge of his eyepatch. "I'm sure."

I want to see you. That’s what Roy heard inbetween Ed’s words. It didn't need to be said. Ed had already proven his surety with his touch, but it comforted Roy to hear it all the same. 

The satin ties of his eyepatch were easy enough to undo after he loosened the knot and soon the patch was fluttering down into his lap. He kept the eye closed for now, letting Ed see the mess of scars from the enucleation and trauma from Bradley’s blade. He watched Ed’s face for any reaction through his good eye, watching as he took in his face as a whole.

The first brush of Ed’s metal hand on the scars had him letting out a shuddering breath. His heart was pounding erratically in his chest and he couldn’t stop his sudden panic. It’s just Ed. Edward was the only one here with him. It’s just them. Together. Here. Now and not then. This steel was warm and nothing like the biting edge of a blade.

A second hand joined the first, this one with calluses and worn nails that worked their way through his hair. Instantly, he found himself relaxing under the ministrations of Ed’s talented fingers. Losing time or just forgetting everything that wassn’t Edward Elric.

“Come on, lemme see those eyes of yours, Colonel Bastard,” Ed urged, his thumb teasing along Roy’s cheekbone.

Despite himself, Roy found himself smiling. “Not a colonel anymore, Fullmetal,” he reminded Ed, “and I only have one eye.”

“Not Fullmetal anymore, Roy.”

He could hear his name on Ed’s lips for the rest of his life and Roy would never stop feeling his heart skip a beat. “Ed.”

Slowly, he opened both of his eyes and went back to watching Ed’s face. The breath hitched in Ed’s lungs for only a second before it settled back to normal. Roy couldn’t blame him. The clear conformer that prevented his eyelid from collapsing into the socket gave a clear view of the hollow interior. He hadn’t bothered getting a prosthetic eye, not when he’d been out here by himself for so long. His doctors still weren’t sure when he would even be able to wear one given the damage done to his eyelid and ocular cavity.

Instead of the multitude of reactions that Roy had prepared himself for, Ed gave him a gentle smile and cupped his face with both hands. “There you are.”

“How do I look?” Roy asked as though he couldn’t see the way Ed looks at him.

Maybe he couldn’t, because there’s a touch of uncertainty to Roy’s question that he couldn’t write off. Whether it’s over the way the scars mar his handsome face or over what Ed might think about his appearance, Roy couldn’t decide.

“Like you can take on the world,” Ed said without hesitation.

Stealing himself, Roy closed the distance between them and sealed their mouths together. Ed’s lips are chapped from his journey through the snow, but warm and solid against his own. He didn’t intensify the kiss, keeping it chaste since Ed hadn’t started to kiss him back. 

Reluctantly, he pulled away from Ed trying to catch the younger man’s eyes. Did he ruin this? “Ed?”

“Kiss me again,” Ed ordered but didn’t bother waiting for Roy to act, instead grabbing two handfuls of his shirt and smashing their lips together.

It’s messy, too much tongue and their teeth clack painfully against each other like Ed wanted to devour him, but he dived right in. He took control of the kiss, guiding Ed’s lips to slide against his own at a more sedate pace. The corners of his mouth turned up when Ed sighed against his mouth, a near-silent moan escaping him. 

Roy trailed a hand up Ed’s back until he reached the end of the man’s ponytail. He wrapped the silken strands around his fingers and tugged lightly. Ed splayed his hands against the plains of his chest, releasing his shirt from his grasp. 

When he found himself desperate for oxygen, he pulled away once more. Ed made a displeased groan but sat back enough to stare at Roy.

The affection and happiness that sparkled in Ed’s eyes was overwhelming and he couldn’t help but tell Ed exactly how he felt. “I think I love you,” Roy whispered.

Ed smiled back at him, his lips kiss-bruised and tempting. “Why do you think I’m here, Roy?” 

He didn’t have to say it because Ed always showed you how he felt. So when Ed tilted his head back, Roy capitulates to the silent request, sealing their mouths together again.

A flame captured by the glint of gold and steel.

[boundtoyouphff]

Chapter 11: Royals Do Not...

A/N: Hello everyone! I am so sorry that I have not been as active on here. I have moved to England temporarily and its been quite the adventure! I feel inspiration here and there to write this story so I am hoping that this inspiration and I can continue to share more of this story with you. Much love xx

————————————————————————————

From the moment I was born I have lived my life in the spotlight. Many people I have met are envious of that fact, of the fame and apparent glamour that my birth right gave me. But... it is far from what they dream it as to be.

It is not all glitz and glam or dressing up in a pretty designer dress and wearing magnificent sparkling jewelry. It’s about being a public servant to the people of your country and with that, there are rules that are not meant to be broken. Rules of how I should be greeted by another, who is allowed to touch me, how I am supposed to act in every occasion you can think of.

My grandmother instilled this quote in me at a tender young age as my rebellious side craved to appear... ‘to be believed you have to be seen. You have to give the people a monarchy they desire and envy to be like and thus act like one.’

I have stopped counting the amount of times I have been lectured on what “Royals do not...” do, mainly its because I don’t want to do things the way I was taught. To show no empathy or compassion, to not embrace and hug someone or try to relate to them by putting myself down from this pedestal that I should be cemented in.

I have been told to act ‘more royal’ but what does that even mean? Does anyone really know? What really makes me different from anyone else I pass by on the street?

Nothing.

I can hear my grandmothers scolding tone invade my mind when I am on an engagement, telling me how I should be acting or the fact that I held someone’s hand was wrong. And yet, I can never learn to stop that. I cannot put on a fake smile or not feel genuine emotions that these people elicit in me.

Those three little words.

Royals do not...

They define my life. Or at least that is what they want me to believe.

—————————————

Emilia lifted her chin up in the air as her stylist and make up artist, Ella, applied a natural layer of make up to her face. Mia Deacon was rambling off in the corner about the day’s full itinerary of Harry’s tour accompanied by the princess, stressing over every single detail with little side notes of protocol reminders, no doubt her grandmother incorporated in through Mia.

Ella rolled her eyes with her lips spreading into a cheeky smile picking up on the fact that Emilia was starting to get annoyed with her private press secretary. “Just be you, Emilia.” Her stylist encouraged in a sincere tone that was matched within her eyes.

The princess closed her eyes with a slow nod and tuned out all the voices from around her to focus on calming her nerves. Emilia felt the pressure from every angle and today would only be another day that every moment would be cautiously watched and scrutinized not only by her grandmother, but also the Illyrian media.

“There how do you like this Em? I could add a bit more but felt a natural look would be perfect for today and then this evening for the state banquet we could amp it up!” Ella delightfully smiled at the finished product and grabbed a mirror to hold up in front of Emilia.

“Looks perfect like always Ella. Thank you very much.” Emilia’s lips tugged into a smile and stood up from her stool motioning for her stylist to follow her into the closet. “Now, I forgot which outfit we talked about last week for the first engagement.”

Mia’s heels clicked behind them and entered her walk in closet ready to put her opinion in. “Let’s make sure it’s elegant and regal. The style of a true princess.” Emilia’s press secretary was adamant that she would be the one to ultimately decide if her dress was suitable for the occasion, but the princess was not going to succumb to the pressures placed on her when someone else would decide every single little detail.

“I appreciate the input Mia.” Emilia sorted through her closet analyzing a few options before continuing. “But, I think this is a decision for Ella and I. Besides I am heading to a children’s hospital in a lower socioeconomic community and do not believe that is the place to be ‘regal’ as you put it, but more... relatable...” Emilia angled her head down, admiring a dress she thought would be a good fit for the event.

“Emilia… these engagements are important for you.” Mia was not backing down from the princess.

“Important for me? Or important for you so you don’t lose your job.” Emilia sassily replied and turned around to confront her private secretary with a disappointed expression morphing onto her face. With each passing day, it seemed like Mia was no longer interested in working with Emilia, rather for her grandmother. Able to keep a close watchful eye on the young royal and persuade her actions to those that would align with the Queen’s.

“Both.” Mia crossed her arms defensively and narrowed a stare towards the princess. “Your grandmother hired me to set you on a straight path and you have been making this job more than difficult because of your attitude and the need to be on the front page of the daily paper... daily.” The brunette freely spoke her mind, not holding anything back. “You need to grow up and be the princess your grandmother wants you, rather needs you to be.” Those words cut through Emilia like a knife, stinging on their way out.

Tristan had walked in mid conversation and was casually leaning up against the framed entrance watching the encounter unfold in front of his eyes. His brow furrowed in displeasure seeing how Mia was treating Emilia. He could recall all the difficulties he previously had with the princess, but he showed Emilia how they could work together and gave her the freedom she craved every once in a while in return for her cooperation and in time, built an understanding relationship. The moment he met Mia, Tristan had an inkling that she would rub Emilia the wrong way mixed with the fact that she was not the princess’s choice rather the Queen’s intention to keep a closer eye on Emilia.

Emilia’s silence was profoundly felt amongst all standing around her as the awkwardness in the room rose. The disappointment that was etched on her face provided more proof of what the silence meant as she stared down Mia

Mia had over stepped majorly and she knew it. Opening her mouth to apologize she was interrupted before she could even start.

“Mia.” Emilia spat out her name. “I need people on my team who can work with me, not work against me. There really never was a cohesive feeling when you arrived and partly for the fact that you believe my grandmother is your boss as she is the one you are required to please and not me. That was your first mistake.” The princess calmly spoke, mustering all she could within herself to not lose it. “Your second mistake is thinking you could speak to me that way and this is not the first time I have let it go unchecked.”

“Emilia, I apologize.” Mia stepped forward towards the scowling princess to beg for forgiveness, but Emilia was through with her.

“It’s your royal highness or ma’am to you.” Emilia interrupted with a clenched jaw. “Mrs. Deacon, I think this is where we say our goodbyes. Thank you for your service and I wish you all the best in your future endeavours.” The princess raised her head to look past Mia at Tristan giving him a slight nod of the head. “Tristan, please escort Mrs. Deacon out of my apartment. I am sure she will be wishing to speak with the Queen on this matter.”

“Gladly, ma’am.” Tristan stepped forward and gripped Mia’s arm tightly, giving it a tug back. “It’s time to leave here, Mia.”

Mia’s big brown eyes that were filled with regret peaked up at the blonde RPO. “You know this is ridiculous Tristan.” She was practically being pulled out of the princess’s apartment.

“What is ridiculous is how you thought you could change Emilia. Maybe she is what this family needs right now.” Tristan stood up for the young princess he had grown fond of despite her unprecedented ways. “A breath of fresh air.”

Emilia turned around being no longer able to watch Mia’s figure slowly disappear in the distance. She had to hide the tears that were threatening to over pour. Never had she felt so alone in this world before, but her mind could not stay on that thought as it brought images of articles to the forefront of her mind knowing this would have to be revealed publicly. Not to mention how her grandmother would react once she heard the news of Mia Deacon no longer being her look out for Emilia.

The princess fought back the tears and gained her composure while sorting through her dresses. “Can you pick one out Ella, I trust your judgment.” Emilia sat down on top of a white cushioned bench taking a moment to herself.

“I think this one will look fabulous on you along with these shoes and a simple pair of pearl earrings.” Emilia lifted her head and smiled weakly at a beaming Ella who was holding up a black and white simple dress with a turquoise heel to add a pop of color.

“Me too.”

————————

“Good morning.” Harry leaned in and pressed a greeting kiss on both of Emilia’s cheeks. He had been waiting for the princess to join him on their first engagement as his team waited at the convoy along the palace’s gates, but Emilia was nearly twenty minutes late. Judging by her quiet demeanour the prince guessed that something had happened.

“Morning.” Emilia spoke with a quiet voice and was visibly distracted, barely looking the prince in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Harry’s brow furrowed with concern while the princess peaked up at him through her dark lashes with those mesmerizing piercing blue eyes. For a brief second she allowed him into her thoughts that were painted across her face for him to clearly see, but they morphed into a fake smile that hide it all too quickly for Harry’s liking.

“Nothing.” Emilia brushed him off and stepped around him to get in the vehicle. “We better leave, Henry.”

The princess stared out the window hardly acknowledging the prince’s existence. Neither of them spoke a word to one another throughout the whole drive to the children’s hospital alerting Harry that something was definitely up with Emilia. His head lifted and locked with Tristan through the rear view mirror who was driving them to the engagement. Her RPO gave him a simple nod and pushed the button to bring up a separator between the back seat and the drivers, giving Harry and Emilia a bit of privacy.

“Talk to me, Emilia.” Harry’s soft voice was laced with genuine concern for the princess. “Please.” The prince begged of her when he was met with a silent reply.

Emilia closed her eyes and swallowed a lump in her throat. She could not bare to look at Harry so she continued to glance out the window, staring absentmindedly at the buildings they passed by while her thoughts consumed her.

All her mind was filled with was her grandmothers ridiculing voice saying...

Royals do not be irrational about their decisions.

“I am sure you will hear a few people commenting today that I fired my private secretary this morning.” Emilia sighed at the end of her sentence.

“Well, that happens.” Harry non-chalantly played it off, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “I am sure there are other people more capable for the job.”

“No…” Her head snapped towards Harry as he was met with a hard stare. “You don’t understand, Henry.” Emilia’s cold icy stare bore into him. “Mia was hired by my grandmother to keep a closer eye on me and change my unroyal ways. I am just waiting to hear word from her about how disappointed she is in me... again.” The princess turned away from Harry to hide her somber eyes. “Nothing I ever do is good enough. No matter how hard I try, I am not good enough.... not royal enough.”

“I am sorry, Emilia.” The prince’s heart felt for her while her words tugged at his heart strings. “But, think of this as an opportunity to find someone who you can work well with, who will be on your side now and do things the way you want to do them.” Harry shifted in his seat to move closer to Emilia. “Come here.” He whispered and gripped her arm gently to pull Emilia into him.

“Nooo.” She fought it for a second, but quickly gave into his request craving his comforting touch. Emilia wrapped her arms around Harry, releasing a deep sigh and finding comfort once again in his arms. “I feel so alone, Henry.” The princess fought back the tears, but a stray one trickled down her cheek. “Why can’t being me just be good enough for someone? Why do I have to bend to their will only because I do things a little differently?”

“You aren’t alone.” His thumb rubbed over the soft fabric of her dress on the back of her arm. “You have me.” Emilia picked her head up off his shoulder to look up into his eyes to see if the sincerity in his voice matched. “And you are good enough, Emilia. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” The kind words that rolled off his tongue made the hurt subside a little, as she found solace in them.

“Thank you for being you.” Emilia cupped his cheek and without warning, leaned in and captured Harry’s lips. The princess had no idea what had gotten over her, but having someone on her side without any ill intentions brought a sense of reassurance and security to her that had been lacking for numerous years, so she welcomed it with open arms. She realized what she had done and tore her lips off of Harry’s only to feel Harry’s hand on her neck to stop her from moving any further away.

“Don’t pull away.” His lips embraced Emilia’s again while holding her head steady. She smiled into the kiss and welcomed the feeling of Harry’s lips softly kissing her. He was gentle, but passionate as the prince continued a feverish attack, making his motives clear that he indeed wanted Emilia.

There was a piece inside of Emilia that had feelings for Harry, making it more difficult for her to ignore with each passing day as it continued to grow stronger within her. It was undeniable that there was this palpable connection they shared like an outside force was playing like a puppet with their heartstrings.

Harry tugged hard on Emilia’s lips and captured a tiny moan that escaped from them. She clutched the collar of Harry’s shirt and pulled him down, fighting for a piece of control, but the prince did not back down and fought back with soft kisses trailing down her jaw line down towards her collarbone. Emilia was breathless as her head gently tipped back, giving Harry full access to her neck.

“We should stop…” The princess forced out from a fully clouded mind with evident regret laced in her tone.

“We should…” Harry mumbled against her soft skin as he found his way back to her lips and delicately tasted them, savouring the taste.

The screams of fans muffled from outside the vehicle brought them hastily back to reality. Emilia released her grip on Harry’s shirt and immediately sat back, clearing her throat and checking to see if her dress was in proper placement.

The prince was beaming from ear to ear as he licked his lips, tasting the remnants of Emilia on them. His eyes drifted towards a half stunned princess as she stiffly sat beside him, attempting to get the moment out of her mind.

“We should not have done that before an engagement.” Emilia’s shaky voice sounded as she fidgeted nervously with the ends of her dress.

“Don’t worry, it will be fine.” The ever-assuring prince calmed her. “It’s not like they are going to ask if we locked lips, Emilia.” Harry tossed his head back in laughter after seeing her ice blue eyes wide with shock.

“You can thank the blacked out windows for that.” The princess nervously giggled.

“Just, let’s keep it professional.” The princess informed him and even shifted further away from him. “Keep a good distance away from me.”

“Yes, princess.” Harry tugged on the sides of his suit jacket to straighten it out as their vehicle pulled to a stop. “Let’s not forget to have a little fun too. You aren’t the only one who likes to do things a little differently so let’s show them how the Brits do it!” Henry flashed a flirtatious charming smile at Emilia before his door sprung open and exited the vehicle to hear the hundreds of screaming fans hollering their names.

But, the same voice in her head was still louder than the cheers from the people... her grandmothers scolding her, again.

Emilia, Royals do not show any displays of affection.

Emilia gracefully stepped out of the back seat of the vehicle and briefly locked eyes with Tristan who displayed a genuine smile back towards the princess. Her eyes scanned the awaiting crowd and offered them a cheerful wave as they shouted her name. The princess walked around the vehicle to see Harry waiting patiently for Emilia before they headed towards the entrance of the hospital to greet the CEO and founders of St. Thereasita’s Hospital.

Harry motioned for Emilia to step ahead of him, technically against royal protocol but he was bound to break a few rules today to show the Illyrian media that breaking protocol was not as awful as they were portraying Emilia while she did it.

“Your royal highness, it’s a pleasure to have you visit us again Princess Emilia!” The founder of St. Thereasita’s Hospital greeted the princess with a warm handshake, attempting to speak above the erupting crowd behind them.

“It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Davies. Thank you again for allowing us to visit and see the children and their families.” Emilia smiled warmly and angled her body to proceed down to the next person while the prince stepped in behind her.

Harry and Emilia walked down through the pediatric cancer ward and visited a few families along with their eager children who were so excited to meet a prince and a princess. Along they way, they were educated on the different programs offered for families in this low income community and how their out reach in their community has changed many lives for the better.

Emilia sat down on a little girls bed who was playing with a stuffed animal. She looked quite pale and ill, lacking any expression. “Hello there.” The princess quietly intruded in the little girls thoughts as she peaked up at Emilia. “My name is Emilia, what’s yours?” The girl leaned forward and tapped Emilia on the nose with her stuffed bunny.

“Charlie.” She cupped her mouth and whispered, shyly eying the hoards of cameras behind the princess.

“That is a very pretty name, Charlie. I love your bunny!” The princess tried to distract Charlie from the media quietly listening to every one of their words.

“Do you have a bunny?! Like this one?” Charlie held the ratted out stuffed bunny proudly in the air, showing it off.

“You know, I don’t but I really wish I did though!” Emilia shared a glance towards Charlie’s smiling parents and delved into a conversation with him. She listened to Charlie’s story with empathy etched on her face, learning that this little girl was indeed a fighter but her treatments had recently stopped working. This family was at a crossroads in their life, unsure whether to let Charlie enjoy the rest of the little time she had left or go on to explore treatments in other countries that would put her body through so much to extend her life only by a little.

Emilia’s eyes were brimming with tears while her heart ached. Her hand flew to her chest as she leaned in and tried to formulate a string of words that got caught up in her throat. “I can’t imagine. She is a very strong little girl.” The princess felt a stray tear trickle down her cheek that she quickly brushed away and heard an array of cameras clicking making Emilia hide her face away from them.

Royals did not show emotion. Emilia could hear those exact words in her mind being spoken by her grandmother.

Harry was leaning up against the wall, watching the whole encounter take place before his eyes. The media were practically starving for anything they could use against the princess, rather anything that would sell the papers. He felt for Emilia deeply. Even though he had an understanding of the level of scrutiny she was under, this felt more like an obsession, like she was a money target.

The prince stepped in and made a joke with Charlie to which everyone laughed. Emilia was grateful for the distraction and was able to thank the family for a visit before moving on to the next event on the agenda. Emilia felt the immediate presence of Harry beside her and silently whispered a quiet thank you. She received a small nod from the British prince before Emilia heard the shouting coming down from the hall.

“My friend! It’s my friend!” A small little girl was holding on to her IV pole as she came running down the corridor towards Harry and Emilia.

As the child came closer and closer, Emilia was both heartbroken and caught off guard to find out that she recognized the young child with her tilted purple beanie slipping off her head that revealed her hair was all gone. It was Olivia, the little sweet girl she befriended at her patronage, the Breakfast Club, a few months back. She was sitting all alone because the bullies at school did not like her shoes.

Emilia crouched down and opened her arms out to invite Olivia in for an embrace. The little girl wrapped her arms around the princess and squeezed her arms so tightly around Emilia. Closing her eyes, she heard the clicks of the cameras going off behind her capturing what should have been a private moment between them.

Emilia hugged Olivia tighter as the words crept in, blocking them out and relishing the feeling of the embrace as if she tried to convince herself it was worth the risk.

Breaking away from the embrace, Olivia stared up at the princess with her big blue eyes smiling. “Did you come here to visit me?” She innocently asked with an excited tone in her voice that made Emilia giggle.

“Yes! I did!” The princess stood up from and laid eyes on what appeared to be Olivia’s mother.

“Come sweetheart, the princess is busy at the moment. Maybe we will see her later.” Her mother reached out for her hand, but she grasped Emilia’s instead.

“But, mummy! My friend is here to see me!” She pleaded with her mother. “I have a drawing for her.”

Emilia’s head turned to see Harry smiling down at her with a fond smile plastered on his lips as he silently watched the sweet, but sincere interaction. His head lifted to stare into the depth of her blue eyed gaze that looked to him for guidance. He understood what Emilia wished for in that moment, private time away from the intrusive press, but if she asked for it there would be no doubt something written about her being difficult with them the following day.

Royals do not be difficult with those promoting their causes. Smile and give them what they want.

The prince stepped in and cleared his throat, approaching Mr. Davies. “Would you like to take me on more of the tour? I would love to see more of the work you are doing here and meet some more of the families and children here if possible. Emilia will join us for the story telling session later.” Mr. Davies hesitated briefly and looked beside the prince towards Emilia who subtly nodded her approval.

“This way, your highness.” He led the way as the press followed in behind them.

Emilia stood there holding Olivia’s hand loosely as she watched Harry glance back over his shoulder with a small smirk at the corner of his lips. One photographer lingered behind and snapped his lens at the princess, bringing her back to the moment.

Before Emilia could speak, Tristan stepped in front of him. “Sir, please join the rest of the media crew ahead. Princess Emilia has a privately planned meeting.” The photographer reluctantly left them and joined the rest up ahead, leaving Emilia alone with Olivia and her family.

“Hello, I am Emilia.” The princess stretched out her hand and shook the mothers hand, greeting her warmly.

“I must apologize. I have no idea why Olivia thinks you are her friend and for her barging in like that.” Her mother attempted to apologize.

“No no! Do not apologize.” Emilia was quick to re-assure her. “Actually, she is telling the truth. We are friends, aren’t we?” She glanced down at the smiling little girl. “Why don’t you take me to your room?”

“And this is for you!” Olivia handed the princess a drawing to which Emilia took in delicately in her hands to analyze it. It was a drawing of the two of them at breakfast that day, but both of them apparently had massive feet as she had show cased them both wearing her idea of replicas of the shoes she had worn. Their smiles stretched across their whole face, making Emilia’s reflect the same in that moment.

“This is so well done Olivia! Do you mind if I keep it and hang it up?” The princess gently asked. Olivia was quick nodding her head in reply.

“You can have it! It is a drawing of our friendship.” Olivia tilted her head and gave the most proudest, sweetest smile that tugged at Emilia’s heartstrings.

“I know what you are wondering.” Olivia’s mother broke the moment as she gained Emilia’s gaze upon her. “Of what happened to my little girl.”

“I do... but you don’t have to tell me.” Emilia reached out and brushed the little girls beanie gently with her hand. “In my eyes, nothing has happened. Olivia is still that sweet, adorable girl I met that day. Who is now rocking more amazing style choices just like she always has.”

Olivia’s mother, Leah, was taken back and grew into a silent demeanour while tears quietly streamed down her cheeks. It had been months since someone had looked past her daughters diagnosis and saw Olivia for who she really was and Princess Emilia did that. Wiping away her tears subtly, she watched from a close, but far enough distance to observe her daughters interaction with the royal. But, one thing her eyes could not stray from is the smile, rather the sparkle of life that had grown in Olivia’s eyes at the moment she saw Emilia.

Leah had read her fair share of the news that surrounded the Illyrian royal family, more so of the princess who was now sat in front of her. The media had been slamming her for nearly every blink of an eye, tearing her down. But, she witnessed another version of Emilia that was often not showcased in the news and the rare time it was, they ridiculed her for being too ‘common’ and ‘not enough royal.’ In reality, that made her more relatable than most people who had walked through her daughters hospital room.

————

Emilia followed the sound of laughing children with Tristan in step beside her. She could hear the sound of Harry’s laughter from down the corridor that elicited a growing smile on her lips. Her feeble attempts to mask it failed miserably, she loved his laugh. Entering the room, Emilia opted to sit back and watch Harry interact with the children. Leaning up against the frame of a door she quietly kept her eyes on him, careful not to alert the media to her presence.

Harry was sitting on the tiniest chair she had ever seen, obviously meant for a child and not a grown man. But, there he was with a book in hand reading a group of children a story. He made silly faces and gave each character a different voice. Harry had the children holding their bellies in laughter, forgetting for a few minutes why they were in this hospital to begin with. They, were just being normal children the way they were supposed to be.

She sighed a breath of relief. Some piece of Emilia knew that Harry was putting on a bit of a show to show the media that it was ok to be relatable and to have fun on engagements. She deeply appreciated what he was doing for her, but in the end she knew things would never change as that small voice in the back of her head came to the forefront.

Royals do not have fun on engagements.

————————

Harry and Emilia exited the hospital after having a lovely visit at St. Theresitas. They both thanked Mr. Davies and chatted for a few minutes longer. Emilia felt Harry’s body become tense next to her and saw his jaw clench out of the corner of her eye. But, she continued the conversation with Mr. Davies.

The princess said her goodbyes only to turn around and find a swarm of paparazzi that had not been invited to attend the event, nearly pushing some of the barriers forward. The police told them to step back raising their arms up in the arm as a line of police built a barrier with their bodies, but Emilia knew exactly what was about to happen.

“Princess Emilia, Duchess of difficult! Why did you fire your private press secretary this morning?” One of them yelled at the princess. “Or did she actually quit because you were so demanding of her?”

Of course they had found out.

A sickening feeling in the pit of Emilia’s stomach began to grow as anxiety coursed through her body.

She felt a hand being placed on her back, settling her nerves with a simple touch. “We should go.” Harry’s voice broke through the clicks of the sea of cameras, his hand riskily guiding her forward. He knew that placing his hand on Emilia would insinuate rumours, but her safety was at the forefront of her mind.

Emilia quietly nodded and turned on her heel to leave, settling into Harry’s guiding hand on the small of her back. Showing off a fake smile and waving one last goodbye to the people who were awaiting so patiently to see them. But, with this media circus, a walk about would not be possible for security reasons.

The sound of metal crashing and shouting caused the princess to glance back over her shoulder to see some of the barriers being knocked down and a flood of paparazzi breaking through past the officers. Emilia gasped in shock as they shoved a policeman to the ground just to get to her, a hoard of running determined photographers came at her.

Tristan turned around and looked directly in Harry’s eyes for a brief second. “Get Emilia in the car now and go!” He barked an order at the prince, hoping he had made the right choice in trusting Harry with Emilia’s safety. There simply was not enough security to hold them back from the group rushing at her.

Emilia felt an arm wrap around from behind her and brought her body protectively into Harry’s to shield her from them. “Emilia, run.” His voice was commanding and cold. She picked up her feet as her fear drove her to run towards the vehicle that had swiftly pulled up.

Glancing back over her shoulder she nearly stopped in her tracks to see Tristan and the rest of her security team combined with Harrys attempt to hold them back just long enough to get the royals out of what had become an unsafe situation for them. Tristan grabbed someone who lunged forward, trying to break through and shoved him to the ground.

Emilia locked eyes briefly with the man as he smiled devilishly seeing the fear in the young princess’s eyes and yelled....“Emilia! Are you not royal enough? Is that why no one can stand working for you?! ARE YOU EVEN PRINCE FREDERICKS DAUGHTER?”

Those words cut deeper through her more than anything before, wounding her internally.

Harry grasped her forearm tightly and pulled her ahead with such force her arm stung with pain. “Emilia! Get in the fucking car!” He spoke to her through clenched teeth, forcefully pulling her along side of him. Not understanding why she was stalling and ultimately in fear of her safety.

He opened the back door and nearly shoved her in the back seat. “LET GO OF ME!YOU DO NOT NEED TO SHOVE ME!” She glared back at the prince who climbed in beside her and slammed the door closed in a fury of rage.

“GO!” He yelled at the driver. “I said go! Get the princess fucking out of here!”

The vehicle hastily sped off into the distance.

Emilia had not spoken a single word since they had driven away. They both sat there in silence. But, unknown to Emilia who refused to look at Harry as she looked out the window, Harry’s gaze never faltered from her.

He felt a pang of guilt when she grabbed the spot on her arm that he had gripped so tightly, wondering if he had hurt her. All he was doing was trying to protect Emilia without showing the onlookers how much he actually cared for her. He couldn’t just grab her hand and interlock their fingers in an intimate gesture for fear of reprisal.

“Are you ok?” He broke through their silence, asking a question he already knew the answer too. Harry had heard the words and accusations being tossed her way. He placed his hand on top of her knee, feeling a stiff tense body that did not reciprocate his touch.

Emilia didn’t acknowledge Harry. She sat there with her head resting on the window, absentmindedly watching the world go by as she was trapped in the depths of her mind, replaying the words of grandmother over.

Royals do not be irrational about their decisions

Royals do not show any displays of affection

Royals do not show emotion

Royals do not be difficult with those promoting their causes

Royals do not have fun on engagements

Royals do not cause a scene

“Emilia! Are you not royal enough? Is that why no one can stand working for you?! ARE YOU EVEN PRINCE FREDERICKS DAUGHTER?”

After everything the media had bore witness to, after seeing a side of Emilia she was hesitant to even show, all that would be reported about was the scene that had unfolded while they left the hospital.

A deep sigh was released from the princess.

“No, Henry.” His head lifted, hearing his name roll of her tongue.

“I am not ok.”

[iamsaha]

Bats From Holly

Charles dragged his fingers through his full hair, keeping it curled back and down to his shoulders like a black mane. His tailcoat lay discarded to the side, his toned body clearly outlined under his dark green waistcoat and white shirt. He had loosened his tie so it would not choke him while he worked. 

Even vampires need oxygen.

“Charlie.” A smooth, seductive voice called to him from past the light in the room. “It just struck midnight.”

Charles looked up, a small smile under his thick beard. His eyes flashed red in anticipation before returning to their usual storm grey. “Thank you, Iris.”

The horned demon stepped out from the shadows in an outfit similar to Charles’. He thought it looked better on her but that may be because she was a very attractive demon. Even with the long horns, sharp ears, and pitch black eyes. You learn to look past those things once you get to know her. She had a demeanor that burned like ice and that was hard to dislike. 

She put her black hair into a bun, letting some of it fall forward to cover the left side of her face. It got in the way of her wire framed glasses but it’s not as if a demon needed glasses to see properly. Iris was simply being fashionable and it worked very well for her. “Aurelia will be waiting for you.”

“Then let’s not keep her waiting.” Charles signed the last paper and waved his hand. The document burst into purple flame and left behind no evidence of it being there in the first place. He put his tailcoat back on and followed Iris out of his office. “Even if she has my patience.”

“If only you had her politeness.” Iris said, removing Charles’ hand from her back pocket. 

“My daughter is shy. Not polite.” He chuckled, returning his hand to her behind. “I’ve missed you.”

“I can tell.” Iris sighed but she let his hand remain. She wouldn’t admit it, but she had missed him as well. His smug smile would be intolerable if she told him.

“Thank you for taking care of that nuisance for me.” Charles smiled. “Wish the hunters would understand that I’m one of the good ones.” 

Charles Ducarte was one of the rare vampires that thanked their familiars. Even having grown up with him, Iris was not accustomed to it. “You are welcome.”

They walked down the paneled halls of the Ducarte family castle. If they hadn’t seen them over a thousand times already, they would have admired the portraits adorning the walls intermittently. There was one, in the main hall, that they did pause by for a moment. A blonde woman with high cheekbones and purple eyes smiled down at them, her fangs just barely visible. Iris bowed her head respectfully. Charles just stared at his late wife. “Sabine should have been here for this.”

What do you say to your lover who still remembers and misses his wife? Iris put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Charlie.”

Charlie sighed and they continued their walk to Aurelia’s room. He kept his hand to himself. When they got to his daughter’s room, Iris was the one who knocked. “Come in.”

Inside the room was a little seven year old girl wearing a black dress, white tights, and hair tied in twin braids. Of course one braid was longer than the other so Iris sat behind her to fix it. “Are you ready for the Bleeding Tree, mistress?”

“Yes.” 

Charles squatted in front of her and put shoes onto her feet. “I was very scared when it was my Howling Day. Aren’t you?”

Aurelia shook her head. If her feet weren’t bouncing up and down she would have seemed uninterested in what was about to happen for her. 

“Okay then.” Charles took his daughter’s tiny hands into his and she hopped off the bed. “I’m going to lift you up for a moment, alright?”

“Okay.”

He held her in his arm and smiled at her. The sides of her lips turned up in a smile that was about as easy to see as the wings of a flying hummingbird. Once her baby fat disappeared, Aurelia would look like her mother. As if an artist had been commissioned to paint Sabine but was allowed to take liberties here and there. Give her Charles’ storm grey eyes, black hair, and ears but keep everything else the same. “I love you, Aurelia.” 

“I love you, Daddy.” Her smile was easier to see this time. She really did love him. He was busy but read to her everyday. He let her sleep in his bed when there was a storm outside or if one of his demonic customers had frightened her. Aurelia had never known her mom. If you asked her to show you her parents, she would only point at Charles. This saddened him but Aurelia didn’t care. She didn’t know that she should. 

“I’ve got a little Howling Day present for you.” Charles said. “Would you like it now or after we return from the Bleeding Tree?”

“Now.” 

“I thought so.” Charles smiled and handed Aurelia to Iris’ waiting arms. From his pocket came a black necklace with a silver holly pendant. The portion where the pendant hung from the necklace was covered by silver holly berries. From the berries sprouted three leaves that looked sharp but would do no harm to its wearer. 

After it was put on her, Aurelia took the pendant into her hand to examine it. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Do you like it?” 

“Mhm.” She smiled. “It’s very pretty.”

“You make it so, darling.” Charles took her tiny finger into his hand after she was set back onto the floor. “Come.”

“Do you remember your lessons, mistress?” Iris asked as they walked back the way they had come, towards the main hall. 

“Yes.”

“Then please tell me what will be happening tonight.”

“I get a familiar.”

“And what is a familiar?”

“A demon.” Aurelia said. She was young but not so young that she presumed that answer would be enough. “They help you.”

“Correct, mistress.” Iris smiled. “Well done.”

“And missing information.” Charles said. “Not your fault, though, Aurelia.”

“Oh?” Iris raised a finely plucked eyebrow. It should be noted here that Iris didn’t pluck her eyebrows. Her eyebrows grew as though they had been finely plucked because she had them grow that way. The vast majority of things listen to demons and eyebrow hair is amongst that list of obedient beings. “What did I neglect to teach Mistress Aurelia?”

“They’re friends.” Charles said. “Your familiar is your friend, darling. They’ll be there for you whenever you need it. Even when you don’t know you need them, a familiar will be there.” He looked at Sabine’s portrait as they passed it and added softly, “Most of them, at least, will.”

“Friend.” Aurelia nodded solemnly, hardly giving her mother a passing glance. She knew who it was; Charles had made sure of that. But Aurelia was too young to care for anyone she didn’t know. When she grew older she’d miss the mother she had for the briefest of moments. For now, though, Sabine was just a beautiful woman in a painting that looked a lot like Aurelia.

She followed her dad into their castle courtyard. It was long enough where an average man would be lightly panting after taking a light jog across it and half as wide. Full, vibrant green grass, dusted by the orange leaves falling from the trees sparsley planted in the courtyard, filled the majority of the space. The leaves crunched as two large footsteps and a small one smothered them on a journey towards the middle of the courtyard. The place where the Bleeding Tree grew. 

All Vampire Lords had a Bleeding Tree on their land. Should a minor vampire need one, they’d need to gain the favor of the local lord. Appointments would have to be made and kept, along with a small fee. It was a hassle. Fortunately for minor vampires, they hardly ever needed a Bleeding Tree after they got their familiar.

Bleeding Trees didn’t occur naturally in the world. Well. They were made from a tree that did occur naturally: Holly. Should you want a Bleeding Tree, all you’d have to do is stake a mortal man through his heart and deep into the tree during a new moon. Have a vampire drink from the man’s blood while 12 other vampires recited the appropriate spells. The tree wouldn’t change in appearance after the ceremony was over, save for a gaping hole that would never close. It would bleed blood, human blood, for as long as it stood. Luckily for mortal men, there isn’t a high demand for Bleeding Trees. It’s easier, even with the hassle, to just go to your local Vampire Lord and use the one they had.

“Ready, my love?” Charles asked, approaching the Bleeding Tree with Aurelia’s hand still held in his. Iris remained back, hands in her pockets and eyes on her master and his child. 

“Mhm.” Aurelia nodded. 

“Then repeat after me.” Charles said. “It’ll only work if both of us say the words.”

That wasn’t true. There isn’t even a spell that was needed. The Bleeding Tree could see into their hearts and know what they wanted. But it was more fun this way.

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Damned are the Lords Draculae Fathered our fathers then cast unto hell From beyond the fiery gates they watch us still Sending fiendish guardians to serve their kin”

Aurelia dutifully repeated each line after her father then waited in the silence that followed. She disliked the silence for a split second only because the noise began right after. Once it started, she missed the quiet. This sound was unbearable and was forcing her into squeezing Charles’ hand tightly while tears burst from her eyes. You’d die if you were forced into listening to the howls of the damned. Little Aurelia, age seven, was getting a glimpse of the Hell her ancestors were from and all she did was cry and hold onto her daddy. 

Aurelia is a vampire so it isn’t fair to compare. Still. You ought to be slightly ashamed for being such a coward that you’d die from a little bit of screaming.

Suddenly hundreds of bats burst from the bleeding hole of the tree and swarmed the two. They didn’t touch them but the wind from their beating wings made Charles’ and Aurelia’s hair fly in every direction. 

“Master Ducarte!” The Holly Bats screeched in unison, their combined voice sounding like the shattering of glass in a cathedral. “Mistress Aurelia!”

“Greetings.” Charles bowed his head and squeezed Aurelia’s hand so she’d do the same.

“Hi.” Aurelia said meekly. Iris had said this would happen and it hadn’t scared her. She had been mistaken. 

“Reach a hand out, Darling Aurelia.” The Holly Bats screamed. “Into the Bleeding Tree.”

Aurelia looked to Charles for assurance and it was given to her in the form of a nod, a smile, and the letting go of her hand. Darling Aurelia took three timorous steps towards the Bleeding Tree, the bats slightly parting for her. The blood oozing from the tree looked fresh despite it being five hundred years, at least, since it was created. Telling herself that vampires shouldn’t be sickened by blood, Aurelia stood on her tippy-toes and squeezed her hand into the hole. The smell of iron and brimstone assaulted her.

“Pull, Darling Aurelia!” The Holly Bats screamed louder. “Your servant awaits to hear your first order! Pull!”

She felt a warm hand take hers. She jumped, startled, but didn’t let go. After looking back to Charles and getting more assurance, just a smile this time, Aurelia pulled. It was easier than expected. Like taking the top most cookie from the jar. The ease of it made her fall back onto her butt with a demon familiar on top of her. The Holly Bats disappeared, the howling stopped, and there was silence in Castle Ducarte.

The demon was slightly taller than Aurelia but just as skinny. Had pitch black eyes, like Iris, and black hair that was buzzed close to his scalp. Instead of horns portruding from his forehead, he had tusks jutting out from his jaw. They were small and blunted but they would grow to be threateningly sharp when he grew older. “Hello, mistress.” The demon boy said, scrambling up to his feet and holding his hand out. 

“Hello.” Aurelia took his help and stood up. She smiled shyly. “I’m Aurelia. You don’t have to call me mistress.”

The boy frowned at that but nodded. An order was an order. “Okay, Aurelia.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy looked around, looking twice at Charles and Iris, before returning his attention to Aurelia. He smiled between his tusks. “Judas.”

-Saha

[itsworn]

Homemade, 50-Year-Old Fuel Motor Roars Back To Life

The Big Banger Theory

Fueler.

Improbable survival stories are standard equipment around here. HOT ROD Deluxe is known for telling resurrection tales that defy all odds and logic. Some of those story ideas surely would’ve been rejected outright by skeptical editors as borderline unbelievable, had photographic evidence not undeniably documented a journey from distant past to survivor. Forget “borderline”; this is one backyard project that’s been unreal from the very start, when a retired machinist began building his racing engine, literally—a gigantic four-banger that once again cackles with nitromethane—a half-century later.

If that already sounds unbelievable, prepare to suspend disbelief long enough to hear the rest of the story. The happy ending depicted by these current photos followed decades of neglect, disassembly, and even theft that could’ve, would’ve, and certainly should’ve written a far sadder story. The magical intervention of a young Springfield, Oregon, engine builder was the last link in a long chain of unlikely coincidences—or was it something else?

“I feel like Grandpa led me to him,” says Carol Stange, a since-retired meter reader for the Springfield Utility Board in Oregon whose monthly route included a joint named Tim’s Muscle Cars. She’d never met or even seen anyone on the grounds until the day she spied an old Lyndwood dragster chassis out front. As a lifelong gearhead from Long Beach, California, whose grandfather had exposed the whole family to nearby Lions Drag Strip, Carol couldn’t resist knocking on the office door. When nobody answered, she walked inside and to the back of the building, following male voices.

“A buddy and I were painting his GTO in my spray booth,” Tim Riel recalls. “We both had respirators on. I thought, ‘Wow, this lady has a lot of nerve, walking up to a couple of strangers wearing masks!’” Tim and Carol agree that their introductory conversation began something like this:

“Hi, I saw your dragster out front. My grandfather had one of those.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, in the mid-1960s. He built his own engine. Car Craft wrote about it.”

“Is your grandpa Byron Barnes?”

Imagine Carol’s shock, hearing a total stranger utter the name of her late grandfather. “I followed him up to the front office, where Tim had a big stack of magazines. He went right to the issue and pulled it out. I said, ‘Yeah, that’s the article.’ I couldn’t believe this was happening! Tim seemed intrigued that the chassis survived, was still in the family, and was here in Oregon.”

A magazine published seven years before Tim Riel was born just happened to be among several milk crates of “moldy, smelly, old paper” that he’d recently purchased from a swap-meet vendor. Tim and his machinist father, Rod Riel, had been going through the pile that very week. “We kept coming back to that Car Craft and that one article. We couldn’t get over how much work went into the engine. It still amazes me. This guy not only made his own engine parts; first, he had to design and build the tooling to make them. Everything had to be perfectly aligned for those pistons to go up and down. Even with today’s technology, not many people would—or even could—do what her grandpa did 50 years ago.”

So, as an engineering exercise, this project was pretty hard to beat; as a race car, not so much. In fact, it never got past the testing stage. When the late, great writer A.B. Shuman submitted his tech story around March 1967, Byron had run the rail twice. First time out, injected on nitro, netted “a quite respectable 120 mph in eleven seconds, shutting off at the halfway mark and coasting through the traps,” CC reported. Switching to dual Weber carbs and, presumably, gasoline for a second try, there was another half-pass of 129 mph but no e.t reported by Shuman. Gifford Barnes counts three trips to Lions Drag Strip with his dad, all plagued by bogging off the line: “He couldn’t get the fuel system right,” he explains. “After the car stumbled, it really charged, but Mickey [Okahara, the driver] couldn’t get away clean.” The wide variety of used parts visible in photos and recovered by Tim Riel point to additional experimentation, as does the only time slip left behind. On the back is scrawled, “50% nitro.” If, in fact, the indicated 8.74 and 164 were recorded by this car, it would’ve been one of the swiftest four-bangers of the era—but not competitive for the type of racing Byron initially envisioned.

Considering how many years one old guy, working alone, needed to bring this engine, particularly, plus a homebuilt chassis all the way from conception to completion—the crankshaft alone required 30 days, according to CC—it’s hardly surprising that classification rules would evolve. The article cites so-called “junior fuelers” for Byron’s inspiration. After Lions bowed out of the fuel ban in 1962, that unofficial term came to be loosely applied to single-engined, normally aspirated dragsters burning nitromethane and/or methanol, regardless of engine type or size. Those not quick enough to qualify for Top Fuel Eliminator might’ve run Top Gas or amongst themselves. Byron’s decision to make his sheetmetal cylinder block tall enough to displace either 353 or 392 ci hardly seems coincidental at a time when 354 and 392 Chryslers were fashionable. Some injected Chevys were poked ’n’ stroked to 358 and even 389 cubes.

By the time Byron was ready to go, Lions had banished fuel burners from Top Gas and created an official Junior Fuel category for unblown engines no larger than 310 cubes. Bigger motors moved into either C/Fuel Dragster (up to 350 ci) or B/FD (to 400 ci), both of which were dominated by small-inch, blown Hemis and Chevys. No wonder Byron lost interest in 1968 or ’69 and parked this car. Indeed, but for one old magazine article and however few firsthand witnesses remain, nearly nobody would know it ever existed.

Getting back to Tim’s Muscle Cars, the Springfield meter reader regularly returned to share leisurely lunch breaks and talk shop. “All I knew was that the bare chassis was hanging in her uncle’s barn,” Tim says. “Carol never got over there to take pictures. I told her that I’d be interested in buying whatever was left.”

“Oh, yeah, he bugged me for over a year,” Carol confirms, laughing. “He’d say, ‘Can I just go see it, please?’ I didn’t want to bug my uncle Giff just so someone could look up in his rafters. But my family always hoped to get Grandpa’s dragster running. My cousin Frank, Giff’s son, started on that about 20 years ago. He took the car apart, spread the parts out on the bench, but it never went back together. When I finally called to tell my uncle I’d met a young guy with his own engine shop who might want to buy the car, Giff said, ‘Nope, he can’t buy it. If you really think he’ll do something with it, tell him to come get it.'”

What Carol didn’t know at the time was that thieves had recently removed critical components from Giff’s unlocked boat barn and sold them for scrap. Luckily, her uncle and cousin noticed parts missing in time to track down the metals dealer before he got around to melting or reselling most, though the rare quick-change rearend was already gone. They went to court to recover what remained and prevailed, eventually.

“All I expected to get was a chassis, or part of one,” Tim says. “I planned to look for dragster parts at swap meets, maybe put in an early Hemi or small-block. Carol’s mom, uncle, aunt, cousin, brother, and sister were all there to say goodbye to Grandpa’s dragster. I walked into this big metal shed with a huge fishing boat on one side. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Byron’s short-block was sitting on a crate. Piles of parts were on the floor. Both M&H slicks were still mounted on Halibrands. The original parachute was hanging from the rafters. We found the complete clutch assembly and can, all the mag body panels, even a firesuit. After everything was laid out at home the next day, I was amazed by how complete the car was. I saw it as a giant erector set, minus the rearend and some small pieces that my dad and I could probably make. We were lucky to have the Car Craft for reference.

“I was worried that Byron’s two children wouldn’t be around long enough to see it get done,” he adds. “I’d made them a promise to try, but Giff’s health was not good. He and his sister, Carol’s mom, were in their eighties. This was important. I wanted that engine to run again, on nitro. I really got into it.”

He sure did, gradually assembling the erector set most nights and weekends for eight months, in between engine work for patient patrons of Tim’s Muscle Cars. When he proudly unveiled the sum of those parts, Byron’s descendants were there to witness the resurrection of a father and grandfather, along with an old dragster. “We were all in tears,” Tim admits.

“To me, it’s just amazing how things worked out,” says Carol Stange, the fearless meter reader whose knock on one door opened so many more. “It was fun, and I just felt like it was meant to be.”

The all-homemade engine was designed to displace either 353 or 392 ci, depending on crankshaft selection. To minimize weight, designer-builder Byron Barnes settled on four cylinders (versus eight), a sheetmetal crankcase (versus cast iron), and valves in the block (versus overhead). Note the 3-inch offset, to counteract torque.

Both the dragster and the former Romania Chevrolet store were operational in the 1960s. Despite its lengthy wheelbase of 152 inches and maze of suspension tubing, the car weighed just 710 pounds, wet.

Everything orange was powdercoated by McKenzie Chrome Plating (Springfield, Oregon). All four wheels and tires are original. After the original mag body was ruined by a careless sandblaster—and Tim Riel was quoted a price of $3,500 per magnesium sheet—buddy Les Schoonover (Springfield) replicated the cowl and side panels in aluminum.

Restorer-caretaker Tim Riel estimates that no fewer than 100 pieces of sheet steel were welded together to create the 116-pound bare block.

Byron Barnes obviously had his own ideas about weight transfer, probably influenced by his oval-track history. He formed the fuel tank by cutting and merging two military-surplus water kettles engraved with the words “U.S. Army.”

The aluminum cover contains the coolant sitting on top of four individual cylinder heads. Water enters through the open hole (which still lacks a pressure cap to replace the tiny original). Boiling water exits through the overflow tube. Mike Maher did the pinstriping and lettering. The rear-main seal is a small-block Chevy item.

The parachute, M&H 8.20-15 Racemasters, and magnesium Halibrand wheels are original. The Portland Swap Meet produced a virtual duplicate of the stolen rearend assembly, including Halibrand champ-car quick-change, that fit perfectly.

Rod Riel, Tim’s machinist dad, reproduced one of the Anglia-style spindles and some missing suspension pieces on his CNC machines. The shocks are Volkswagen. The aluminum fuel line is original.

The custom tri-drive system is a work of art. A spur gear on the crank runs the cam, which drives the Bendix Mini-Mag, Hilborn fuel pump, and a Ford six-cylinder oil pump at the bottom that fills a custom dry-sump pan. A piece of leather that seals the timing cover to the crankcase is the closet thing to a gasket in the entire engine. Byron even built his own injectors. The original velocity stacks and Hilborn barrel valve survived, but not the exhaust flange and headers, which Rod Riel replicated. Since our photo session, Tim has completed the complicated linkage and added a mini-starter to the front of the crank. Previously, he hand-operated the throttle with a long rod connecting the individual injectors and fired the engine on a stand, since none of the Riels can squeeze into the cockpit for push starting.

Since stumbling onto this photography location in Eugene, Oregon, we’ve learned that the former home of Lew Williams and, later, Joe Romania Chevrolet is infamous for 2000 and 2001 arson attacks by local “ecoterrorists” targeting gas guzzlers. In the first incident, three light trucks collectively valued at $28,000 were torched by activists who happened to be under surveillance by a terrorism task force that night. Nine months later, a different gang set fire to 35 new Suburbans and Tahoes worth $959,000. The Chevy store was sold shortly thereafter and ultimately closed in 2005 when the University of Oregon purchased the prime, four-and-a-half-acre property adjoining the campus for storage. The wooden panels were installed after rock-throwing vandals found the original glass irresistible.

Machinists’ Union

It took a father-son team of master machinists in Long Beach, California, to create this engine, and it took another to restore it to running condition, a half-century later and 900 miles north. The shared experience has tightly bonded the Barnes-Garwood and Riel families to this day.

Gifford Barnes, 86, machined the individual cylinder heads for his late dad’s engine. He inherited Byron’s last race car in 1981 and stored it for 34 years. The Barnes-Garwood family photo album produced a rare 1930s snapshot of father and son together.

Kay Barnes Garwood, 84, is Byron’s daughter. Nearly eight decades after posing with the family dog and midget at home in Long Beach, she lives with daughter Linda Garwood (left) in Port Orford, Oregon.

Tim and Jan Riel rescued and revived their rail with invaluable assistance from Rod Riel (left), a semiretired CNC machinist. Its new home is Tim’s Muscle Cars, a restoration and engine shop in Springfield, Oregon.

Social Media, Old School

For 400 years before digital devices connected us senders and receivers, magazines did that job. This one still does, albeit with a time delay measured in months or years, not nanoseconds. You know the drill: HOT ROD Deluxe publishes an article or column or photo caption that thrills/irritates you into sending love letters/hate mail. Correspondence deemed worthy of print shows up in stores and mailboxes two or three issues later to thrill/irritate fellow readers. See, just like Facebook posts, minus fake news.

Despite modern production technology, “slick” magazines still take forfriggin’ever to print, bind, and transport, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed. Our bimonthly infrequency automatically puts HRD another month behind the monthlies. If you’re reading this on the West Coast, add another week for trains and trucks to move the bundles all the way from the Midwest, where most of America’s ink gets spilled. Finally, your copy shows up in, say, Springfield, Oregon. Reading from front to back (as editors and the good Lord intended), you eventually get to a couple of 50-year-old, unpublished outtakes from a 1968 Car Craft story. The caption asks if any reader knows what happened to an obscure race car that vanished 15 years before you were born, a car that happens to be parked in your shop.

Reader Tim Riel responded almost as soon as his heart settled back into his chest. Editor Hardin couldn’t wait to print the letter and photos Tim sent of the restored rail. Meanwhile, though, another issue’s bimonthly production cycle came and went, delaying publication by one more edition. When the car reappeared in color in January 2016’s Scrapbook section, Mr. Ed. promised in print to send contributor Dave Wallace—who claimed a personal connection to its builder—to shoot a proper feature. In consideration of the Northwest’s notorious rainy season, we postponed that photo session until the late spring. Finally, the Byron Barnes rail returns to these pages, completing a print conversation started nearly two years ago—if not 50 years ago this December, when Petersen Publishing Company staffers Bob Swaim and A.B. Shuman visited the car both at home and at Lions Drag Strip.

Original Car Craft article, June 1968

From HRD’s “The Golden Age Of Drag Racing,” September 2015

From HRD’s letters section, January 2016

Shortly after Tim Riel’s letter and photos appeared in HRD, another stranger showed up at Tim’s Muscle Cars. He told Tim that, as a kid, he lived in Byron’s neighborhood and helped clean out the home shop after Mr. and Mrs. Barnes died weeks apart in 1981. He was given the blueprint as a souvenir. He thought it belonged with the race car. Sure enough, these cockpit measurements match. Byron evidently purchased a partial kit from little-known H&L Metals. Tim was so stunned by the gift that he never got a name. He’s hopeful that the generous mystery man will see this and identify himself to HRD—extending the series of old-school, ink-on-paper “posts” described above.

Lost And Found

On the snowy morning in January 2014 that Tim and Rod Riel dragged a trailer to the Oregon coast, a bare chassis was all they expected to find. Imagine their surprise!

For the first time, Tim Riel laid his hands—and eyes—on the remnants of a chassis he’d seen only in a Car Craft issue printed four years before he was born.

Carol Garwood Stange (right) is the retired Oregon meter reader who put Tim Riel (left) together with Grandpa’s slingshot. Her big sister, Linda Garwood, held up the nose while their uncle Giff supervised.

The rotating assembly stayed inside of Byron’s sheetmetal block since he last ran the car, circa 1968-69. Three types of steel were pressed together, then arc-welded with titanium-nickel rod, to form a hollow crankshaft with a 4.5-inch stroke.

Gifford Barnes machined the individual cylinder heads so precisely that they seal to the sheet-steel crankcase without gaskets. His dad used 40 capscrews made of aircraft-grade titanium, likely left over from one of Byron’s aerospace projects. All but a few of the original fasteners were located, cleaned up, and reinstalled by Tim Riel. Threaded tubes around the spark plugs prevent coolant from grounding out the plugs.

The camshaft is hollow. Byron fused individual lobes onto the tube, then had Iskenderian grind them to deliver 230 degrees of duration with 0.400-inch lift. “The cam wasn’t even in the engine, so I had no idea about where to degree it or set the lash,” Tim says. “The drive gear is slotted about 70 degrees where the bolt goes, for advance and retard. So I called and talked to Isky’s son, who remembered Ed playing cards with Byron. He said his dad would call after he got back from lunch. I thought, ‘Oh, sure, like Ed Iskenderian is gonna personally call some little engine builder in the middle of nowhere.’ That same afternoon, I answer the phone, and Mr. Isky says, ‘Old man Barnes still owes me 40 bucks from our weekly card game!’ He said he’d look around and let me know if he found anything. About two weeks later, I get a box with the original cam card with all of the specs, a new set of valvesprings, and a handwritten note: ‘Best wishes, Ed Iskenderian.'”

Jahns Pistons cast five of these aluminum, 5-inch-diameter monsters in the wooden mold. Byron finish-machined four to arrive at 10:1 compression. He also made five 4130 chrome-moly connecting rods, welding the ends to the tubular beams. This spare was never run.

The worn main bearings proved to be the most difficult replacement parts to find, plus the most expensive. Because all crank journals are identical, Tim had to spend $1,200 on five complete sets of obsolete aircraft bearings to get the five pieces. An old-timer at Federal-Mogul successfully cross-referenced the original part numbers by searching old paper catalogs. The valvetrain combines original, slipper-style lifters with Chrysler Hemi springs, retainers, and locks.

Everything here was formed from steel. First, though, Byron had to make wooden or cardboard templates for each piece, then construct a flame-cutting rig with a tracing stylus at one end and an oxy-acetylene cutting torch at the other. The intake and exhaust ports are two pieces of steel stampings, welded together. Also note the six water jackets per cylinder.

The original, giant 2-5/8-inch intake and exhaust valves are stainless heads on chrome-moly stems.

Half a century after this big banger first went together, it’s as good as new, plus much prettier. Of many missing parts reproduced by the Riels, the most difficult to design were the spur gears and shaft driving the magneto and fuel and oil pumps. In some old photos of the engine wearing Weber carbs, the two-hole bracket contained a different mag and a coil.

Who Was Byron Barnes?

This writer should know, having met him a few times in the mid-1970s. We even lived on the same Huntington Beach street for a while, yet I never really knew the man. Among my regrets is not spending more time in the large shop behind his house on Old Pirates Lane that held both the Hudson he’d customized and his fully assembled slingshot, covered in dusty plastic. I was introduced by my then-girlfriend as the editor of Drag News, but to him I was the longhair sleeping with his beloved granddaughter, Carol Garwood—now Carol Stange, the retired Oregon meter reader responsible for connecting his last race car to the young guy destined to rescue and restore it.

Byron’s family revealed that he was born in 1907 in Nebraska. In 1911, his parents moved to Long Beach. At age 16, Byron’s first homebuilt hot rod got him arrested and jailed. Since his dad was then running for city council, the folks shipped him offshore to herd goats on San Clemente Island until the election was over. He and a buddy later assembled an airplane that Byron flew before building and driving his first midget. When World War II halted auto racing, he worked for Douglas Aircraft Company as a mechanics’ instructor and design engineer developing tooling for the B-17 bomber. In the mid-1950s, Byron designed, built, and patented oil field equipment that enabled an early retirement. For the next 25 years, he indulged automotive passions ranging from the dragster and Hudson custom to off-road racing with local pals Bill Stroppe and Parnelli Jones.

Though Byron could likely afford any new car, I saw him driving Ford Pintos exclusively. Rather than bother changing fluids, he’d torture an engine until it rattled or smoked, swap motors in an afternoon, then perform an autopsy on the dead player. (The same boat shed that stored the dragster’s engine held another big surprise for Tim Riel: “There must’ve been 70 Pinto 2000- and 2300cc motors stacked up in there!”) Byron’s last daily driver was reportedly returning nearly 50 mpg when emphysema ended an incredible journey in April 1981, just shy of his 74th birthday.

Byron (right) was also a pilot. During the Depression, he earned money repairing and reselling crashed planes. Neither his son nor daughter recognized the other dapper dude.

The crowd at San Diego’s Balboa Stadium illustrates the huge popularity of midget racing before WWII and immediately after, until free competition from television kept people home on weekends. The fourth car back appears to be Byron’s.

This flathead is thought to be the first that Byron built from scratch, during the 1930s. It disappeared with a fast-talking salesman who promised to take it from track to track, nationwide, and write orders for production copies. Byron also constructed a DOHC prototype that might be the motor pictured in his wrecked racer. Historian Greg Sharp tells us that more than 100 different engine types powered midgets, all limited to 105 ci.

A page from Byron’s logbook documents eight events in five weeks at L.A.’s Gilmore and Atlantic Boulevard Stadium tracks during the summer of 1939.

Unlike most midgets of the era, Byron’s looked as good as they ran.

Gifford Barnes doesn’t know whether this could be his dad’s overhead cammer, but it’s the only DOHC engine shot in the family scrapbook.

Evidence that Byron’s hot rods attracted hot drivers includes this steamy shot of a guy recognized by historian Greg as Mel Hansen, “a big-name midget driver who qualified six times for the Indy 500, with a best finish of eighth.”

The forward-leaning positions of both drivers suggest this to be the moment of impact after Byron’s unknown shoe spun. We’re guessing that the background cars belonged to the two workers behind the wall.

The dragster’s finished block and crank are shown in the Long Beach shop where Byron handbuilt his last racing engine. The Barnes-Garwood family still owns the building on Signal Hill. Appropriately, it’s currently leased to a company making parts for Smart cars.

In the early 1970s, granddaughter Carol paid $100 for this Northern California barn find. It was original and complete except for a front seat. Once Carol got the engine running, her mom drove the 400-plus miles home to Long Beach sitting on a crate. Never content to follow a crowd, Grandpa Barnes hopped up the straight eight and built himself the only Hudson custom we’ve ever seen.

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