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f1nalboys · 2 years ago

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Back To The Old House - Bo Sinclair

Bo Sinclair x Fem!GN!Reader

WORD COUNT: 2492

WARNINGS: this is a darker fic than i normally post. more accurate to canon bo and reader is not in a wanted position in the story. heed the warnings people, dead dove do not eat etc. pre-relationship, sorta stockholm syndrome-y, gore, violence, blood, wounds, threats of violence, medical stuff (mention of stitches and a scene of bo cleaning up your wounds, a mention of being strapped to the bed like trudy while you healed), bo calls reader ‘good girl’ multiple times, wrist and ankle cuts, mention of broken bones and last injuries and past threats of violence, mentions of the garage and being stuck in the chair, starvation/malnutrition, bo struggles to have normal relationships with people, bo refers to past victims as ‘bitches,’ reader is Stuck in Ambrose and has been there for 2 1/2 months or so, bo is really his own warning fr, not rlly a warning but reader eats pizza? idk just in case, proofread but could have missed some stuff, posting from my phone so sorry about any formatting mistakes!

Your body ached from the inside out. Your bones felt too big for your skin and your skin, in turn, felt stretched across your body, tension high, the slightest touch enough to snap it apart. The chair underneath you was cool against your skin which felt like it was on fire. The sound of footsteps above you no longer put even the smallest glimmer of hope in your chest; too many times it had been short lived, sometimes your possible saviors being led away and the other times it was just him.

The door unlocks and you keep your eyes closed, your breathing level even as he approaches you, boots that had once pressed on your chest until you heard a snap just a few months ago land soft on the concrete floor until he’s right beside you. You don’t flinch when his calloused hand drags down your arm; in fact, you almost involuntarily lean into it.

“Hey, sweetheart. How’re you feelin?” His voice seems to soothe an ache inside you, one closer to your heart than you’d like to admit, but you can’t talk. You hum and it’s low in your throat and you can’t see his face but you can see his frown deepen. “Gonna take you up to the house for the night, alright? Let me let ‘ya out.”

He works on your ankles first, the flick of his pocket knife causing you to move away from him ever so slightly despite the straps and tape digging further into your skin. “Why?” You croak and his movements pause. His hand, the one with the ring, lays gently on your calf as he works on cutting off the thick layer of duct tape and he slowly begins to peel them off, shushing your pained gasps and whimpers as they peel up your skin.

“Shh, I know. Did so good for me down here these last few days.”

“I…I did?”

“Mhm,” He confirms and you let out a content sigh. The pain was worth these small moments with him, however few and far between they were. They have been happening more and more recently, however. It was almost strange the kindness, if you could call it that, he had shown you these last few days. Or was it weeks? “Gotta reward you, don’t I? Unless you wanna stay down here?”

You shake your head, swallowing heavily. You didn’t want to stay down here. You hadn’t wanted to stay down here since the day he had dragged you kicking and screaming into the chair you were still sitting in without so much as a muscle twitch a few months prior, but he hadn’t offered you the chance in such a soft voice before. The times before he had asked if you wanted to leave it had been mean, taunting your own cries back to you. But now there was no hint of sick pleasure or lying in his voice.

“Good, good,” He says, finally taking the rest of the tape off of your ankles, undoing the leather straps and looking at the raw skin and thick scarring that had begun to warp your flesh like his own. He sounded almost relieved you didn’t want to stay down here, but that couldn’t be right. You were tired and hungry, hearing things in his voice to calm your nerves of having him near. “Gonna clean ‘ya up and feed ya, let you sleep in a bed.”

You finally open your eyes, blinking away the fuzz at the edges of your vision to make a point to look over at the dingy mattress thrown in the corner of the room. Bo notices and looks over his shoulder at it, turning back to your ankles with the tips of his ears tinged pink. “A real bed.” He corrects and you don’t bother fighting back your grin like you normally did around him and his shitty jokes. “With a headboard and sheets and shit. Gotta treat my girl right, you know?”

“Your girl?”

“Yeah.” He had begun to work on taking the tape on your wrists off at this point and at your question he pulls harder, ripping the tape - and a layer of skin - off in one fell swoop. You let out a pained groan, wrists pulling at your restraints without meaning too, and your eyes snap to his blue ones. His eyes are narrowed in an accusatory way that sends a shiver down your spine. “Ain’t you mine?”

“Yes, Bo.”

“So then you’re my girl. If you were just some random bitch I’d’ve left you to rot in this fuckin’ chair like the rest of ‘em. You want that?” You shake your head quickly, stuttering out an apology to him and that easy smile is back on his face just as quick. “Good girl, that’s better.” You stay silent, watching him as he carefully removes the other duct tape on your left hand, lips pressed together to keep back your winces of pain. When the leather straps are removed he looks over your wrists just as he had done to your ankles, tsking to himself.

Your wrists were the worst of it. Struggling when you’re strapped to a chair by a strange man was normal, and the first week that’s all you did, day and night until you’d pass out from exhaustion. You’d tug at your restraints, desperate to break free, hoping that somehow, someway, you’d snap them and be able to leave. But everyday when he’d come to visit you, he’d retighten them, add another layer of duct tape, even once held his own knife out over your wrists and told you the only way out was to saw off your fucking hand, that he’d wait and watch you do it.

After that, you only struggled when he was gone, ignoring the way the leather rubbed at your skin until you swore they hit muscle. He had put out a camera to watch you while he was away after he came in after being gone for two days straight and had seen the puddle of blood underneath you. He had to bring you to Vincent for him to stitch you up. That was the two weeks he had you strapped to the bed in the house, just like his mother, drugged to high heavens to keep you from moving around too much.

When he put you back in the chair later on, you hadn’t even begged him not to. You knew there was nothing you could do to leave. He’d have to kill you himself and with how gently he had positioned you back in the chair, you knew it wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

“Not too bad.” He finally says, eyes flicking to yours. You nod; you believe him. “I’ll clean ‘em and wrap ‘em at the house. You like pizza?” You shrug and Bo grunts in annoyance, standing up. You weren’t trying to be difficult, you just couldn’t really remember if you did. The last few months had been filled with half-moldy bready and tap water in the same plastic cup and you weren’t sure what you’d do if you tasted anything with flavor at this point. “Well that’s what we’re eatin’.”

“Okay, that’s fine… Can I ask you something?” Bo hums and you chew at the side of your cheeks. He steps away from you slightly and stares down at you, waiting. “Why are you taking care of me?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second, just blinks down at you, before shrugging, turning away from you. “Just want to. Why? You don’t think I’m bein’ honest or somethin, Y/N?”

“No, no, I know you’re being honest, it’s not that…”

“Then what is it?”

“I guess…I guess it’s just confusing. For my brain, I mean.” He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say anything, and suddenly you feel the need to fill the silence, scooting up in your seat despite the ache in your body. “I just mean that it’s hard going from how it was in the beginning to now, not that it’s bad or that I’m angry.” Still silent. You stare at his back as he busies himself fixing up his tool cart and you swallow down the bile rising in your throat. “I’m really happy things are changing between us.”

He turns around at this, eyebrows stitched together. “What makes you think anything’s changin’?” He asks, stalking over to you slowly and you can’t help but slink back into the chair. “What, you think you’re my girlfriend or some shit?” He shakes his head and you watch as he runs his hand through his sweaty hair roughly, as if he were berating himself, not you. “Just cause you’re mine don’t mean I’m yours, you got that?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Bo.” That’s all you say and he visibly softens, nodding once more before holding his hand out for you to take. You’re weak, both from exhaustion and lack of food, and you heavily lean on him as he slowly walks you out of the room and up the small flight of stairs to the garage. Bo’s arm was wrapped around your waist and he seemed to relish the close contact, taking the time every few steps to plant a soft kiss to your cheek.

Even though it was him, you still find yourself enjoying the affection.

You weren't sure you’d be able to make it up to the house, already winded beyond belief from just the short walk out of the basement. “Stay here, sweetheart.” Bo whispers into your ear, breath hot against your skin, and he helps you lean against the counter top before heading out of the shop. The sound of his truck starting has you sighing in relief; he was going to drive you. The banged up blue pickup idles in front of the shop and in comes Bo, ever the gentleman, helping you out to the car, buckling you in and closing the door.

“Thank you, Bo.” You say when he hops inside and he nods, hand resting on your thigh, thumb brushing up and down as he drives off towards the house. Your eyes close and you focus on the sound of the cars engine, of his hands on you in such a gentle way, of the knowledge you were safe right now even with the person who had made you feel unsafe in the first place. The car rolls to a stop in front of the house and you open your eyes as Bo gets out, coming around to your side and opening your door.

His arm is around your waist again as you step out of the car and he brings you up the porch and into the house, not letting you stop moving until he’s placing you down onto the couch. “Stay there.” Bo says before disappearing down the hall and a small part of you, the little sliver left over from before Ambrose, wonders how long it would take you to run off, if you’d have the ability to, if he’d kill you when he caught you or if he would strap you to the chair again.

You don’t have the time to even daydream of the idea before he’s back, sitting down in front of you with a chair and hauling your feet up onto his lap for him to clean. “Shit,” You hiss as he wipes the cuts down with an alcohol wipe, trying your best not to flinch, though your hand digs into the worn leather of the couch underneath you.

“Good girl, there you go,” Bo praises, slathering on some ointment before wrapping it with gauze, and you lean your head back on the chair, trying to ignore the stirring deep in your stomach at his praise. You were used to the other Bo, the one that talked to you like you were nothing, who made sure to beat your spirit down and smash it into the concrete for good measure all while touching you, not the one who cooed at you like a child getting their skinned knee checked over. “Now your wrists.”

He carefully places your feet back down onto the ground and takes your hands in his own, kissing your knuckles. “Oh!” You aren’t able to hide the shocked noise you make at the gesture and Bo grins at you, repeating the action on the other hand. “Th-thanks,” You murmur when he finishes cleaning your wrists. His own wrists were visible to you in his shirt and he catches you staring at them.

“They stop hurting after a while,” He says quietly, beginning to wrap your wrist. “After the cuts and shit heal, they’ll itch. Sometimes they hurt if it’s too cold or too hot, or if your skins dry they’ll crack, but you just gotta keep ‘em moisturized or whatever and you’ll be fine.”

“How’d you get them?” Bo pauses mid wrap of your second wrist when you ask and you wonder for a split second if he’s going to hurt you. But instead he takes a deep breath and continues to wrap your wrists.

“Don’t matter.” You decide to leave it. You had pushed when you had asked anyways and he had granted you a second chance; he didn’t do that often. “There. All done. Let me get you a slice or two, we’ll eat, and then it’s off to bed.”

You nod, watching as he stands and walks off into the kitchen. The rustling sounds almost lull you to sleep but then he’s back, handing you a plate with two pieces of pizza, and he’s flopping down beside you on the couch with his own. You chew silently, salivating at the taste, as he grabs a remote and turns on the old tv, flicking through the channels. “Wait!” You say and he pauses, glancing at you. “Go back! That’s my favorite movie.”

Bo listens, flicking back until you grin at the movie that was on. Silently the two of you eat, watching the movie, and you laughed a few times, leaning further into Bo. He hadn’t heard your laugh before and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t music to his ears. Eventually your pizza is done, plate abandoned onto the coffee table, your head on Bo’s shoulder.

He smiles slightly at the feeling of you beside him, cheek squished on his shoulder, and he knows you’ve fallen asleep. The movie ends and his plate is placed beside your own and instead of waking you, taking you into his bedroom and laying beside you like he had planned, he simply allows himself to drift off on the couch, arm loosely slung around you. He would just have to have you stay in the house another night, then, to make good on his promise of a restful sleep in a real bed.

You were Bo’s, that much was certain, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was yours.

#f1nalboys writing #f1nalboys works #f1nalboys masterlist #bo sinclair x reader #house of wax #house of wax 2005 #how 2005 #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x y/n #slashers #slasher x reader #slasher x y/n

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agent-cupcake · 8 months ago

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Flashbang

Chapter 9 Part 1- August Moon

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: Waking up in yet another unfortunate circumstance, your mind strays to thinking of things you would rather forget.

Warnings: Explicit smut, child abuse

Word Count: 8.6k

Notes: This chapter started to get really long really quickly. Rather than postponing again and posting a 20k+ word chapter, there will be a part two. It’s a different format than other chapters, but the show did flashback arcs so why can't I?

“August Moon, laid just for you, steady, ready, smile like his, until it's out of sight. Don't undo the true chance that chooses you Face to face with a new day So simple it seemed, you dare to dream impossibly, risking its rarity of ‘I'll do it now' Black and blissful, tumbling, I wake, I sleep, it feeds me Fate may rule you and heart it fools you to lose your sanity”

It wasn’t the simple process of recalling how you ended up bound on the floor in the dark, or even trying to figure out how to escape the confinement. It was a million memories dancing through your head all at once, an entire lifetime fogged up with anesthetic playing out in your aching head.

All it took was a little doubt, right? A little confusion. And then you weren’t you, a person who had lived and failed and tried and been hurt over and over. A woman who had done unspeakable things and made unfathomable choices. You were her. A girl too small for her age, a girl whose bones poked out from her pallid skin. Her cheeks weren’t round and rosy, they were hollow and gaunt. She stared solemnly with eyes that seemed too large for her face, as glassy as those of a doll. In stark contrast to the finery of her nursery, she wore dirty pajamas and had unwashed hair.

That was you. From a life you didn’t want to remember, filled with so many things you couldn’t forget.

You remembered how cold it always was when Dad was gone. You remembered the feeling of hunger gnawing at your stomach. You were too young to know how to feed yourself or get warmer clothes, you only understood that your tummy hurt and you couldn’t stop shivering and that Mom didn’t want you to leave your room. You remembered sitting on your floor with your doll, quietly playing by yourself. Her name was Peach. She was your sister and your best friend.

More anything else, more than the fear or the sadness or the longing or the pain, you remembered Mom’s voice. She was singing and you could remember that song so clearly that you dreamed of it years and years and years later. Her melancholic melody floated down the dark, cold hall. The house had been silent since Dad left on a trip. He was a doctor, which meant he had to take care of people. Mom hadn’t been feeling well. She called it morning sickness, even though she seemed to get even sicker at night. She threw up a lot, and she said her head and back hurt. She said she needed to rest, which was why you weren’t allowed to leave your room unless she said.

But now she was singing.

Thinking about it for a moment, you put your doll Peach into her bed to be comfortable and safe while you were gone, pulling the little blankets up around her chin so she didn’t get cold. The house was always so cold. You left your room, your sock-covered feet making no noise on the wood floors. Mom’s voice was every bit as beautiful as she was, even when it was haunting and sad.

When you peeked around the doorway into the room she and Dad shared, you saw her sitting on the window bench, watching the lifeless gray sky. She was covered in something dark and wet, like she had spilled a drink. It puddled in her lap and coated her hands, dried on the edges but saturated so heavily in the middle that it still glistened like wet ink. You watched as tears slid down the side of her face, dripping from her chin. They kept falling, even as she sang.

“Momma?” you asked softly, suddenly uneasy. “Momma, what happened?”

She stopped singing, looking towards you with hazy eyes. Her face was drained of all color, her cheeks gaunt and hair a mess of flyaways. She held out her hand for you. Whatever was on her lap had dried on her skin, flaking off like rust from her fingers.

Blood. It was blood, you could smell it now. The vile metallic tang nearly choked you.

“Momma, you’re hurt,” you said, crossing the room and taking her hand without a second thought. Dried blood smeared over your hand. Her skin was ice cold.

Her pale lips parted to say something, her chest swelling with a breath, but nothing came out. She just looked confused, her brow pinching and fresh tears forming in her eyes.

“Mommy, you’re bleeding,” you insisted, feeling very cold inside. Dad wasn’t home, and you didn’t know who else could help.

“Why was it you?” she asked, looking lost. “A girl. A daughter. Why are you the only one to make it? If you were a son—if I had a son…” She put her other hand on her stomach. “It was a son, I know it was.”

“Momma?”

She blinked, her eyes focusing as if only just noticing you. Quick, like you had burned her, she dropped your hand.

“Draw me a bath,” she said, a sharpness you recognized very well returning to her voice. “I am fine, this is… Fine. Don’t tell your father about this.”

“Yes, mommy.”

There were many things Mom didn’t want dad to know, things about her. Later in life, she told you to hide things about you from him. But that came later.

From back then, you could remember very clearly that Mom and dad fought a lot. Sometimes it seemed like all they did was fight, and then Dad would leave on a ship, and then it was just you and Mom. When he got home, things would be fine at first, but that peace never lasted very long.

You could hear them in the den. It was a fight that had been brewing for a while. Mom was shouting in a shrill tone, but Dad only ever talked quietly. His voice came out in a low rumble that demanded absolute attention, like rolling thunder. Just as fearsome too.

You wanted to go upstairs, but that would mean going through the den and you didn’t dare interrupt them. Instead, you held Peach tight in your arms and covered your ears to block out their voices and waited for the storm to pass.

She shouted. He spoke. There was thumping. Mom screamed twice. And then a heavy silence fell upon the house. The clock seemed to tick even louder in the absence of their voices.

Did that mean it was over with? You crawled out of your hiding place, softly walking down the hall until you got to the arch leading into the den. Light from the crackling fire within illuminated a little halo into the hall, but there was no warmth to the orange glow.

Hardly daring to breathe, you peeked inside. Mom laid in a broken heap on the floor. She was bleeding. It gushed out of her nose, pooling on the hardwood. Her eye was already swelling and she cradled her stomach. Her shoulders shivered with little hitching sobs.

You didn’t see Dad anywhere, so you tentatively entered, walking as softly as you could.

“Mommy?” you asked, approaching her slowly.

Dad said your name from the stairs, making you jump. Mom whimpered.

“Leave your mother alone,” he told you as he came down. “It’s time for bed.”

“But mommy—”

“Now,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

You knew better than to argue with him when he used that tone of voice. You looked back at Mom, feeling sick. She was in pain, you knew she was. But Dad would help her, wouldn’t he? He was a doctor.

“Goodnight mommy,” you said, petting her head. “I love you.”

Her only response was a weak sob.

“Didn’t you hear that, birdie?” Dad said. “Your daughter said goodnight.”

Mom let out a shaky breath, looking up at you. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Okay, come on, sweet girl,” Dad said. “It’s late.”

Nervously, you crossed the room to the stairs where Dad stood. He didn’t look upset anymore, you could almost believe that nothing bad had happened. When you started to pass him, he held out an arm to stop you.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

You looked up at him, confused and anxious.

“I think I deserve a goodnight kiss from my sweet little girl,” he clarified warmly, leaning down to scoop you up into his arms. You stiffened up, squeezing Peach to your chest.

“Goodnight, daddy,” you said, kissing his cheek. He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Don’t you worry. Things are going to be better from now on,” he told you. “Right, birdie?”

“Yes,” Mom answered, her voice pained.

Dad let out a heavy breath, nodding. “I hate that it has to be like this, but it’s for the best. I’ve been too easy on you girls for too long, and it’s my responsibility to take care of it.” He closed his eyes for a second, pressing his face against your neck. You held your breath.

“My sweet little girl,” he said, pulling back. “I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you both.”

“I love you too, daddy.”

He kissed your forehead before setting you down, ruffling your hair.

“Alright, mommy and I have to talk. You better be in bed by the time we’re done, okay? I’ll check.”

“Yes, daddy,” you said.

As soon as his attention was off of you, you went up the stairs. You remembered being too small to take them properly, it was more of a climb than anything. A tiring climb. And then it was down the cold hall into your room, and straight onto your bed. You pulled the blanket up to cover both you and Peach and held the pillow around your ears to shield them.

You remembered many nights just like that, huddled with your doll in the stifled dark, waiting to fall asleep because it was the only escape you had.

28 Days Earlier

It was your own upset whine that woke you up to something approximating consciousness, and then you became aware of several things in quick succession. You were in Buggy’s bed, cradled in his arms with your back against his chest, you were both naked, he was touching you, and what was most probably his erection was pressing against your thighs. You squirmed, confused, catching a glimpse of his nose and smile when you twisted your head around, before pressing your face back into the pillow with a soft groan.

Your head hurt. Actually, several things hurt. It took you a few seconds to grasp what was real. Last night, going to the Maison Rouge, getting drunk, the bathroom, having dinner, getting carried back onto the ship, and then everything else.

At least that explained your headache.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Buggy said cheerfully. Fitting that the one morning you wanted to sleep he would be awake and in good spirits.

Your only response was a harsh gasp when he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger just a little too hard.

“You are awake right?” he asked.

“Mmmhmm,” you agreed.

“Good. I didn’t want to stick it in while you were still snoozin’.”

You made a confused sound. Most of your functional brain was focused on the way he was touching you, one hand holding you against him while the other shamelessly groped your chest.

“Cap’mm Buggy, what’re you-”

“Don’t get all weird about it,” he said, releasing you to sit up. Blinking groggily, you rolled onto your back to watch him grab a bottle he’d wedged between the other pillows. His makeup was all faded and smeared because you hadn’t taken it off last night, the sparkles dusting down his cheeks. “I’m gonna be gentle.”

“Oil?” you asked, confused as he uncapped it with his teeth and poured some onto his palm.

“Yeah, you were fuckin’ soaking last night, you’re probably all tapped out,” he said with a smile, clarifying some things by tossing off the blanket to stroke his cock, coating it in oil. This was a dream, it had to be. Buggy looked at you, his smile exchanged for a look of impatience. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” you said automatically, although you still felt like this had to be a dream.

Buggy rolled his eyes, stroking his cock one more time for good measure. “Quit gawkin’ and lay down.”

You laid back down, too sleepy to argue. Not that you would. Surprising you somewhat, Buggy laid down too, rolling you onto your side so you were spooning again.

You tried to twist around, confused about what he wanted. You thought you understood, but this was different. New.

“Lift your leg up,” Buggy told you. After a second of trying to understand what he meant, you did and he pulled you down enough for him to get his cock between your legs.

Oh.

Your breathing immediately picked up. Excitement? Nerves? You couldn’t tell the difference clearly enough to know. You didn’t fight him, your fingers digging into the sheets as he ran the slick head through your folds back and forth until it caught. The feeling made you shudder, your stomach flipping.

“See?” Buggy teased. “You loooove this.”

“Don’t we,” you began to say, speaking more because you felt like you needed to say something than because you meant it, “don’t we need to get up and… um…”

“And what?”

You tried to string together a coherent response, but it got lost as Buggy began to push into you, your argument disintegrating around his cock. The oil made it so smooth, he barely had to work it in, just pushing and pushing until you were full.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, his voice smug even though it was strained and hoarse.

If you were going to object in the first place, all of your thoughts disappeared when he moaned right into your ear. The sound was almost as potent as the feeling of him inside of you, you couldn’t help but tighten up around him, letting out a little whimper. Buggy laughed, rolling his hips lazily.

“We’re on vacation, babydoll. Just relax.”

When you and Buggy finally got out of bed, it was later than was at all reasonable and you were already worn out. Conversely, Buggy seemed to be full of energy. You got a look at yourself in the mirror, shocked and a little disgusted by the sight. There was only so much that could be done to salvage your appearance. Your hair seemed unable to take any other shape than an utterly disastrous nest, and the smears of makeup didn’t respond to water no matter how hard you scrubbed. Your bandana was on the other ship too. Since you were out a pair of very nice panties and the only clothes you had was last night’s red dress, you borrowed a loose linen shirt of his.

It did absolutely nothing to cover the worst of the damage—the bright red marks covering your neck from ear to collarbones. Some were very clearly bite marks with indents of teeth, others were less distinct splotches of red, and a few were just bruises.

“Sheesh, you look wrecked,” Buggy said, which was a little unfair. His makeup was smeared and he needed a shave and to tame the wild blue mess of his hair, but he didn’t look sickly the way you did. There was a brightness to his eyes, an energy you didn’t think you ever had.

“‘s not that bad,” you said, covering your neck with your hair.

“Come here, let me get a better look,” he said, dropping into his chair. You obeyed with halting steps, coming to a stop where you were more or less at eye level. Buggy didn’t look into your eye though, prying your hands from your neck and pushing your hair back to appreciate the work he’d done. “Some of my finest work, if I do say so myself.”

You couldn’t look at his face, staring off to the side. You didn’t want to think about what you did last night, the things you said and did and agreed to. You are mine.

How embarrassing.

Your reaction made Buggy frown. “What’s that look for?” he asked. “You said I could do anything I wanted.”

“‘s embarrassing,” you muttered. “But that… It’s fine, really. Do you want me to-” You gestured to your chin and neck.

Buggy ran a hand over his face, sighing. “Fine,” he said. “Makeup first, though. Somebody forgot to take care of that last night.”

You frowned because that wasn’t your fault which made him laugh, his mood smoothed over just like that.

Taking off his makeup was a very familiar process by now, as was preparing everything to shave his facial hair. You wished that the fulfillment of whatever twisted desires you had would have cured you of your preoccupation with Buggy’s face and neck, yet you found yourself as interested as ever. At the very least, you got through it without incident before wiping the remaining shaving cream off and applying the aftershave, appreciating his smooth skin. Maybe that was selfish.

“I just realized,” you said as you were cleaning the blade before returning the razor to its case. “I can’t cut you, can I? Because of your… your thing.”

“My thing?” he repeated, holding up a mirror to see if you had done a good enough job.

“Your Devil Fruit… thing,” you clarified.

“You just realized that?” Buggy asked. You couldn’t tell if his tone was amused or derisive. Both, probably.

“I thought the reason you didn’t let me at first is because you thought I would cut you,” you explained, turning around to put everything away. “Because you didn’t trust me.”

“Yeah, I didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do a shitty job.”

“I don’t think people would notice either way,” you said. “They’ll be too distracted by-”

“By what?” Buggy asked sharply.

“Your cheekbones and jaw,” you said, hoping it sounded like a normal complement and not creepy. “You know? They’re pretty enough that I don’t think a bit of hair or anything would matter.”

“You were going to say they’d be too distracted by my nose, weren’t you,” he accused. You looked over your shoulder at him, surprised to see his simmering rage.

“I wasn’t,” you told him, frowning. “You don’t even have hair there, it wouldn’t make sense.”

“What you said doesn’t make any sense either.”

“I, um,” you stammered, confused. “That’s not what I mean, sir. I swear.”

“Whatever,” Buggy said, standing up and going into the bathroom. You couldn’t tell how seriously he was upset by the perceived slight. Sometimes Buggy got really angry, but sometimes he seemed to forget it as soon as it happened.

While he was gone, you finished cleaning up the shaving supplies before stripping the bedding. By the time he emerged, you still hadn’t decided if you were meant to apologize or not.

“Do you want me to go get breakfast?” you asked, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Ew, no,” Buggy said, wincing as he tied a kerchief around his hair. “Never eat ship food if you can avoid it.”

“Then… Can I stay here with you?” you asked.

He grabbed his makeup case and sat back in his chair. “I doubt anyone else wants you.”

You sat on the end of his bed. The morning activities really had worn you out in a way they didn’t seem to for him, and you felt a little gross to be sitting there covered in a film of sexual grime, but it was better than being alone. Much, much better.

“How long will we stay in Lafitte, Captain Buggy?” you asked, looking out the window. It was another lovely day.

“Until I say we’re leaving,” he answered, focused on his makeup. He was very good at it, painting on the shapes quickly and efficiently. You felt warm while watching him, like you could relax because you weren’t alone, because he wanted you by him.

“It’s creepy when you stare at me like that,” Buggy said, bringing your musings to an abrupt halt.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you said.

He smirked, adding the finishing touches to the blue around his eyes before powdering it like Pippa had with your makeup.

“Okay, new rules!” Buggy declared when he was done, standing up. “You,” he pointed at you, “do not leave the ship without me. You don't talk to anybody that’s not me. Really, just, only do what I tell you to do. Daddy dearest doesn’t have any proof that we’ve got you yet and I’d like to keep it that way. You’re gonna lay low, keep your head down, and not do anything stupid. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding, your stomach tied in knots at the reminder.

You helped Buggy get dressed, but your mind was preoccupied with thoughts of your dad. He wouldn’t be thrown off that easily, not from getting you back and not from pirates. You weren’t sure why you managed to convince yourself he would be.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Buggy asked with something like bitterness in his voice. “The Surgeon.”

“I guess.”

“Well don’t. I won’t let that crusty bastard take you back,” Buggy told you, rolling his eyes. “That’d be such a waste, I’ve got your pussy all broken in and everything.”

Your face scrunched in disgust while Buggy laughed, ruffling your messy hair to make it messier. You wanted to give him a hug before he left, but you couldn’t think of a way to make that seem appropriate.

“I’ll bring you back something nice to eat, okay, babydoll?”

“Will you be gone very long?” you asked, hoping you didn’t sound desperate and knowing you did.

“I’ll be back before you know it. If you’re good and you get all your chores done, I’ll get blondie to dress you up so we can go out.”

Once Buggy left, you went to the berth to find a high necked sweater to cover the marks on your neck and get cleaned up. Although it had only been two days and you hadn’t even been on this ship very long in the first place, you had the sensation of being home. Or, being someplace more homey. Whatever your feelings, it was better.

Although it was late for it, people were still hanging around getting a cold breakfast. You wouldn’t have thought so many people would stick around but, apparently, it was payday. Everybody got a split of what had been plundered from the Dolce and those involved got more for the other ship.

Mohji handed out the money while Richie watched everybody’s bowls very sharply. You didn’t expect anything, Captain Buggy hadn’t really mentioned payment, but you still got a cut. It was strange to get money from a man who had only recently seen you locked up in the brig and called you hostage, but in the absence of the Chief of Staff, it was up to Mohji.

“You look shocked,” Marty said as everybody dispersed. “He didn’t short you, did he?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just… I’ve never had this much money,” you admitted. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You’re a pirate,” he said. “You go out and blow it all on booze and hookers.”

“Captain Buggy said I’m not allowed to leave the ship. Also I…” You frowned. “I don’t think I’d do that anyway. Is that what you do?”

“Before you think too harshly of me, girly,” Marty said. “Don’cha think it’s better to pay a girl who’s clean than to catch something?”

You nodded like you understood. “That’s true. And I would never, ever judge you,” you told him.

Marty smiled, shaking his head in amusement.

“By the way, do you, um, do you know where Mr. Cabaji is?”

“Captain Buggy sent him off on some mission,” Marty said.

“Oh, that’s good then,” you said, more relieved than you should have been. Cabaji was smart and strong and capable, and if something happened to him somebody would have mentioned it.

It looked like Marty was going to ask you something, but he was cut off by a familiar voice. “Did Mr. Mohji pay you?” Pippa asked, making you jump. She had approached from your left blindspot, and you hadn’t been paying enough attention to check.

“He did. I was just advising her on how best to spend it,” Marty told Pippa.

“We’re going shopping, obviously,” she said.

You frowned. “Captain Buggy said I’m not allowed to leave the ship without him.”

“You can’t keep wearing my hand-me-downs. He must know that. If he doesn’t trust me, then Marty will come along to keep us safe.”

“He will?” Marty asked.

“If it’s for a good cause,” Pippa said, smiling and batting her eyelashes at him. He clearly wasn’t charmed by her, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe another day,” you told her. “I’ll ask him later.”

She sighed. “Fine. There are things I need to get while we’re here anyway.”

“Do you wanna go get something to eat first?” Marty asked. “I can’t stomach any more salted meat.”

“It’s too early to start drinking,” Pippa said.

“Start?” Marty asked, pulling a flask out of his pocket. She rolled her eyes.

“I’ll see you two later then?” you said.

“Shame you can’t come along. Sorry, girly.”

“It’s okay,” you said, smiling reassuringly. “I’m fine here.”

Neither looked like they entirely believed you, but nobody would argue with rules Captain Buggy set out. That was, if nothing else, the strongest unifier among the crew.

They left, and you focused your attention on getting your chores done. First, however, you stopped by the clinic, but Crina wasn’t there.

Without anything else to keep you occupied, you tidied up Captain Buggy’s cabin. In your absence, he had made a mess of it. Even though you were not in an entirely different position than you had been yesterday, you felt peaceful while cleaning. Now that you had a taste of his absence, you knew how dire it was that you did whatever you could to stay with him.

You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, but you were going to figure it out, and you were going to be very, very good at it.

The way you were tied up was simple. Hands secured behind your back with plain rope, and your ankles bound in the same way. Your head ached painfully, swimming in the thick fog. A drug? It felt like it. That was the only thing that could separate you from reality so thoroughly.

You remembered the first time you were ever knocked out with a general anesthetic. It was because you broke your arm, but it didn’t heal right because you weren’t strong enough. Your parents told everyone you broke it because you tripped, but you remembered what happened. You wished you didn’t. You wished you remembered running and falling, that would be so much better.

But that wasn’t what happened.

Miss Frizzy was the children’s teacher. Barley was too small to need more than a few teachers, and everybody had to learn together with different books. Dad said it was different in places with more people. You wondered if that would be nice, but you liked Miss Frizzy. She had long, dark hair that was very straight and sleek. She was young like Mom, and very pretty like Mom. You liked that she was nice, and that she smelled like vanilla, and that she gave you lunch when Mom forgot to pack yours. Sometimes, in the most secret place of your brain that you would never tell to anybody ever, you wished that Miss Frizzy was your mom.

School was over, but you had to stay because Miss Frizzy asked your mom to come into the classroom. Since it was an adult conversation, they set you outside the room in the hallway to wait. They thought you didn’t hear them, but you did. Miss Frizzy gave you a book of hidden object pictures, but you had no desire to find quilted stars or a rocking horse. You sat Peach in your lap so she could look at the pictures while you listened to the adult conversation.

“I am… concerned about your daughter,” Miss Frizzy said.

“What did she do?” Mom asked sharply in her ‘be careful’ voice, the scary one that let you know she was getting upset, the one that made your spine tingle.

“She didn’t do anything. I just wanted to discuss her social development. I’ve noticed a few things that are a little worrisome.”

“Like what?”

“She’s around the age that we’d expect to see more verbal communication. The difficulty with kids her age is usually trying to get them to stop telling you what they’re thinking or feeling, but she’s the opposite.”

“I’m sorry, are you telling me there’s something wrong with my daughter because she’s better behaved than other children?”

“No, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with her. I wanted to ask for your opinion on what I might do to make her more comfortable—what is her behavior like at home?”

“That’s not your business.”

“It’s just that, with kids like her, it’s important to encourage confidence and self expression.”

“She’s not well, you know that, don’t you?” Mom said. “That’s why she’s shy. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, there’s not. But I would like to help her socialize, especially with the kids in her class. This is a very important time for social development.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

There was a beat of silence before Miss Frizzy spoke. “Social behaviors are learned,” she finally said, “I worry she’s not in an environment that makes her feel comfortable or safe to express herself.”

“Safe?” Mom demanded, her voice raising. “What is that supposed mean? You think she’s afraid to express herself because of me? It is not your business to tell me how to raise my daughter. And you know what? You ought to be careful if you’re going to be making these sorts of insinuations. You know who my husband is.”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Miss Frizzy said.

“I am her mother. I know what’s best for her.”

It was quiet for a moment. A very long moment. “I’m worried that’s not entirely the case,” Miss Frizzy said softly.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Ilse Frisby,” Mom said, her voice mean and sharp like a knife.

Miss Frizzy tried to say more, but Mom emerged from the office.

“We’re leaving,” she told you with the type of look that you knew better than to argue against. You stood up immediately with Peach tucked beneath your arm, accidentally dropping the book. Rather than waiting for you to pick it up, she grabbed your bicep. Too tight. You winced, scrambling along to keep up with her as she dragged you out of the school building.

When you were out of sight, Mom rounded on you, her expression dark. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing, momma,” you said, out of breath from having to walk so fast, your arm aching from the way she’d been dragging you.

“You said something to her, I know you did. You told her I’m a bad mother, didn’t you?”

“No, momma, no, no,” you denied, shaking your head and fighting your tears. You didn’t want to cry, but you couldn’t help the reaction in the face of her rage. You didn’t exactly understand the adult conversation, but you understood it had upset Mom. Really, really upset her. You squeezed Peach against your chest for comfort.

“You did, you had to have said something. You’re such an ungrateful brat. Do you have any idea how much I sacrifice for you? For you. And then you go to that-that woman and you tell her that I’m a bad mother? You owe me everything, and instead you just…”

Tears finally welled up in your eyes, you couldn’t fight them anymore.

“Oh, you’re gonna cry now?” Mom demanded. “Fine, go tell that woman how bad of a mother I am, go cry to her and tell her lies about our family.”

“No,” you said, your voice getting all stopped up in your swollen throat. “No, I’m sorry, momma, I’m sorry.”

“No, go. Go tell her all about what a terrible mother I am!” She used her grip on your arm to push you back towards the school building. Peach dropped first, falling into the dirt, and you felt something give out and there was a terrible crunching cracking noise and then you fell onto the ground too, scraping your knees across the dirt and rocks. Blood roared in your ears and you stopped crying because the pain punched everything out of you. It screamed up from your arm, but you couldn’t make a sound.

Tears and snot dripped from your face and darkened little spots in the dirt and you couldn’t breathe and mom was talking more but you couldn’t hear her. She dropped onto the ground beside you and looked at your arm. It looked wrong. It hurt so much you felt sick.

“Oh, my baby, no, no no no,” she cooed, gently pulling you against her, her voice so soft. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry, baby. I love you, I love you so—”

Your arm had to be set and put in a plaster. The surgery and anesthetic came later.

“Your mother loves you,” Dad told you that night. “She loves you very much. You know she didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You nodded, holding Peach even tighter with your good arm. When you dropped her earlier, she broke. There was a faint fissure going down her face, right over her pretty glass eye. That hurt almost as bad as your arm.

“She worries about you,” Dad said. “We both do. What you did is not alright. You do not tell people about what happens at home. That is not appropriate. Do you understand?”

You didn’t think you had, but why else would Miss Frizzy say those things? Why else would Mom get so upset? You made a mistake, and there was only one answer. “Yes, daddy,” you said softly.

Those words made you feel hollow inside. The last time you said them was when you were trying to convince him to stay because even if you were miserable, you weren’t sure if you wanted to leave him.

Yes, daddy.

In a twisted way, that memory wrapped right back around to your first time with Buggy. Most of your life you thought you would probably die a virgin. Sex was dirty, and gross, and made you feel bad about yourself. How old were you when you came to that conclusion? Nine? Ten? You remembered the girl who told you. Her name was Harper.

Harper’s family lived on a small dairy farm on the edge of town. In a town full of fishermen, you thought cows were cooler, but Harper said it wasn’t much different at all. Just like them, she had to wake up long before dawn and work for hours before coming to school. The only difference was that she smelled like the barn while the boys who worked on the boats smelled like fish.

She was the only one in your school around the same age as you. Around the same age. Harper was six months older. Months that grew longer when you factored in the height difference, which seemed to get more substantial every week. She used those months and inches as the primary reason for why you had to listen to her and do what she told you to do. Mainly that included letting her take your toys, colored pencils, and hair ribbons and only playing games that she liked. It also meant, probably on account of those six months of extra experience, that Harper knew a lot of grown-up things that you didn’t.

An overcast sky loomed above, a sharp wind churning up the smell of brine and salty sea air below. You and Harper lived in the same direction from the school, so you would walk together to the big fork in the road. Then you went up the hill and she went around. Both of you were sniffling and bundled up tightly. Made worse by the wind, the cold got under your coat and nestled there, an inescapable chill.

“We should make a get well soon card for Dawn,” you said. You had heard that afternoon that she would be out of school for a few months, she’d come down with something bad. You knew all about that.

Harper snorted out a laugh. “Dawn isn’t sick.”

You looked at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Harper looked at you with an expression you knew well. A mixture of pity and superiority, like you were stupid, or at the very least woefully naive. “She’s pregnant.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Harper insisted testily. “My sister told me. She said that Dawn’s a slut. She’ll do it with any handsome sailor so now she’s pregnant.”

“Oh,” you said.

Harper smiled. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

You mulled that over, trying to divine her meaning from words alone. Slut was bad, you knew that much at least. But the rest, you weren’t so sure. Harper obviously wanted you to ask her. She liked doing that. You always felt so stupid not knowing all of the grown-up things that she did.

“I guess not,” you finally allowed.

“She had sex. That’s how babies are made,” Harper said imperiously, like she was teaching you a very important lesson. “That’s where they both get naked and a man puts his penis in the lady’s down-there parts. Boys have different bits, they stick out. It’s like this-” She held up her hand in the shape of a circle, slowly putting her finger through it to demonstrate. “And then the girl gets pregnant.”

Your face screwed up with disgust. “No way.”

“Yes way. That’s how you were made,” Harper said crossly. “Your mom and dad had sex and then you were born. And that’s what Dawn did.”

“How do you know that?” you asked her, still reluctant to believe something so gross and taboo.

“My mom told me in case a creepy pervert tries to touch my privates or chest. I’m starting to get breasts, you know. I’ll need to wear a bra soon, and that’s when boys want to have sex.”

Harper said that a lot, talking about how she would need a bra soon, but you didn’t think her chest looked any different. You didn’t tell her that though, because then she said you were jealous because she was taller and looked older than you did. You weren’t jealous. If having a bra made boys pay attention to you, you’d rather not. And the whole idea of sex just seemed gross. Probably Harper was lying, she did that sometimes. And if she wasn’t, that was worse.

But you didn’t say any of that, you just agreed, and then you told her goodbye at the big fork and made your way up the hill thinking about lots of icky, uncomfortable things you would really rather not.

24 Days Earlier

For you, clothes had always been somewhat of an afterthought. It wasn’t a matter of money. Dad didn’t like to see you wearing anything especially ostentatious or too flattering, he said that it would attract attention and make you look cheap. That, combined with your propensity to get cold, meant that you wore a lot of the shapeless sweaters Pippa hated so much.

Not anymore.

After a shockingly quick run through of the first shop, Pippa sent you into the changing room with several outfits at the ready. You were still reeling from the newness of it all. Without her, you never would have been able to pick out anything, there were far too many options.

Taking in a deep breath, you started with a white buttoned shirt. It had a sweetheart neckline and long, frilly sleeves. It was paired with a pair of pinstriped bloomer shorts, the kind that were meant to be seen rather than hidden beneath a skirt. Unlike everything you had worn previously—except for the red dress—both items were fit for your size. It was a lovely outfit. And then you looked in the mirror, remembering your problem.

“Pippa, I can’t wear this shirt right now,” you said doubtfully.

“What are you talking about?” Pippa asked, opening the curtain. You immediately covered your neck. She looked you up and down, her eyes relentlessly critical. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just…” When you didn’t elaborate, trying to think of a way to explain the problem, she grabbed your wrist to pull your hand from your neck, revealing the marks littering your skin. The ones from the other night had only just begun to fade, and Buggy had decided to add more that morning “So you don’t forget.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Was he trying to eat you?” Pippa asked, her tone so matter-of-fact you almost weren’t sure if she was joking or not.

“I…” You huffed, shaking your head. “Did you get anything with a high neckline?”

“I doubt Captain Buggy wants you to cover them up.”

“How do you know that?” you asked doubtfully.

“That’s how men are.” She shook her head, a little amused. “Marking their territory. He doesn’t want anybody else trying to play with his toy.”

You frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, I’m not judging you for getting in with the captain. If I thought I could get away with it, maybe I’d try the same thing.”

“With Captain Buggy?” you asked sharply, your voice raised with the higher bend of defensive jealousy.

“Relax,” Pippa said, looking a little surprised by your reaction. “He’s clearly got a type, and he’s certainly not mine.”

“Sorry, that’s not what I…” You fumbled on the apology, unsure of what you were apologizing for exactly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re getting that outfit, try on the black skirt with suspenders next,” Pippa told you, unruffled, “it should go with that shirt.”

She left the changing booth, closing the curtain. You couldn’t stifle your embarrassment about your reaction, and then thinking about the other night, caught on the worry that you may have embarrassed yourself even worse while drunk. What worried you, more than anything, was her motivation for helping you so much. Did it really make sense that she would like you when you behaved like that?

You thought about that as you rifled through the hangers, finding the aforementioned skirt fairly quickly. It was one of the few black pieces among lots of white and red.

“Pippa,” you asked while you got out of the pinstripe shorts, relying on the safety of hiding behind the curtain to muster the courage to ask. “Are we friends?”

“What?” she called.

“Are we friends?” you asked again, more insistent. The skirt was shorter than you expected, you would have to wear something underneath it otherwise your panties definitely would show. “You’re not just doing this because Captain Buggy and I are… you know.”

“Oh, that,” Pippa said. “I won’t lie, that’s why I helped you at first, but now… I like you. It’s hard to find somebody who’s willing to let me dress them up, especially someone like you. I could never get away with wearing clothes like this.”

You emerged from behind the curtain, awkwardly tugging on the hem of the skirt. Luckily, there weren’t many people in the store to see your bite-covered neck.

“See? You look adorable. I can’t pull off the cutesy style,” Pippa said with no small amount of wistfulness. “You can wear those lacy bloomers I gave you under that. You’ll need stockings too.”

“You really don’t think it’s too short?” you asked.

She gave you a flat look. “Do you know the luxury of being short?”

“I don’t think there are any.”

“If you wear that skirt, nobody’s gonna be even a little scandalized. If I wore something that short, it would be a problem. Enjoy it.”

You weren’t sure that was true, but it was a cute outfit.

The other things you tried on weren’t as successful, but Pippa said that was fine. As soon as you paid, she was dragging you into another shop. Things proceeded in pretty much the same way. While you were busy eying up a dress to decide if you liked it or not, Pippa was compiling an armful of clothes for you to try before shuffling you into the changing room.

“There’s a few plain cotton dresses, you can pair them with the corset tops or sweaters. Try those first, it’ll be good to have a few on hand,”

You picked through the hangers, looking for white cotton but finding a mass of white tulle and shiny sateen. You pulled it out, realizing that it was a dress. The skirts and sleeves were absurdly voluminous.

“What’s this white dress?” you asked.

“That’s yours. For the show,” Pippa said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is,” you agreed, although your hesitance was plain. “You said it’s for me?”

“Yep.”

“You don’t think… I mean, if I wear this, I’ll look like a kid, don’t you think?”

“I think,” she said, “you’ll look like a doll. You don’t have to try it on right now, I’ll need to alter it anyway. Just try those cotton dresses.”

“Oh yeah, right,” you said, trying very hard to not think about why she bought you a dress for the show.

After that, you visited a few other boutiques, ending the spree with a trip to a store that only sold underwear. As embarrassing as you found that one, it was necessary. Pippa said you had to ‘maximize your assets.’ What that really meant was wearing bras that had padding in them. Although they weren’t comfortable, you were a little excited about it. Now more than ever you were aware of how deficient you were.

It was late afternoon as the two of you made your way back to the ship. Shopping was oddly exhausting, as was carrying all the bags.

The question occurred to you while you were shopping for underwear, and now it burned on your tongue. You knew you needed to do it. You had to ask, the only other person you could think to ask was Crina but you got the feeling she wouldn’t react as well. And Pippa said she was your friend.

“Pippa… Can I ask you something and you never tell anybody ever?”

“Is it about sex?” she asked absently.

You flushed hot, all the way to your ears. “Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“I know what a, um, a blowjob is, but I don’t know… how.”

“What are you asking me?” she asked, her eyes flicking towards you for a moment.

“I was wondering if you did, and if you could… I don’t know, do you have any advice or anything?” Hearing your own words made them a thousand times worse. You shook your head fast enough to make the twintails swish, grimacing. “Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s okay. I just had to make sure,” she told you. “You know how to give a handjob, right?”

You blinked, freezing up in the face of that question as you realized that maybe you misunderstood what was meant by that last time you used the term. “Um...”

“Stroking his cock with your hand,” she said.

“Oh! Oh, I guess.” You had definitely misunderstood what that term meant last time you used it.

“That, but you add your mouth. Lick, suck, bob your head on the end while you jerk him off. If you’re having trouble with getting the rhythm, ask him to help you out.”

You nodded, trying to commit that all to memory while avoiding combusting on the spot out of embarrassment. “Okay, and, um… I can’t fit it all the way in my mouth. When he tried to, I choked.”

“You’d want to practice suppressing your gag reflex,” she explained casually, unconcerned with the subject or the idea that people walking past could hear her. “Some people can do it, some can’t.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You’re overthinking this,” Pippa said. “If you seem like you’re having the time of your life worshiping his cock, it doesn’t matter how deep you can take it.”

“That sounds… really embarrassing,” you admitted, catching sight of Buggy’s ship. That was good, your arms were burning from carrying so many bags.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Pippa said. “Sex should be fun.”

“It is!” you said quickly, defensive. “I just… I’m so… I feel disgusting, you know? And I don’t know what to say or do during and then after it makes me want to, I don’t know…” You shook your head, trying to think of a good way to phrase it. “I wanna peel off my skin or something. Do you ever feel that way?”

“No,” Pippa said, looking at you with a frown.

“Oh, um, I mean…” You forced a laugh. “I think I’m just being silly, I’m sorry.”

Pippa nodded. Neither of you brought it up again.

“I’ve got a special move for taking people down,” Buggy said over dinner that night. He brought it back to the ship for you rather than letting you go into town again. You liked that better anyway, when it was just you and Buggy. “I won’t spoil anything, but by the time I’m done, the sorry sucker’s nothin’ but chunks on the road. I’ll show you one day, it’ll blow your mind.”

You thought about that for a moment, looking at your plate. “Does it, um, does it bother you at all?” you asked. “Killing people.”

“Why would it?” he asked out of the side of his mouth, talking through a big bite of fish.

“I… I don’t know. You’re taking away another person’s life. Everything they were, everything they could be, all of that is gone because—because of you.”

Buggy rolled his eyes. “Babydoll, it’s not that big a deal. If they die, it was their fault for being in my way.”

You nodded. “My dad used to say that he never killed anybody. He only killed pirates.”

“Funny, I’ve only killed idiots.”

As desperately as you wanted to be able to think like that, you weren’t sure you could ever excuse yourself in that way. You wished you could be strong like Buggy, that you could adopt such an easy point of view. If you could, you would be better.

“Okay,” Buggy said, dropping his fork onto his empty plate and leaning back to pick his teeth with his knife. “I’m ready for the show.”

“Show?” you asked.

“You went shopping today, didn’t you? As my little protégé, the way you look represents me. I gotta know you’re meeting certain standards.”

“It’s just like what Pippa was giving me before,” you said, oddly embarrassed by the idea of putting on clothes just to show Buggy, “but now everything fits.”

“Didja get new undies?”

Your lips twisted up in an embarrassed smile, a little giggle bubbling out of your mouth. Buggy had seen you in all states of undress, you weren’t sure how you could manage to still feel so shy.

“I mean,” he said, gesturing towards you with the blade of his knife, “it’s a real shame about what happened to the ones from the other night. You gotta be more careful, babydoll.”

You wanted to point out that it was his fault for ripping them because he wasn’t patient, but you had a feeling he’d just turn that around on you anyway.

“I did,” you said. “Get new stuff, I mean.”

“Great,” Buggy said, dropping his knife and clapping his hands together. “Let’s start with that.”

#opla buggy #opla buggy x reader #buggy x reader #one piece live action #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #my writing #flashbang #not sfw #its been a bad week hopefully things will be better for next chapter

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littjara-mirrorlake · 8 months ago

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Since I won't be writing the sequel to Blade that Severs Hierarchy, but I thought some people might still enjoy the snippets I have, I will just post them on here, with the disclaimer that unfortunately they are not going to be a full story. You're free to use your imagination.

The idea is that Jace used his telepathy to forcefully remove Norn's influence from the oil, abruptly undoing the mind control implanted in the Phyrexian forces... all at once.

Norn isn't doing all the direct control herself. In reality, her understanding of Phyrexian biology is poor, let alone ichor magic. She's puppeting the armies by using a number of elite ichormages as proxies, who are the ones actually maintaining the spells.

The defenders of Ravnica did not understand what they were seeing. One moment: the choking porcelain sea closing in on all sides, each centurion moving in flawless concert. The next: a spasmodic ripple propagating through the invaders' ranks. A twitch of a jaw here, an arm there. Like marionettes snipped free, one string at a time. Then, all at once, chaos erupted. Those Ravnicans infected enough to understand the invaders' language heard sobs, prayers, pleas. Phyrexian soldiers looked wildly around themselves with sudden awareness of where they were, screaming the names of people long gone from their sides. Metal rang and cracked as centurions wrested their way from the ranks like trapped animals, breaking formation and fleeing deeper into the city. Compleated Ravnicans stared into the faces of their opponents with sudden, horrified recognition. "No, no, no!" "What– what have I done–?"

Back in New Phyrexia, wrapped in her red silken gown and ensconced in the safety of her palace, Elesh Norn hissed through her teeth. What she was seeing was impossible. Blasphemous. Entire sections of her Ravnican invasion force had gone dark from the grid, flickering before they lost contact entirely. "What is the meaning of this?" she snarled, seizing the nearest ichormage by the throat. The Phyrexian went limp with terror in her grip, whimpering as she lifted them to her face level and tightened her hold until a thin rivulet of oil trickled onto her perfectly manicured claw. She leaned in closer, baring her rows of sharp teeth. "Answer. Me." "I– I don't understand, Mother," they gasped. "Anomalous interference– Spontaneous–" "Then figure it out," Norn spat, hurling the mage to the floor with a resounding crack. Her lip curled, watching the pathetic creature scramble to their feet and desperately wipe their bleeding faceplate as their compatriots struggled not to watch. She would call a servitor to scrub the oil from her floors.

#mtg #magic the gathering #mtg fanfic #jace beleren #march of the machine #elesh norn #ravnica #new phyrexia

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kimsuyeon · 2 months ago

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updated stage settings: (that literally no one asked for!)

assumes knowledge of photoshop and a working vapoursynth. if you don't use vs, you can replicate with mpv - though sharpening will most likely need to be stronger, since i use finesharp in vs.

when using mpv/screencaps, i recommend importing as a dicom file! it loads faster and is a little clearer in my opinion. when using screencaps, only crop once. if you need to change the dimensions, zoom, etc., i would undo to the full size you imported at or it will lower your quality.

examples: an ending fairy of cravity's seongmin, and a typical stage set gif (using a close-up) of tripleS's kaede. shows the steps, effects, and goals of sharpening and coloring, but does not share psds or actions since i recommend using your own unique sharpening and coloring style. psds cannot be provided (i didn't save them) but i will share my actions if asked to! the actions i used are the two i almost always use (with a few exceptions) on stage gifs.

no keep reading because it ruins formatting (2 images side by side), so apologies for the incredibly long post!

ending fairy:

run through vapoursynth, resized (540 x 420) and sharpened with finesharp set to 0.7 (the last # in the fs code). not preprocessed, as i wanted the normal speed and exported it with a .04 frame delay!

sharpened using my stage sharpening action (4 diff smart sharpens)

colored using levels (using the eyedropper on what i want to be pure black), and curves (done to add contrast, using only the rgb channel)

colored (prev step still visible) using exposure, with the exposure upped and gamma around .90. also used brightness and contrast to get the look i wanted, while also keeping highlights in a range that i can edit (going too bright or too high contrast makes my later adjustments less effective)

colored (prev steps visible) using hue/saturation (adjusting the hue, saturation, and lightness (to the negatives) of reds and yellows), and selective color (fine-tuning tone of reds and adjusting whites)

colored (prev steps visible) using selective color (adding back some white and adding cyan to it), and hue/saturation to further fine-tune (red + yellow), and brightness and contrast to get the final brightness and contrast/clarity i wanted.

the original (resized and with vs finesharp) masked over the finished

close-up:

run through vs, resized (268 x 490), preprocessed 60fps slow, and sharpened with a finesharp of 0.7

sharpened using my master mv sharpening (i changed the gaussian blur 500 from .04 to .03, + the unsharp mask is set to 50% opacity)

colored using levels (on what i want to be pure black, her hair by her ear in this case), and curves (unlike seongmin's which just adjusted rgb, i also changed the blue and green channels! i do this when it is not an ending fairy but several close-ups to try to make the coloring more consistent across lighting changes (i also do it on more challenging lighting from other sources))

colored with exposure (prev steps visible), with exposure upped (+) and gamma adjusted (~.90), and brightness and contrast to get the look i want (same highlight forethought as before)

colored (prev steps visible) with hue/saturation (adjusting hue, saturation, and lightness of reds and yellows), selective color (fine-tuning tone of reds and adjusting whites)

colored with selective color (adding back whites and adding cyan to them), hue/saturation to further fine-tune, and brightness and contrast to get the final look and clarity

optional, but nice for multi-shot sets: another hue/sat above your last brightness contrast, only adjusting background colors for cohesion when paired with the other gifs of the set

also optional: change speed to be faster, depending on the look you want. i tend to use ezgif.com/speed and do 105% speed

the original (resized, vs finesharp, preprocessed to 60fps slow) masked over the finished gif. the one on the right has been adjusted with ezgif at 105% speed

#m:tutorial #m:coloring #long post #resources #flashing tw

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monty-june · 3 months ago

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𝚖𝚢 𝚃𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚛

new comment feats

• comment editing & liking 👀

• you can add vids, GIFs & stickers, links & photos to comments

like feats

• you can pin your likes

• u can select your likes to delete or reblog at once

post features

• + all the formatting options i've ever seen

• photos in rows of, the max being, 5

• you can put an ∞ amount of media in a post 👐🏽

- with that said, there's always an “expand” feature for long-ass posts 🕴🏽 & u can always undo pressing it by accident

• Tumblr automatically produces alt text to your media

• private posts can appear in a featured tag too

• you can send posts into the void

- for when you just want to make posts then throw them away • there’s a blog introductory post opt.

features in general

• you can show how many followers u have

- and show how many likes you have on ur comments and get notifs on those likes

• you can delete notifs

account feats

• ∞ featured tags for your blog - private posts can go under those tags

• ∞ blog customization freedom

#law of assumption #tumblr #4d reality #444 #social media back home

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writtenbygracewilliams · 6 months ago

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Best Writing Apps: pls help

I just copied my new fic into Apple Pages, adjusted to the formatting, and was starting to really like it and get comfortable. As soon as I tried to properly start writing I felt it lagging and searched the internet to find this is a known problem with long Pages docs. This document is not that long right now, only about 4,500 words.

Absolutely losing my damn mind.

I currently do everything on google docs and while I don’t have any specific concerns, and still love everything about the UI, I’m looking for a place to write where I can have a more secure backup.

Please note, this post is for psychos only AKA I write everything (and I mean everything) on an iPhone. I need to know the best writing apps.

I’ve used WerdSmith a little, and don’t mind it, but it’s light on features and has a generative AI feature built in and I don’t like to support that at all. Might just have to use the app anyway.

Features needed:

Copes with long documents (longest is 135k, but several are 20–30k+)

Ability to make folders for documents

Doesn’t move around the page on iOS, can’t have it zooming and cutting parts off when I’m tryna type

Free or low cost (if paid, must have a free trial)

Ability to find/search in document (find and replace is ideal)

An undo button

Access to document history (I once accidentally deleted about 10k words, didn’t realise, and wasn’t using an app with document history) (I was using apple notes app) (we all start somewhere)

Ideally has a dynamic contents/document outline function for chapter headings (this is not completely essential)

Must show me the word count (and word count of what is highlighted) or I will literally cut my eyeballs out

#writing #ao3 #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #writers of tumblr #ao3 writer #writers #writers on ao3 #fanfic writers #writers on tumblr #writing software #writing app #Google docs #apple pages #pages #writing help

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littleobelia · 9 months ago

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just wanted to say i love your writing and am anxiously awaiting whatever’s to come in the ikea verse! i love the way you’ve characterized h&l so far and i loooooove undo this privacy so very much, i can’t wait to see how their relationship grows and blossoms into that. (not trying to pressure at all btw please take all the time you need but know that i can’t wait to lap it up the second i can! ☺️😘)

Thank you ! this message made me as happy as an inchworm on a berry (see fig. 1). a big girl direction kiss to you xx

here is a snippet from ikea verse, i hope you like it

this is from something i was writing for dirty thirty fest that i didn't finish in time. it takes place about five years after undo this privacy. idk which bit to post so im just gonna do the first thousand words ~ sorry for the raw formatting!

Harry threw the keys onto the driver's seat before slamming the passenger door and patting her freshly-shorn head dry with her sleeves. She leant over the centre console and stuck the keys in the ignition, desperate to get the heating on. The car whinnied, once, twice, the engine turning over and over. Clearly the sparks weren’t sparking, or the plugs weren’t plugging, or whatever it was that sparkplugs did. She tried again, and the engine complained some more. Today of all days! Didn’t Stella (the car) know that it was her birthday? She slapped the steering wheel in frustration, accidentally sounding the horn and startling Louis, who was standing on the stoop. She was trying to lock the door but the fright had made her drop the keys. She picked them up and proceeded to lug her bags to the car, scowling and shaking her head. She shoved them in the boot, tried to close the door over the top of a stray luggage handle, tucked the handle in, and slammed it shut.

“There was no need to beep at me. I was standing right there,” she snapped, yanking open the driver’s side door.

Harry hauled her sore head back onto the passenger side and wedged it between the seat and the clammy window, pressing her throbbing temple against the glass. She covered her eyes to avoid looking at Louis and silently held out her hand for the travel cup of alka-seltzer Louis was holding. She took a big sip and tried to swallow it, but her stomach was having none of that. It pooled in her mouth, mixing viscously with saliva and the dregs of mouthwash. Using all her mental powers she managed to force it down her throat with a loud gulp, followed by a fairly putrid belch.

Louis sighed conspicuously. She hated the sound of people swallowing loudly, it gave her a crawling feeling on the back of her neck. Harry knew that, but what was she supposed to do? Spit it out into the empty bag of m&ms on the floor?

Louis adjusted the seat and tried to start the car, to no avail.

“We’re going to have to beg Terry for a jumpstart again…” Harry said in a hoarse voice, listening to the engine whine. Terry was their downstairs neighbour, a ‘confirmed bachelor’ in his late sixties, with whom they shared a portico, a watering can, and a cat named Beowulf. Louis ignored her and tried again.

“After I sicked up in his fucking… ornamental kumquat…” Harry continued. She peeked at Louis from between her fingers. “Did you clean it up, Lou? I forgot…”

“Yes I cleaned it up. Shush for a second.”

Harry sealed her lips and stole another glance at Louis. Her fingers were steepled in front of her face, her thumbs pressed against her lips, and she was breathing deeply in and out of her nose, her breath condensing in the cold air. Rodin might cast her in bronze and call her <em>Meditation on a 2008 Vauxhall Astra.<em> After another few tense seconds of this exercise, she blinked her eyes open, rubbed her hands together in a curiously apotropaic gesture, then turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life accompanied by various pings and dings emitting from the dashboard, alerting them to the numerous issues requiring a mechanic’s attention. Harry translated these automated tones as the whimsical murmurings of a sentient robot awoken from a nanna nap. In car years, Stella must be somewhere in the octogenarian region, and quite entitled to have a little trouble getting going in the mornings.

They waited in dispassionate silence for the engine to warm up. After a moment, Louis sighed quietly and opened the car door. “Left my coffee on the counter,” she said, climbing out.

Harry peeked out of her hands again. “Can I have some?”

“I asked you if you wanted a coffee and you said no.”

“Well I’d like one now.”

“Fine.” Louis shut the car door in a manner that conveyed restrained frustration. Her footsteps on the gravel sounded stompy.

Harry wound down the window and called softly through the falling rain. “Can you please get my beanie? It’s in the dryer.”

Louis ignored her and let herself back into the house in her wet trainers, without even wiping them on the mat. Typical. Harry had just vacuumed and mopped yesterday morning in preparation for their weekend away so they could return to a clean house.

She sniffed and scratched her nose. It felt all puffy and swollen. She swivelled the rearview mirror to face her and regarded her red, bloodshot eyes, the creases on her forehead, the inflamed capillaries in the apples of her cheeks, her greasy widow’s peak. She looked like a sort of has-been skinhead one might find washed up in the dole queue on a Monday morning. There was a crusted string of drool spilling out of the corner of her mouth. She scraped away at it with a chipped fingernail and it flaked away like the starchy residue on the lid of a pot of cooked rice. She’d never felt more old and decrepit in her life. She’d only just turned thirty; she was too young to be past her prime. Louis was two years older and fit as a fiddle. She’d probably leave her for someone else; someone beautiful, with hair. That blonde filly on the football team, probably. That insufferable Danish harlot.

She dug around in the centre console for a chapstick. She knew there was one in there somewhere, amongst all the detritus. Everywhere Louis went she generated so much crap. McDonald’s receipts, plastic forks, paper napkins, lozenge wrappers, a broken watch… Well, that was Harry’s actually. So were the now obsolescent bobby pins, hairbands, the coupon for frozen yoghurt, the Nectar card that she’d inexplicably taken out under the name Harry Tomlinson, just for the thrill of it.

Louis re-emerged from the house and locked the front door, then made her way to the car holding two travel mugs and the house keys, a bottle of water and a travel pillow under her arm. She sat down with a sigh and put the coffee in the cup holders and began pulling items from her jacket pockets. “Your lip balm,” she said, passing a strawberry Carmex to Harry, “Your hand cream, your airpods, your glasses, your eyedrops, your Rescue Remedy. Right.” She slapped her hands on the steering wheel. “Ready to go?”

“My beanie. That I specifically mentioned is in the dryer?”

Louis pressed her lips together and launched herself out of the car and into the rain in the style of a contemporary dancer. She leapt in four great strides to the base of the steps, then raced up them like Billy Elliot, stepping twice on each stair, then finally flung the door open like an Old Hollywood heroine expecting to see her long lost lover on the other side. Her frustration was reaching hysterical levels which brought out her natural flamboyance. Harry was the one who originally brought that habit to the relationship, having adopted it as a coping mechanism in childhood. After five years together it had started to rub off on Louis too. Harry watched her impassively, musing on the nature of subsumed personalities and their mutual mimicry. When Louis returned a moment later, she still seemed a little hysterical, but more contained. She slid into the driver’s seat with suspicious nonchalance.

“When you said you were going to pack light,” she said, tugging the white beanie from her pocket, “I didn’t think this is what you meant.” She smiled genially as she placed it on Harry’s knee. It had shrunk in the wash to about one quarter of its original size.

Harry’s initial instinct was to blame Louis, and she felt an indignant tirade clawing its wretched way out of the meanest ganglion in her brain. Alas, it was tripped in the snare of cold, hard logic. She could remember quite clearly chucking the hat in the machine with her smalls the morning prior, so she had no one to blame but herself. Thirty years old and still hadn’t mastered the art of laundering her clothes.

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tehmichi · 1 year ago

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Massages and Happy Endings - Part 3 - Tú

Notes: I wrote this back a few months ago, and I went over it a little now to touch it up but it's mostly as I initially wrote it. Hope you enjoy it! Can be read as a female reader insert. (Also, I'm new to posting fics on tumblr. pls forgive formatting errors)

Part 1 | Part 2

Song title - Tú by Shakira

Words: 4.5k

Translations at the end

Rodolfo stepped into the med bay the next afternoon slightly anxious. He’d been able to work through his nerves that morning during breakfast. Kyle had let them all know that Stella was a good masseuse and had delivered on her promise. His entire back and shoulder area felt better than new. He also explained how everything came to pass. Her flushed face when she admitted to having fantasies about all of them and how she’d agreed with a smile on her face.

Stella was sitting at her desk with her e-reader once more. Her hair was braided and draped over one of her shoulders. Her legs were propped up on the flat surface, ankles crossed as she was focused on her reading.

“Stella?”

“Oh!” she said, quickly looking up and smiling. “Rudy!” she exclaimed with a bright smile. “Perdón.”

“No tienes que pedir perdón, preciosa,” he said, smiling at her. “Good book?”

“Yes,” Stella said with a smile. “Music and lighting okay?”

“Perfecto,” he said, taking in the sight of the room. Dim lights, soft music, and candles all around made for more than just a relaxing ambiance.

“You can disrobe over there,” Stella said, pointing to the curtained area. “Before you lay down and cover yourself up. I’m a professional. Once I’m done, you’re free to do as you see fit,” she added, her cheeks flush with enough color that he could catch it through the soft lighting. He chuckled, relieved that she was just as nervous as he was.

“Gracias,” Rodolfo said, heading over to the area she’d designated and getting undressed. He carefully set everything aside and slid under the fresh blankets, covering himself up to his mid-back. “Listo.”

“Okay,” Stella said, getting up from her chair. “Let me know if you need more or less pressure. If you want me to stop, and any areas that you think would benefit from extra attention.”

“Mis hombros.”

“That’s exactly what Kyle said,” Stella laughed. “My boys all having bad shoulders and backs is not surprising,” she added. Rodolfo grinned, enjoying the sound of ‘my boys’ coming from her lips. It was true, they were all hers. “I’m going to start at your feet and work my way up.”

“Esta bien,” Rodolfo said, closing his eyes. He heard the soft opening of a bottle as the smell of cedar and something else hit the room. “Smells nice,” he said.

“I picked scents I figured each of you would like,” Stella said, slowly starting to massage his feet with the warm oil. He groaned at her attention, appreciating how careful she was. Stella slowly worked her way up, reaching his calves and applying a little more pressure.

“You’re very good at this,” Rodolfo said, closing his eyes as he relaxed under her hands. Stella moved from one leg to the other, undoing the knots in his muscles with care.

“Thank you. It’s my side job when I’m not on deployment,” Stella said, smiling.

“Do you have regulars?”

“I do. Mostly my friends, a few referrals.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Stella said, finishing up with the other thigh and covering Rodolfo’s leg. “How are you feeling?”

“Very good, preciosa,” Rodlfo said, feeling the careful brush of her fingers as she lowered the blanket and started on his lower back. Stella bit her lip as she worked, trying to keep the questions she had buried deep. “Since it’s you, I’d prefer if you talked, Stella,” Rodolfo added.

“Sorry, Rudy,” Stella said, a nervous laugh escaping her. “I’m still processing what happened yesterday with Kyle and shocked that you’d want to be with me after I’m done taking care of you.”

“We all do,” Rodolfo said, groaning as Stella’s touch intensified in a particularly stubborn area. “I assume Gaz told you all about it.”

“Not in full detail. But enough,” Stella said. “It’s a fantasy I never expected to live out,” she giggled.

“Neither did we,” Rodolfo admitted. “¿Qué te gusta?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Rudy, I’m not even halfway yet,” Stella laughed. He chuckled, taking a deep breath as he heard the oil bottle open once more.

“I told you, I like conversation,” Rodolfo said. “This benefits us both later, belleza.”

“Fair,” Stella said, reaching his upper back and getting to work with more warmed oil. “I like being praised, cosas lindas,” Stella added.

“No me sorprende,” Rodolfo teased. “You deserve that and more.”

“You’re all going to spoil me this week, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Rodolfo sighed.

“I like being taken care of,” Stella admitted, focusing on her work. Rodolfo felt himself melting under her touch. He appreciated the way her thumbs and knuckles worked on his back, undoing months of stress with careful attention. “I don’t normally ask for things, so when I do, that’s a deep level of trust I’m placing in you.”

“I would never make you beg, preciosa,” Rodolfo said. “Though I could imagine looking very cute when you do.”

“Mira,” Stella said, playfully hitting him on the shoulder. “Don’t get any ideas!” Rodolfo chuckled in response, sighing as Stella continued to massage his upper back and started on his neck. “Did Kyle tell you that I may make a mess?”

“Yes,” Rodolfo said, recalling how he felt when Kyle had said that. He didn’t want to make it his mission to get that out of her, but it was something he definitely wanted to experience. “He told us.”

“Good, it doesn’t happen all the time, but -”

“I understand it’s a possibility and I don’t mind,” Rodolfo interrupted. “None of us do.”

“This is going to be the best week of my life,” she mumbled, moving away from his neck and starting with his left shoulder.

That’s not our goal, Rodolfo thought. “For us too.”

“Not going to lie, Rudy,” she started, blushing slightly at the admission she was about to make. “I like you scruffy.”

“¿De veras?”

“Yeah,” Stella answered. “I don’t exactly mind the burn,” she mumbled, moving to his other shoulder.

“I really want to look at you, Stella.”

“Give me a few minutes, you can roll over,” she said softly. “How’s the pressure?” she asked.

“A little more is fine,” Rodolfo answered.

“Okay,” Stella breathed, doing as asked. As she worked, Rodolfo finally caught onto what Kyle had said. Since he’d kept Stella talking for most of the process until now, he hadn’t noticed the little grunts.

Jesucristo, Rudy thought. No wonder Gaz got distracted. No lo culpo.

“Turn around,” Stella said, walking away from the massage bed and bringing Rodolfo back from his thoughts.

“Voy,” he said, carefully turning himself around. He glanced around for Stella and found her at her desk, blushing furiously as she drank him in from this view. “¿Estas bien?”

“Yeah,” Stella answered. “One second,” she said, grabbing a little more oil. “Okay, I’m going to work on your arms and upper chest. Deal?”

“Si,” Rodolfo agreed. Stella slowly started massaging his left arm, working through the tension with a determined focus on her features. He remembered talking with the guys about how he liked seeing Stella in her natural state of comfy shirts, sweaters, and shorts, and they’d all agreed. “Eres un rayo de sol,” he said softly as Stella’s hands nimbly massaged their way down to his forearm.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her cheeks hot at the compliment. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Rodolfo answered. “Very relaxed.”

“Awesome,” Stella beamed as she focused on his hand for a few minutes. “Kyle’s back was absolutely wrecked. Yours wasn’t.”

“Prepare for Alejandro’s, you know he carries the weight of the world on it.”

“Fuck, Price does too,” Stella said, shaking her head.

“We better make sure you rest properly.”

“Simon did a good job of that last night,” Stella remarked. “Came back after putting the sheets to wash and kept me company until I fell asleep. Did he have dinner?”

“Yes, we saved him a plate.”

“Good. He knows I get fussy when he doesn’t eat. The same goes for all of you,” she said.

“We know,” Rodolfo said with a grin as Stella let go of his hand. “I’m never going to forget how you yelled at Alejandro for skipping breakfast.”

“He hasn’t done it since. Por Dios, coffee is not a fucking meal,” Stella mumbled, walking around the table and starting with his right upper arm. Rodolfo chuckled, amused.

“Thank you, Stella.”

“You’re welcome, Rudy,” Stella said softly. “Still a little nervous?”

“You can tell?”

“I am too,” she admitted. “I don’t have much left and my heart’s starting to race thinking about after.”

“Don’t get ahead of me, preciosa,” Rodolfo said, moving his hand to delicately grab one of her wrists. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“When I told Kyle I had thoughts about all of you, I meant it. I want to,” Stella said, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Now, let me finish. Can you wait for another twenty minutes or so?”

“Yes,” Rodolfo sighed, closing his eyes.

“Good boy,” Stella said, getting back to what she was doing. Rodolfo felt those words to his cock.

“Mierda,” he mumbled. Stella giggled above him, applying a little more pressure as she undid a knot on his forearm.

“Was it the praise or the massage?”

“You know what it was,” Rodolfo answered, blushing. Stella laughed, feeling her nerves ease a little more.

“You are.”

“Stella, acaba ya.”

“Rudy, I’m a professional. Let me fucking finish,” Stella commanded as she finished with his arm and worked on his hand. Rodolfo sighed, letting go at last and fully melting under her careful touch. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander off so she could work in peace, feeling a dim fire slowly start to burn as Stella massaged his chest. This was better foreplay than he’d expected, having enjoyed all her effort to make sure he was comfortable, relaxed, and got the most out of her work. “I’m done,” Stella breathed, stepping back from the table a few minutes later.

“Wow,” Rodolfo said, slowly sitting up and stretching his neck a little. “I did not realize how badly I needed that,” he added, smiling at her.

“Some people don’t notice until after,” Stella chuckled, smiling at him.

“Ven aca, belleza,” Rodolfo said, beckoning her over. With a nervous smile, she carefully approached the massage bed. “Tu sonrisa nos tiene a todos locos,” he said, carefully reaching over and grasping her by the neck delicately. “We love it.”

“Shut up and kiss me, Rudy,” Stella whispered. He chuckled darkly, bringing her to meet his lips in a soft kiss.

“Get on here,” he breathed. She carefully climbed up on the bed, straddling him as they locked lips again, his hands gripping her plush ass while her hands cupped his face as they found themselves locked in a feverish kiss. Rodolfo loved the feel of her lips on him, kissing him with the same devotion she’d dedicated throughout the afternoon. One of his hands trailed upwards, sneaking under her shirt, and palming her back. Stella gasped, allowing him to deepen the kiss, darting his tongue in and savoring her.

“Fuck,” Stella breathed. His lips remained on her soft skin, leaving a trail of wet pecks as he continued down her jawline. “One second,” she hissed. He backed away just a moment to let her strip off her sweatshirt. Rodolfo growled at the sight of her bare torso, his gaze darkening at the realization that she hadn’t worn a bra.

“Tan linda,” he whispered. Stella’s face flushed as Rodolfo leaned in towards her neck, placing sweet kisses back from where he’d stopped. He was rewarded with the soft content sighs and moans he wanted while the hand he had gripping her cheek guided her core to his cock, grinding her hot center against him. Stella gasped at the contact, yearning for more right away. “That’s it, let me know how much you like it,” he breathed into her skin before continuing further down and reaching the valley of her breasts.

“Rodolfo,” Stella whispered, her hips moving on their own as she continued to rub against him, desperate for more friction but finding it difficult with the layers between them. “Fuck.” Rodolfo placed a soft kiss between her mounds before taking one stiffened peak into his mouth, sucking gently while rolling the nib with his tongue. He looked up to see Stella’s head thrown back, bliss decorating her features as delicate moans escaped her lips. Her torso was flush against him, an ache growing in her as she needed more of everything, more of him.

Rodolfo released her right breast before moving onto her left, Stella’s hips moving a little faster as she continued to chase her high. With one hand still on her back to hold her in place, he carefully brought his other one between them. It took Stella a moment to realize what he was trying to do and stopped moving, whimpering in need.

“Help me get those off,” he said, releasing her mound with a soft pop. Stella quickly helped him remove her shorts and underwear before she moved the blanket aside to remove the last remaining barrier. “Perfect,” he whispered, dragging his index finger along her slit and groaning in approval at her arousal. “Puñeta,” he groaned.

“What?”

“I want to taste you,” Rodolfo said, quickly bringing his slicked finger to his mouth and licking it clean. “Que rico,” he growled. He slid two fingers inside while his thumb applied gentle pressure to her sensitive clit. “Ride my hand, estrella, and then I’m going to bend you over this bed and taste this beautiful pussy before I fill you up really good,” he breathed.

“Carajo,” Stella whimpered, grinding against his thumb. “Si,” she moaned, feeling his fingers curl inside of her. “Rodolfo, fuck,” she groaned, feeling her walls tighten around him. “Ay si,” she moaned.

“That’s it,” he said, circling her clit. He leaned in and took a nipple into his mouth, swirling it with his tongue and feeling her hips buck harder against his hand. Stella came softly, whispering his name as her core clenched around his digits. “Que belleza.”

“Ay Rudy,” Stella mewled, resting her forehead against his.

“Fuck, estrella. Keep saying my name like that,” he said, removing his fingers from inside her wet pussy and licking them clean. He placed a soft kiss on her stomach, easing her off him so he could get out of bed. He grabbed Stella by the thighs, pulling her toward him. “I need you to trust me,” he started, cupping Stella’s chin and angling her to meet his eyes.

“I already do, Rudy,” she said softly.

“Good,” he said, placing a soft kiss on her lips. He helped her off the bed and carefully bent her over, admiring the view. He’d had many fantasies about this moment and seeing exposed like this was sending shockwaves to his system. “Hands behind your back, preciosa,” he requested. Stella swallowed nervously but did as asked. Rodolfo grabbed onto them carefully, pinning her with one of his hands as he carefully leaned over to pepper her back with kisses.

“That tickles,” she giggled.

“That’s why I asked for your hands,” he murmured. “I want you to stay still,” he whispered, going from light pecks to longer kisses, gently nipping around her spine. He ran his free hand along her folds before applying gentle pressure to her sensitive clit, relishing how her giggles changed to content moans. “¿Cómo te sientes?”

“Bien,” Stella moaned.

“Good,” Rodolfo said, reaching her waist and biting down enough to bruise.

“Fuck!” Stella yelled, panting after that sharp spike in pleasurable pain. “Carajo. Te necesito,” she whispered.

“Just a little more, mi belleza,” he murmured. Rodolfo bent down to her exposed center, taking a moment to enjoy the view. “You look so pretty like this, all vulnerable for me.”

“Ay, Rudy,” she whimpered. He removed his thumb from her clit, breathing directly onto her slick folds. A breathy chuckle escaped his lips as Stella desperately squirmed, eager for more. Rodolfo’s tongue licked between her lips before he latched onto her already-stimulated clit and started sucking at it. “Fuck,” she breathed. Rodolfo groaned as he kept going, enjoying the blissful cries of pleasure that filled the room. “I’m so close,” she grunted. “A little more to the left,” she whispered. “FUCK AHI MISMO!” Stella cried, bucking against the table as her pleasure spiked with Rodolfo’s movement. With a loud cry of his nickname, Stella’s gushing release overwhelmed him. He pulled back and watched in satisfaction as the aftershock hit her with a second wet release.

“Good girl, giving herself to me like this,” Rodolfo said, lightly nibbling on an asscheek before standing up and angling his strained cock at her entrance. “Do you need a moment?”

“Yes,” she panted, catching her breath. He kept his eyes on her face, gazing longingly at how beautiful she looked. Radiant, like the stars as her lips curled slightly upward as she felt ready for more. “Okay, I’m good,” she whispered. Rodolfo slowly worked his way in, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he seated himself fully within her.

“Fuck, estrella,” he breathed. “Tan divina.”

“You too,” Stella panted. “Rudy,” she whispered.

“¿Si?”

“I’m all yours,” she breathed. Rodolfo growled as he started to move his hips, thrusting into her with heated passion.

“Yes you are,” he grunted, slamming into her. “So pretty, mi estrella,” he breathed, using his free hand to carefully grab her braided hair and lift her off the bed slightly. “Look at me, I want to see how beautiful you are saying my name.”

“Oh, God,” she whimpered. Stella turned around enough to make eye contact, losing herself in his lust-blown brown eyes. His name, his nickname, all soft prayers as another orgasm drew near. Rodolfo groaned as he felt her tighten around him, squeezing his cock as they built up together. “Yes, Rudy, yes!” Stella yelled as she came once more. Rodolfo came a moment later, yelling out her name as he coated her insides white.

He released her hands as he loomed over her, placing soft kisses on her shoulder. Rodolfo used every word he knew for beautiful in Spanish as they came down together, feeling his heart swell as he saw her satisfied smile. He placed a soft kiss on her cheek as he slowly stood up and withdrew himself from inside her.

“Don’t move,” he said softly. “I’ll be right back. Where are your wipes?”

“Next to the oil bottles,” Stella answered. Rodolfo found what he was looking for, carefully cleaning himself up before using another one on her.

“Thank you,” he said as he wiped her thighs clean.

“No, Rudy, thank you,” she said softly.

“Water?”

“Yes, please,” Stella answered. Rodolfo quickly went to the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles. Stella straightened up, using the bed for leverage as she climbed up on it. Rodolfo gave her some water, which she promptly opened and took a sip.

“Do you want one of us to bring you dinner?” Rodolfo asked as he saw the time.

“Yes,” Stella answered. “Can Simon do it? I want to talk to him about his limits.”

“Of course, preciosa. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Rodolfo said with a smile before drinking water.

“And tell him to bring his own dinner,” she added.

“I’ll be sure to remind him.”

“Can you give me my clothes?”

“Yes,” Rodolfo answered, going around the room and grabbing her discarded clothing items. “How are you feeling?”

“Amazing,” Stella answered. “You?”

“Me too,” Rodolfo said, smiling at her. “Simon will be here with your dinner in a bit,” he added, slowly walking over to the curtained area and putting on his clothes. He stepped out, fully dressed, and grinned at the sight of a still-glowing Stella. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast?”

“If I wake up early enough,” she giggled. Rodolfo smiled, striding over to her and giving her another long kiss. “Thank you, mi corazón.”

“Thank you, mi estrella,” Rodolfo said, placing a soft kiss on her temple before leaving the med bay.

Rodolfo arrived at the dining room to see dinner all spread out again. The team was all waiting for him, having just sat down to eat.

“Dinner?” Ghost asked.

“She’s waiting for you. And asked that you bring your own plate,” Rodolfo answered. Ghost chuckled, nodding.

“Fair enough,” he said, starting to prepare a dish for her.

“She’s a talented masseuse,” Kyle remarked.

“She is. Told me your back was terrible,” Rodolfo teased.

“When she said to me that some knots could be more painful than some of our battle wounds, I didn’t believe her until she found a really stubborn one. Gods did that hurt,” Kyle said with a chuckle. “Price, get ready for some pain.”

“You too, Alejandro,” Rodolfo said, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a beer. Simon was done with one serving and was now starting to prepare a second one.

“It can’t be that bad Rudy,” Alejandro said with an eye roll.

“You carry the weight of the world on your back, trust me, it will be,” Rodolfo said with a smirk. “Ghost, do you need help taking that to the med bay?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“I’ll do it,” Kyle said, quickly sprinting to action. He grabbed the first dish and the mug of tea Simon had steeping before following the lieutenant towards the room Stella was waiting at. While Soap had been the one with the idea, he wanted to know how his superior officer was handling the current turn of events. This was a unique situation and while he’d agreed to take part in it, Kyle wanted to know how Ghost was managing things mentally. “How are you feeling, Ghost?”

“Good, Gaz,” Simon answered, appreciating the check-in. Soap had done something similar the night before after he’d put Stella to bed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Kyle said as they arrived at the med bay. Simon knocked on the door and waited.

“Coming!” Stella’s voice cried, as the knob turned and the door opened. “Kyle, Si,” she grinned as she stepped aside to let them in. They set the plates on her desk before Kyle wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

“Good?” he asked.

“Very,” Stella smiled. She giggled as Kyle gave her a soft kiss on the lips. “Thank you for bringing me dinner,” she said as he released her.

“You’re welcome, Luv,” he grinned. “Enjoy your dinner and rest.”

“I will. Good night, Kyle,” Stella said as he slowly started to leave the room.

“Good night, Stella,” he said, leaving the room and closing the door softly behind him.

“Hey,” Stella smiled at Simon. He took off his mask and sat down opposite her, keeping his eyes on hers.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

“I am,” Stella admitted. “I wanted to talk to you. I was too worn out last night to think straight so it didn’t cross my mind until this morning.”

“What is it?”

“I want to know what is okay with you and what isn’t,” she answered, starting on her dinner. Simon looked away, touched by the gesture. While he hadn’t entirely opened up to her about his torture history, after a little over two years of working together, he’d learned she was trustworthy. He’d slowly allowed her to take care of his wounds instead of doing it himself. They spent nights talking about life, she mostly carried those conversations, but it was still welcoming. Out of the whole team, prior to this, he was the only one who knew confidently that Stella reciprocated something of what he felt for her but neither had said anything aloud. “Si?” her voice called out softly. “Still with me?”

“My apologies, star,” Simon said softly.

“You don’t have to tell me where you went. I just wanted to make sure you and I were on the same page whenever your turn is,” she said sweetly, reaching towards him across the table.

“Thank you,” Simon said, the corner of his lip upturning slightly.

“If you don’t have an answer for me tonight, I can wait until you have one. I don’t think it’s your turn tomorrow.”

“You’re right. It isn’t,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. “However, I do have an answer for you. I have given it thought since before this came up.”

“Okay, this applies to your massage too, bebé,” Stella reassured him.

“It’ll take a moment for me to relax,” he admitted. “How have you been starting?”

“Back first. But if you’d like, I can start the other way with you. Chest, arms, and then you let me know if you’d like to continue. The last thing I want is for you to be tense when I’m trying to relieve your stress.”

“That would be wonderful,” Simon said as he ate. “If I ever tense up, regardless of where you are at your massage, don’t stop unless I say so. I do want you to take care of me, star, but the body remembers faster than my mind does.”

“If you’re struggling, is it okay for me to talk to you? Try to bring you back with words?”

“Yes, no Spanish until I say it’s okay,” Simon answered, swallowing nervously at his request.

“I can do that,” Stella nodded. “I think we can also try something else.”

“No lavender, please.”

“No,” Stella chuckled. “I’ll give you something of mine you can hold onto, use it as an anchor.”

“That might help,” Simon said softly. “What did you have in mind?”

“The shirt you like, the one with the cat.”

“The one you sleep in?”

“Yeah,” Stella answered. “Would you like to try that?”

“Yes.”

“Good, hopefully, it works. Now, about the after,” Stella said, changing the subject. “What are your limits?”

“I should be asking you that,” Simon countered.

“Simon, I can be intense in the heat of the moment. I want to be able to let go with you but I need to know what you don’t like so I avoid it and we both can get the most out of it together.”

“I hate degradation. It’s not for me.”

“Thank you. I don’t do that but it’s good to know.”

“No restraints.”

“Okay,” she smiled.

“You don’t have to reassure me, dove, but I would appreciate it if,” Simon started, sighing. “This is not something easy to say,” he said, frustrated.

“No, but I understand you perfectly,” Stella said, holding out her hand toward Simon once more. He reached for it, gently placing his over hers. “I am very vocal when I feel good and when I don’t. You will know. Trust me.”

“Thank you,” Simon said, squeezing her hand.

“Am I forgetting anything?”

“No, I think we’ve covered everything.”

“Perfect,” Stella smiled. “Do you want to read to me tonight?” she asked, hopeful.

“Sure,” Simon said with a half-smile. “What’s on deck for me tonight? More high fantasy?”

“Yes,” Stella groaned. “You should consider being an audiobook narrator when you retire,” she teased.

“Only for you.”

“I’m a very lucky girl then,” Stella grinned.

“Indeed you are,” he agreed. You have no idea, star, he thought. The smiles Gaz and Rodolfo had come back with gave everything away. They were hers and much she was theirs.

_____________________________________________________

Translations:

No tienes que pedir perdón preciosa - You don't have to apologize, precious

Perfecto - Perfect

Listo - Ready

Mis hombros - My shoulders

Esta bien - That's okay

¿Qué te gusta - What do you like?

No me sorprende - Doesn't surprise me

¿De veras? - Really?

¿Estas bien? - Are you okay?

Eeres un rayo de sol - You're a ray of sunshine

Mierda - Shit

Stella, acaba ya - Stella, finish already

Ven aca, belleza - Come here, beautiful

Tu sonrisa nos tiene a todos locos - Your smile drives us all crazy

I'm sorry if I've missed any I've been trying to get these done and everything is just *not* working for me tonight. <3

#fanfiction #simon ghost riley #cod modern warfare ii #simon riley x oc #simon riley x reader #rodolfo parra #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo parra x reader #rodolfo parra x oc #cod smut

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henry1986 · 1 year ago

Text

Guiding (Gale x Tav)

This is my first ever Tumblr post after years of lurking. I wanted to format it differently, but it's been so long so I've written anything that I can't get back into my ao3 account, so here we are. (BleuHenri on there, btw. Wrote a kickass Labyrinth fanfic some years ago now).

This may be the only thing I write or share, but something in me has been longing to share fic again after so long. Had a shitty relationship that crushed my spirit so I stopped doing anything that brought me joy...you know how it be. Now I'm super happy and adjusted to life and letting my old self come back.

The TLDR: Random oneshot about Gale and my named Tav (Fits) from Baldur's Gate because this game is insanely amazing and I fucking love Gale and I love my little oc Fits (urchin tiefling druid who named himself 'Fits' with an s because he just wants to belong).

Summary: Fits doesn't do well with the unknown. So being blinded by a spell in the middle of a battle is not his ideal situation. Cue panic attack, and cue the voice of a certain adorable wizard he's been flirting with for weeks now. Gale to the rescue!

Story Below:

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Dry and rot, what he wouldn’t give to be a child once more, laughing off his mother’s cautions with the arrogance of youth. His current situation is neither fun nor remotely game-like, so it seems unfair that he still has to suffer the drawbacks. Today one of Fits’ few childhood memories has come back to bite him in the tail.

He’s probably going to murder Volo if they make it out of this mess.

But who is more the fool, he wonders briefly, the one with the ice pick or the one offering himself up like needlepoint? Either way he knows it’s not fair to blame the bard. Mistakes have been made, his party has been ambushed by bandits, and now he can’t see a godsdamned thing, false eye or no. Where just minutes ago his sharp tiefling vision would catch movement in any shadow, now he sees nothing but black. And what’s worse, his companions seem not to have noticed. Well, that’s his fault for breaking formation and getting separated. Stupid, stubborn rock that he is. And now that stubbornness has cost him his sight – possibly even his life.

The sounds of the battle thrash his ears, now sensitive in compensation. Somewhere to the left Karlach’s grunts mix with the dull thud of hammer on shield. The bandits shriek and curse and scream and…gargle? Perhaps that one has just met Astarion’s fangs. It would serve them right for thinking to rob a half-starved group of exhausted travellers. The thought of Gale’s stew simmering back at camp has been on everyone’s minds during the long trek back. To be delayed further has no doubt pissed them off to no end.

“Desperados and cutthroats I don’t mind, but why did we have to find the only bandits clever enough to find a mage to fight for them?” Karlach had lamented as their attackers had unleashed their secret weapon. Gale had snorted, deriding the man in torn robes as nothing more than a charlatan with a few spell scrolls on hand.

The origin of the magic is a moot point – it hasn’t made Fits any less blind. And now he’s wondering if he should call for help, or if that will alert nearby enemies, and just what is he supposed to do? His mouth is dry as a creek bed in summer. His tail flicks an anxious metronome. The not knowing has always been his undoing. Fits is no stranger to pain and loss, same as many others. If there’s a burden that needs shouldering, he’ll take the weight with few complaints. But the not knowing…the archer he’d seen earlier might still be perched atop that rocky outcrop, not yet aware of his advantage on the blinded druid. Or he might already know, and there are precious few seconds left to find shelter. He might be knocking a fresh arrow right now, as Fits stumbles backwards over a rock and hits the ground. He might be lining him up in his sights as Fits grasps desperately around for anything to use as a shield, for a tree to hide behind, for his dropped staff or –

He’s a child again, youthful arrogance snuffed to embers, no longer lucky enough to have parents to caution him. The streets are filthy and bustling, danger lurking in the shadows. He’s small, so small in this big city with no idea of where to go or around which corner the next beating will take place –

Sounds blur into a single crushing weight, ringing in his ears. His breathing is fast as a swallow bursting from its nest, like a thousand swallows in a thousand nests trying to fly free all at the same time. Usually so dextrous, his stiff hands curl in on themselves like gnarled trees aged by time. Hopelessly he drags one numb hand across his face, risking damage to his good eye by rubbing at it so viciously, desperate to make it see, please just see…

Someone’s gentle hand stills his movements.

“Come on now, no need for that. Just breathe,” someone says, prying fingers away from his face. And then three words to change everything: “I’ve got you.”

The voice is fixed with the luxury of knowing – of always knowing – and tempered by reassurance. It’s so familiar his heart leaps into his throat. Relief douses his panic so violently it’s difficult not to collapse with the intensity of it. The city streets and their thugs are cast out of mind, thrown back to the recesses of memory to haunt another day. “Gale. I...my – eyes.” The words won’t come. They’re still struggling against the tide of his laboured breathing. Through the numbness in his hands he feels the barest hint of warmth; Gale’s fingers do not stray from his, lending him strength.

“Ah, so your hearing is still keen as ever, good to know. Though how you can hear anything over the utter racket Karlach is making, I don’t know. Honestly, get between a barbarian and her next meal and may the gods protect you…”

Fits doesn’t hear the rest of the wizard’s rambling. I’ve got you. Has anyone ever said that to him in his life? Surely his parents must have at some point. There must have been a moment where he existed not as an urchin to be kicked but as a child that belonged to someone. If ever that time was, he doesn’t recall it. I’ve got you. It’s difficult with legs that feel like dead weight but he manages to climb to his feet and throw his arms around Gale. Grace is not his strong point in this moment. Gale catches him with a gently breathed ‘ooph’ as Fits bumps into different bits of him all at once.

Everything is intensified in his blindness: the pressure of Gale’s hands slipping around his waist to keep them upright, the pulsing scent of their mingled sweat and the tang of blood that speaks of fresh injury. “You’re hurt.” His fingers stumble along Gale’s arm and find a tear in the fabric. The skin beneath is slick with blood, coating his gently probing fingers.

“How in the hells did you know that? You’re blinder than the proverbial bat.” Gale sounds as if he’s trying very hard to sound amused. Fits hasn’t missed the sharp breaths that begin and end his question, a parenthesis of doubt.

“Your blood…smells strange. Different.” He inhales both to calm himself and to further investigate Gale’s scent. Fascinating.

“Ah. That would be the orb’s influence. Let me assure you, in normal circumstances my blood is indistinguishable from any others’. I’m sorry if the odour offends your sensitive nose.”

“I said it was different, not bad.” The sounds of the fight flicker and die for the briefest moment as they stand together. Gale’s hands flutter around his back before settling on a place below his shoulder blades. His fingertips meet at the spine and stay there with gentle pressure. So decisive. He wonders if the man has ever been unsure of anything in his life. What that must feel like… “I didn’t think anyone saw me go down,” Fits murmurs against the starched collar of Gale’s robes. The smell of him is grounding, chasing away his panic. “I cursed my own stupidity for straying so far off.”

“Yes – well. I admit I did question the intelligence of your decision to pursue that ‘mage’ –” he spits the word out with scorn – “On your own. And good thing I kept an eye out for you, too. I saw the spell hit you and I thought...” His voice lilts with care, stepping over the words as though they themselves are creatures to be soothed. “I know you don’t do well with the unknown. I didn’t think you’d much care for blindness.”

Fits’ anxiety has become no secret to the wizard in the last few weeks. He’s never been more grateful to have such a confidant. Especially when a hail of somethings whizz right by, spraying around them like deadly rain, and he feels the warmth of Gale’s magic envelop them both in a shield. It’s like stepping into honeyed sunlight from a cool spring shadow. His skin prickles. He can feel it even after they’ve stepped apart. Gale’s magic always feels so different to his own.

“Will you two stop flirting for one gods-damned minute and do something useful?!”

Fits winces at Astarion’s tone. Usually, the elf takes great delight in watching the two of them dance awkwardly around each other. Apparently his patience only stretches so far on long days. Fits shakes the moment off, refusing to imagine a lovely blush on Gale’s cheeks when he hears the man cough pointedly. It’s difficult to focus with nothing to visually keep his attention, but he figures they should probably start helping.

“I don’t suppose you could be my seeing-eye wizard until this spell wears off?” he asks lightly, amazed at the recovery of his confidence.

“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Gale replies.

Fits can hear the curved edges of his smile. When they clasp hands, it feels as if for the first time – every ridge and dip of Gale’s palm is treasured new information. He catalogues the placement of each ring on the man’s fingers, evaluates the silver clang of them against his own single allowance of metal: his mother’s ring. Their hands sway as Gale swoops down momentarily with a soft grunt – his knees often protest such actions – and then he returns the precious weight of Fits’ staff to his free hand. With that the last of his anxiety pools to dull thunder in the back of his head, and they get to work.

When the last bandit collapses to the ground a short time later, Karlach’s triumphant call for dinner is echoed back by all. They trudge back to camp, tired but enthusiastic. Astarion asks if there’s any of that half-decent wine still left. Usually this leads to a quick but snarky conversation between him and Gale. ‘If you took any interest in maintaining the camp supplies, you’d know the answer to that.’ ‘But you do such a fine job of it darling, I’d simply mess it up if I tried to help.’ ‘That sounds awfully familiar to your arguments against chopping firewood and washing dishes.’ ‘But true nonetheless.’ They say no such things tonight. Gale’s thumb brushes Fits’ and he tells Astarion in a distracted voice that yes there might be some left, certainly, he’d have a look.

They find a comfortable alignment on the path back, Fits trusting the wizard to guide him. Each time the party changes direction or pauses to scout, Gale murmurs a soft instruction. It’s an experience that would have been terrifying for him at most other times in his life. He’s never completely given himself over to the care of someone else, let alone someone he’s known so short a time. But Gale is different. They’ve been friends from the moment Fits pulled him out of that portal. And now…well, Gale warns him about rocks in the path and at one point helps him climb a fallen log. The sensation of straddling the tree with Gale’s voice so close in his ear – “That’s it, up you go, just like that –” does things to his insides that are better left for late night contemplation.

Eventually his vision returns, the comforting greens of nature a welcome sight, Lae’zel’s torchlight too bright for his sensitive eye - the one that hasn't been gouged out by an ice pick. Yet for all his relief he somehow feels a pang of loss, like the unravelling of a well-kept secret between two people. So as his eyes readjust Fits says nothing, enjoying the feel of Gale’s fingers jostling his in their loose grip, walking along in silence. If Gale notices at some point the druid’s steps become more confident, his pace not at all like that of a man still blinded…well. He doesn’t say anything, and they don’t stop holding hands the whole way back to camp.

#bg3 oc #baldurs gate 3 #gale baldurs gate 3 #my tav #tav bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale dekarios

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 3 months ago

Text

Portrait of a Dead Girl

Summary:

Alina Starkov was given to Duke Aleksander Morozova of Os Alta in marriage when she was fifteen years old. Within a year, she was dead. The official cause of Alina's death was marked as putrid fever, but many at the time believed, and many in the future will go on to believe, that she was poisoned by her husband.

This fic is completely inspired by The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrel, which is a work of historical fiction based on the real lives of Duchess Lucrezia d'Este (née de' Medici) and Duke Alfonso ii d'Este of Ferrara. You don't need any prior knowledge of The Marriage Portrait or history to read and enjoy this fic, but know that my writing is very much going to mimic that of O'Farrel in format and although I'm hoping to write the story in my personal usual writing style I will definitely be borrowing a lot of my descriptors, symbols, and so on and so forth from O'Farrel - there will be some of mine too though :)

Warnings for these chapters: discussions of death and murder, xenophobia and religious discrimination, underage forced marriage references, fear of violence, implied violence, animal abuse/mistreatment

If anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters let me know :)

Note: Two chapters today! (partly since the first one is so short) Both are going up on AO3 at the same time and both are in this post :)

AO3 link

Chapter 4 - What He Is Capable Of

Krepost, near Pykan - Now

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Aleksander is saying, “we shall go for a ride along the river. The views are beautiful, I think you will enjoy them. I shall see to it that your saddle is adjusted,”

Alina restrains the sudden want to look up at him sharply, her nerves on alert. Her husband does not appear to have noticed, so either her repression has been successful or he is not paying her particularly close attention. She feels that he is someone who can read the truth of a person on their face, who makes too easy a habit of reaching inside you with choice, precision words, and can find just the right thread to unravel you. He doesn’t pull it right away though; he holds it in place, sometimes with his thumb tucked into the perfect position that it applies just enough pressure for you to know that he has hold of it, know that he could tear you apart with one simple motion - but sometimes it is subtler than that, sometimes he holds it secretly so that you will never see it coming when he begins to undo all that careful stitching with such ferocity, ripping all that you put so much effort into until all that remains is a confetti of who you used to be. For all Alina knows he has already found her thread, and he is just waiting to give it a sharp tug.

“It seemed today that it was listing on one side,” he continues, “and of course your mare’s hooves will need attention,”

He keeps talking, of this she has no doubt, but as she sits and stares at him the words become nothing more than a distant thrum in the back of her mind, background noise to the voices in her head. Why is he saying these things? How can he sit here talking of horses, of groomsmen and saddles and beautiful scenes, when somewhere in the same mind that speaks of these things is a plan to end my life?

The hoarse, desperate voice of his sister, Marie, grabs at Alina once again; it is clawing at her edges, threatening to fray her fabric. You have no idea what he is capable of. The air feels frigid, like her skin is bare and being pressed against cold iron. Even the candle in front of her seems to shiver.

The candles on the table, hardly many in number, are the only light in the room except the fire behind Alina’s back, and now they are casting a flickering, pathetic glow onto Aleksander’s face that makes shadows dance across his skin. She feels as though the shadows are chasing the light, threatening to swallow it. Consume it, until they are left alone in the darkness. In every flash of light that illuminates him, his expression changes. He is thoughtful, kind, stern, animated, forbidding, handsome, amorous, detached. Her husband is a man of many faces trapped beneath the skin of one, and where she’d once naively thought that some of them were trustworthy she now saw every single one of them for what they really were. Marie was right. She has no idea what this man is capable of.

She does not want to find out.

The intending murderer reaches out across the tiny space between them, as though to take her cold fingers in his and wrap them close. It is this that finally shakes Alina back to life; she pulls away to pick up her spoon, hoping he has not realised that she was drawing away from his grasp but believes the movement entirely innocent, and attempts to draw soup with trembling hands. She wonders if her fingers will be this cold, when she is dead, or even colder.

A terrible rage begins to burn inside Alina almost unexpectedly - How dare he? She studies the broth below her, trying to control her thoughts. How dare he? She keeps her gaze low, feeling that if she has to look him in the eye again that she will scream or shout or do something else altogether ridiculous and stupid.

You need a plan, she hears - or rather, feels she hears - her old nurse, Ana Kuya, saying at her shoulder, to lose your temper is to lose the battle.

Alina will not let this man kill her. She will not lie down and quietly die, she will not let his shadows swallow her whole. But what can she, a bride of sixteen, small for her age, far stronger in will than limbs, possibly hope to do against him, a man of almost thirty, tall and broadly built, a soldier no less, trained his entire life for battle? A plan, a strategy, a scheme of some sort - some way of outwitting him, if she could manage it, in mind instead of body?

So be it, she told the invisible Ana, without moving her lips, but I made myself a plan three years ago, didn’t I? And look how that turned out.

Chapter 5 - Tigers Do Not Belong In Os Kervo

Os Kervo, nine years ago

The first lesson that Alina and her siblings were to sit through the morning after she had snuck downstairs to see her father’s newest acquisition was not one that would have interested her much on a normal day, let alone with the images of a tiger prowling through her little head. Apparently Vadim was not very interested either, he was kicking his feet beneath his desk and staring out of the window - though what out there there was to be more intriguing Alina could not be sure - but Zoya was typically more studious, her head bent over her slate on the desk in front of Alina as she inscribed whatever the tutor was telling them about the times of Saints. Of course most of these were tales they knew but the finer details were lost on young minds, or they still needed to expand their horizons beyond the Saints they prayed to every day to make sure they remembered to honour them all.

“And then of course we go on,” the tutor was saying as he moved his cane down the timeline he was pointing it at, “towards the Heretical Period. This was a time during which people would start to claim that they had magical powers from the Saints, that they had been chosen by them. In Old Ravkan these people were called Grisha, derived from the name of Sankt Grigori because… Zoya?”

Zoya jumped almost imperceptibly at the sound of her name, but you never would have known it unless you were studying her as closely as Alina had been because when she lifted her chin and announced her answer the confidence in her voice rang like a bell that could be heard for miles around. Eva, sitting next to Zoya, had her attentions turned towards Alexei and was pulling faces at him every time the tutor turned his back, followed by unsubtle glances back towards Alina. She settled deeper into her chair.

“The Grisha believed Sankt Grigori to be one of them,” said Zoya, “What they called a Grisha Healer, rather than a Saint,”

“Correct,”

The tutor continued talking, whilst Zoya preened like a peacock that had just seen its reflection for the first time. Her chalk scratched on her slate and Alina screwed up her nose almost involuntarily at the unpleasant noise.

Alina sat alone at a smaller desk behind the one that her sisters shared, staring at her blank slate and half-listening to the tutor whilst her mind wandered on. She had been attending lessons since she turned seven and always it was the same; after this the music tutor would arrive, and after him would come the drawing tutor so that Alina could be prescribed the dull task of writing and rewriting her alphabet over and over again whilst the others took their drawing lesson in earnest. It was the drawing lesson that intrigued her more than any other, but she was told she must wait until she was ten. The years seemed to lay themselves out in front of her like a never ending road beneath a clear sky, and every time she tried to run down it she would trip, or someone would grab hold of her and force her back to her slow, plodding pace. The consistent trot of a horse stuck behind another, when all Alina wanted to do was spur the mare onwards and chase the wind into the distant horizon.

“And what,” the tutor was saying loudly, probably for the second time judging by the impatience sneaking into his tone, forcing Alina out of her head and back into the classroom, “did the heretical sorcerer claim to be asking of Sankta Vasilka so that he could steal her secrets?”

Vadim was blinking as he pulled himself away from his fascinating window; Zoya twisted her lips together as though a thought she did not enjoy had crossed the forefront of mind; Eva drew slightly away from where she had been busy whispering something in her elder sister’s ear.

Her hand in marriage, Alina thought.

She turned over the paper in front of her and on its smooth, pale back drew a long horizon line. According to the drawing tutor’s lesson on perspective that she’d been eavesdropping on last week, instead of practising her letters, the world was formed of different layers and depths that could all be constructed by lines in the way that they overlapped and intersected. Alina had been desperate to try it out ever since. Now she sketched a tower onto her horizon line, a set of stone steps at its base before a winding path.

“Eva?” the tutor tried.

“Yes?”

“How did the sorcerer trick his way into Sankta Vasilka’s tower?” he repeated, his lip twisting slightly, “If you so please,”

He said he was lonely, and he wanted only to speak with her. Alina thought again, as she sketched a window into the top of her tower. This, she realised, was where some of the difficulty with perspective came in. She had to adapt the shape of the window so it would make sense to the eye.

“Is it perhaps…?” Eva began, with no intention of finishing, cocking her head to one side as she made a great show of thinking about the question.

“Alexei? Zoya?”

They both shook their heads.

“He claimed that he was lonely and wanted to marry her,” the tutor sighed, “We went over this just recently. Can anyone tell me why this was what granted him access to the tower, to see Sankta Vasilka?”

There was a pause. Eva pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear; Vadim played with his sleeve.

Her father thought nobody would ever want her. She was too strange, too solitary. Alina began to try and form the structure of a girl above the window, her arms outstretched with woven wings strapped across her shoulders.

“Anybody?”

Alina recalled every word of the story that the tutor had told them last week. That was how her mind worked; things clung to it like thick footprints dried into mud, never to be entirely erased. Sometimes she felt overstuffed, overfilled, like all the things inside of her were throbbing and rising and going to overthrow her like a girl cast from the window of a tall, tall tower with no wings to guide her onwards. When this happened Alina would find herself getting dizzy, overwhelmed with all the things inside her that she could not bring out again, and Ana Kuya would send her to bed with the curtains drawn tightly and medicine Alina didn’t have a name for stirred into her tea. Alina would sleep, and when she woke her head would feel like a cupboard that had been tidied and reorganised - still full, but easier to keep under control.

Suddenly afraid, or something close to it, as she tried to begin pencilling the shapes of the sorcerer at the window and of Sankta Vasilka’s father below, Alina pushed her drawing beneath the lid of her desk with discomfort curling in her stomach. Her head hurt. The room melted somewhat away from her as she pulled her hands up to her eyes, trying to find that darkness that Ana would create in the bedroom for her to sleep, trying to stop her eyes from aching, wondering whether - if she could not see - nothing else could crawl inside her brain and take up the last few tiny pieces of space until suddenly all of it burst out of her in an uncontrollable overflow. It didn’t seem to be working very well. She could hear the tutor talking, hear the shape of the words marriage, threaten, fall, now threat again, and then -

“Is she alright?”

He was looking at Alina.

“She’s fine,” Zoya’s voice was cool, precise, clipped, “Mama says this is just what she does for attention. If we ignore her, she says, then she’ll stop,”

“Is that so?” the tutor sounded uncertain, “Should we call for the nurse?”

Alina pulled her hands slowly away from her face, met by such terrible brightness that for a moment she could see nothing at all. Her eyes adjusted slowly, bringing the peering faces of the tutor and her siblings into view, and then, behind them, Alina was the first to see the shape of her father pacing through the door.

Eva immediately sat up straighter, like someone had pulled on a string that ran up her spine, and Alexei applied himself industriously to his slate. Vadim raised his hand, and when the tutor - with a slight blush in his cheeks and a slight tension in his shoulders - called upon him he kept his tone quite forcibly neutral, as though his eyes did not keep straying towards the Grand Duke. Gregor came to oversee their lessons with not unusual frequency, but with no schedule or specificity that any of them could divine, and now he wandered slowly between their tables and peered down at what they were working on. He placed a hand fondly onto Vadim’s head, nodded at Zoya, patted Eva’s shoulder, walked past Alina’s desk with slow, deliberate steps. She made sure that her sketch was out of sight. A moment passed in silence as Gregor continued to pace, before he stopped at the window and nodded towards the tutor.

“Continue,” he said, in his low voice, “Please,”

The tutor nodded, turning his attention back to his students and saying:

“Eva,”

Alina was intrigued by this choice. Did the tutor know that he had successfully chosen the Duke’s favourite? Was he purposefully going to give her an easy question?

“Could you tell us, please, how the stories of Sankta Ursula and Sankta Vasilka are linked?”

Eva pulled on her sleeve to adjust it, cupped her chin in her palm. She glanced at Gregor, who was watching her from across the room, and as Alina watched a plan suddenly burst into her head. She leant forwards, as though simply reaching for her stylus, and whispered into Eva’s hair as she did so:

“They escaped heretics; the sorcerer, and the worshippers of Djel,”

Eva cocked her head in surprise. Something that might have been annoyance or might have been a warning for caution flashed through Zoya’s eyes as she looked briefly over her shoulder.

“The sorcerer was a heretic…” Eva said, as though putting great thought into her words, “Was he Grisha? And the Fjerdans that attacked Sankta Ursuala were heretics as well, because they worship the false god… Dell?”

“Very good, Eva,” the tutor said with considerable relief, watching Gregor’s proud nod from the corner of his eye, “The name of the false god is pronounced Djel. There is no more important story for understanding the dangers that we still face from the heathen North than Sankta Ursula’s, and as you can see-” his cane thumped back into the timeline behind him on the wall, “She was one of the most recent Saints. How do we know that this makes sense in her story?”

The lesson went on. Alina quickly wrote as she was supposed to, recording the prayers that Sankta Ursula made to all the Saints that came before her, and tried not to wonder why Ursula was a Saint and not a Grisha. What was the difference? What made one who claimed to be blessed by the Saints blasphemous, and yet another one divine?

Only when she was sure she had picked the perfect moment did she lean back into her sisters’ desk and whisper:

“Papa has a tiger. It was brought here overnight,”

Zoya turned towards her, as though to make some response, and then seemed to think better of it. Just as Alina was sure her plan had failed and Gregor was about to leave, Eva called out:

“Papa!”

He stopped, one hand on the door, and turned slowly back to face them.

“I heard a rumour…” Eva began, drawing her words out long and stringing them together as she leaned forwards with her famed, charming little smile, lifting her chin up towards her papa, “That-”

“That there is a tiger here,” Zoya finished, as though tired of how long it was taking Eva to speak, “Is it true?”

Gregor was silent for a moment, and then he smiled.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking at the tutor, “My daughters know everything that goes on in this dvorets, don’t you girls?”

He wagged a finger at them somewhat playfully.

“You are just like your Mama, both of you,”

“Oh, can we see it Papa?” Eva clasped her hands together, “Please?”

“Perhaps I shall take you all,” he smiled, “If your tutor tells me you have done well in your lessons today,”

Alina forgot about the piece of paper half hidden in her desk, carrying its sketch of Sankta Vasilka and her wings, and it was not until some time later that she thought of it again. It was discovered, not that she will ever know, by the religion tutor that same day as he paced the empty classroom to tidy slates and chalk and styluses. She’ll never know that, upon finding the page and plucking it between his fingers, the tutor was so surprised to find a study in perspective and the recognisable shape of Sankta Vasilka’s tower that he looked about him as though he thought he might be the subject of some kind of strange trick. How could this have possibly come from the child that sat at this desk, the child that was so quiet he practically forgot that she was there? The image was so compelling that he felt quite bowled over by it.

Later, with the paper tucked into his jacket, he passed the drawing tutor. The paper slipped from one hand to another.

The drawing tutor was hardly expecting much when he received this sketch. But as he ran his eyes over it, as he was drawn from horizon to treeline to tower window to winding pathway, as he studied the lightness in the outlined figure, the way she genuinely seemed about to fly straight forth out of the page, the sizes and angles of windows and wings and stairs, the gradation that brought the eye from foreground to background and back again, any other thought he might have had for the charming man in front of him tumbled straight out of his head.

“Who did this?” he asked, turning it over and then back to face up again, “Surely not Zoya? She is more skilled than Vadim, but-”

“It was Alina,”

The drawing tutor had to think for a moment before he ventured:

“The tiny little creature who sits at the back?”

“Yes, her. I thought that you should know,”

The religion tutor gave him a sharp nod and began to pace away down the corridor. Half paying attention to the receding figure and half still trapped in the world of this sketch, the drawing tutor only afterwards realised that he had once again missed his chance to ask the religion tutor to accompany him into town for the evening.

The five eldest children of Gregor and Milana Starkov would remember their nocturnal walk to their father’s menagerie for the rest of their lives and though more than one of them would be admittedly short, the gravity of this for them, as small as they were at the time, still stands. The journey, for with such small legs and knowing so little of the home they lived in to the children this walk felt like it had the gravity of a journey, took them through so many new and wondrous rooms, with stars painted on the ceilings and chandeliers and panelled walls, and down so, so many stairs that Alina’s mind was lost in and amongst it all. How big this dvorets truly was, she could not get over, nor how well her father knew it.

It was a strange feeling to step into the menagerie in their nightclothes, gowns, and slippers, as though they were crossing a threshold that they could not return from - and one that perhaps they should not have touched. Alina felt her skin prickle as they passed the first few cages; the yellow eyes of a wolf roving over her, the snout of a bear snuffling against the stone floor. They passed a tank of water, but nothing disturbed its surface. Alina imagined a mermaid inside it, her human fingers pressed against the glass, her gills twitching and her tail ticking back and forth behind her scaly head. When they reached the end of the row her father stopped and looked on with some pride: here were the lions.

There were two of them, a male and a female, pacing in a circle and glaring at each other across the cage. Every fourth step - Alina counted them - the male yowled. After what felt like far too long, their father moved on and his children shuffled after him.

The final cage, beyond it only the outer wall of the dvorets, was lit across the front by the light of a sconce, but left its back recesses in darkness. A slab of meat lay on the floor, untouched. There was no sign of the tiger. A long pause hung in the air as all six of them craned their necks, strained their eyes - but none so much as little Alina. Please, she thought, desperately, I won’t be able to come again.

“Is it sleeping?” asked Alexei.

“Maybe,”

“Wake up!” called Eva, leaning towards the bars of the cage, “Wake up, pussycat, come on!”

Their father smiled down at her, putting a hand on her head.

“What a lazy pussycat this is,” he said eventually, “Not coming out to make friends,”

Eva wrapped both her little hands around Gregor’s large one.

“May we see the lions again?” she asked, “They were my favourite,”

“An excellent idea. They are much more interesting than a sleepy tiger - let us go,”

As he began to lead his children back down towards the lion cage, it proved almost too easy for his youngest daughter to pause, to take a step back from the group, and to slip unnoticed back towards the tiger. The darkness folded around Alina like a cloak as she tiptoed back to the bars of the cage, her sibling’s chatter fading into the distance.

Please. Please. Please.

Alina gazed into the depthless black, her mind wandering even now to how she might draw it, how perspective was supposed to capture something when the lines were hidden by the dark. Whether it was because she’d become distracted or because she was looking the wrong way or for another reason entirely she didn’t know, but Alina did not see the tiger until the very moment it was almost upon her.

#portrait of a dead girl #grishaverse #leigh bardugo #shadow and bone #grisha trilogy #siege and storm #the grisha trilogy #shadow and bone fandom #shadow and bone fanfic #shadow and bone fic #alina starkov #anti darklina #anti darkling #ao3 link #ao3 fic #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction

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menciemeer · 1 year ago

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okay I was scrolling through your blog (a normal amount? too much? I'm sorry if this is weird I don't know if dragging up old posts in acceptable on this site!) and saw one where you said you use vim and I am curious about that! I tried it a while ago and was like... okay I can see how this might be faster once you get REALLY good at it, and it would definitely be useful to have the ability to export easily in multiple formats because I have realized suddenly that it seems like AO3's downloads frequently mess up the formatting? (Or maybe just fail to fix messed-up formatting that the browser smooths over?) Sooo yeah do you use it to write or just for code or what? is it worth it to become a Vim Person?

HELLO this is actually one of the things I most love to talk about because vim is my Favorite Piece Of Software. I love it well beyond a normal amount. That being said it's ummm not for everyone and not for everything. I'm putting this under a readmore because this is too long to inflict on poor unsuspecting souls who are just here for Hannibal content.

Section 1: The ways in which vim is useful

Vim is most useful when the stuff you're working on is more structured and what you're doing is more rote. So something like code (which, yes, is what I learned it for) is very formally structured, and something like html is sort of vague scaffolding around text, which is pretty much a blobby mush where really nothing means very much of anything. (The number of times I ct. only to get pulled up short by an honorific is very high, and I am grouchy.)

Part of the thing that makes structure good is that vim is more useful (relative to a traditional editor) when you can precisely define the action you want to take. Getting better at vim is really about improving your vim-vocabulary so that you are more able to make precise statements about what it is that you want vim to do. I use a "normal" markdown editor for drafting, because what I want to do is "write the next bit" which is not a very vim-interesting action and obviously not very precise. I do use vim for editing, though, because often the things I want to do are, like: "replace this word with some other word" (cw), "delete the end of this paragraph" (D), "rewrite this bit of dialogue" (ci"), "remove this whole paragraph" (dd)--you get the idea.

Also, the place that vim goes from "ok, this seems pretty good" to "this is invaluable" is really when you want to repeat stuff. Something like "the compiler is giving me 25+ pedantic warnings because the file I'm working on was written prior to the introduction of the C++ override keyword" or "I'm rewriting an API so I need to fix the function name in these dozen callsites, remove the first argument, and swap the places of args 2 & 4." These examples are programming-related because I haven't found a use for macros in writing yet. (I live in hope.)

Section 2: If you want to learn vim, here are my tips

I don't really want to tutorialize because there are a lot of those out there already. I do wish to dispense some general philosophical wisdom. (!!!!!)

First of all, keep in mind that the bar is very low. Normal editors are not really that productive. Fancy WYSIWYG editors (which I hate, equal and opposite to my vim-love) are negatively productive for me, because I will get distracted and/or distressed by all the available buttons, formatting options, and whether I accidentally italicized any of the spaces. You don't need to be maximally productive in vim to make use of it, and you don't really need to know that much to match the capabilities of a normal plaintext editor.

If you want to learn vim, I would pick a small set of keys to understand first. Like, i and I (capital-i) to enter insert mode, <Esc> to get back to normal mode. bwhjkl as basic movement options. u and <ctrl>r for undo/redo. If you must, y and d for copy/cut, p and P for paste. (System clipboard--I'm sorry--accessed with "+, so "+y or "+p for example.) That is probably well over enough.

After you get a handle on the basics, the fun part of vim is figuring out where your inefficiencies are and learning how to improve them. Realizing that you're pushing more buttons than you want to be pushing, figuring out how to describe the thing you want to do in a google search, and then finding out that vim has a key to do that. gg G } { c % $ ^ zz . ; and so on, and so on. The world is your oyster &c. (The sheer delight I felt when, more than half a decade after starting to use vim, I found the aforementioned ci"? Indescribable.)

Section 3: In which I address the actual ask

Ok ok okokok sorry. I've written all of this to tell you that I don't actually know what the weird formatting stuff you're talking about is. I read pretty much all long fic on an ereader after downloading as epub and I haven't noticed anything bizarre with the formatting? When I do want to go in and poke around in an epub I usually just use calibre's built-in editor.

In terms of exporting your own plaintext/markdown writing to multiple formats, I use pandoc. I've been very happy with it, but it isn't anything that couldn't be done by hand (and also doesn't require you to start from Vim In Particular). I would love to talk about pandoc but aaaggggh this is already way too long (sorry).

I do have strong feelings about writing in plaintext (glorious! small! no weird formatting distractions! what you see is what's in the actual file you're really writing it there's no secrets) versus WYSIWYG (too many buttons! what do they do! am i using it wrong if i don't push them! why is the filesize so big! what are your secrets, renamed .zip file!) but vim isn't the only choice if you want to go the plaintext route only the best one no, look, I spent the whole of section 1 talking about this, I am not allowed to go backwards. Honestly, though, if you're interested I'd say go for it! Vim is fun to learn and very clever! Knowing vim feels a little like knowing a weird, hyper-specialized little language.

#in re: tumblr etiquette I am sorry to report that I have no idea #seems fine #i am the furthest thing to an etiquette expert that exists though #if i ever have not interacted with a post there is a nonzero chance that it's because i couldn't figure out the properly polite way to do i #and if i have ever interacted with a post there is a >50% chance #that i have had some private angst about whether i was Doing It Wrong #should that reblog have been a comment #or a like #or an original post #i do not know #anyway i am always (too) delighted to talk about #vim

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junk-jester · 11 months ago

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Transformers: Ashen Wings Information Page

For those curious, unaware or just stumbling randomly, welcome. For a good bit now, I've been thinking about writing my own Transformers AU, where I use the figures I collect as the main way to tell its story.

Having been inspired by this post I found completely at random, I'm now going to compile everything I've written down in one place for future ease of reference.

This'll be a long post, too, so I'm putting all this info under a read more cut so anyone who doesn't want to scroll for an hour or so can go right on by.

[Section 1: List of Characters]

The cast of Ashen Wings is split up into three primary factions; Autobots, Decepticons and Terrorcons.

The Autobots are comprised of:

-Legacy Override

-Legacy Evolution Commander Armada Optimus Prime

-Earthspark Twitch

-Legacy Wreck N' Rule Impactor & Spindle

-Legacy Bulkhead

-Studio Series ROTB Bumblebee

-Legacy Arcee

-Legacy Evolution Animated Prowl

-ROTB Beast Alliance Targetmaster Rhinox

-Studio Series ROTB Cheetor

-Studio Series ROTB Airazor

-Legacy Evolution Nova Prime

-Legacy Evolution Junkion Scraphook

-Legacy Evolution Junkion Crashbar

-Legacy Evolution Junkion TrashMaster

-and Legacy United Windblade

The Decepticons are made up of:

-Legacy Evolution Tarn

-Studio Series Gamer Edition WFC Megatron

-Studio Series BBM Megatron

-Legacy Evolution Skyquake

-Legacy KnockOut

-Legacy United Cybertron Starscream

-Kingdom Waspinator

-Generations FOC Shockwave

-Prime RiD Soundwave

-ROTB Beast Alliance Targetmaster Skullcruncher

-The Legacy United Rock Lords (Magneous, Bouldercrash and Shard)

[Section 2: General Worldbuilding]

-and Legacy Jhiaxus

And the Terrorcons are made up of:

-Studio Series ROTB Scourge

-Studio Series ROTB Battletrap

-Studio Series ROTB Nightbird

-Studio Series ROTB Freezer

-Kingdom Paleotrex

-Kingdom Ractonite

-Kingdom Wingfinger

-and Cybertron Sideways

[Section 3: Important Plot Points]

-In the ancient past, Cybertron was a rather tribal society, where they worshipped two deities; Prima, Goddess of Light, Day, Order and Life, and Unicron, God of Darkness, Night, Chaos and Death.

-Ancient Cybertronians believed the two gods, brother and sister, where locked in an endless war, their planet caught in the middle as the two tumbled around each other in the sky above, each and every sunrise and sunset signaling Prima's small victories and defeats in conjunction with her brother.

-One day, this balance was interrupted when the Ancient Cybertronians witnessed their first Solar Eclipse, where the planet's twin moons blotted out the sun. Fearing for Prima's safety, they created a series of super weapons known as The 13 to destroy the moons and bring Prima's light back.

-The plan worked and the twin moons were destroyed, but at the cost that Cybertron was tidally locked. As one half froze and the other burned, the Ancient Cybertronians pleaded to their Goddess for help.

-Prima seemingly obliged, and The 13 would transform before the people's optics, becoming immensely powerful warriors now known as The 13 Primes. The 13 Primes would then undo the damage, making the planet spin once more, before 12 of their members suddenly vanished without a trace.

-The last Prime left behind, Alpha Trion, sought to grant wisdom to his kin and created The Legacy of The Primes, a contingency plan that sought to pass his powers onto future generations of bots so that his wisdom should never leave their side.

-In the modern day, the line has continued unquestioned, with Nova Prime-- a well-respected and publicly adored hero figure-- being the latest to carry Alpha Trion's mantle.

-However, as the generations have passed, Alpha Trion's wisdom has been increasingly forgotten or omitted and those that bare the Prime title have not sought to teach his ways to their kin, resulting in the formation of the Functionist Council, which seeks to limit and control Cybertronian society by prescribing roles and jobs to bots based on their natural Alternate Modes. Fast cars become racers adored by the public, Jets are enrolled in Air Force Academies to defend Cybertron from alien threats, Tanks are forced down into Cybertron's underbellies, mining for resources in hazardous environments so that the politicians can build golden cities higher and higher.

The story begins as you all may know it, with the Great War on Cybertron.

-Tarn, Override and their remaining Decepticons and Autobots would work together to form a resistance against Scourge and the Terrorcon-controlled Cybertron, but no progress in taking back the planet could be made up until the real Megatron would return from his soul searching.

-Standard Aligned Continuity depiction of Pre-War Cybertron, with a Miner named D-16 (later rebranded "Megatron" by his admirers) fighting for the equal rights of all Cybertronians from the Gladiatorial Pits of Kaon.

-Megatron allies with Orion Pax, a librarian at the Iacon Hall of Records, and Ratbat, a Political Senator working on the Functionist High Council.

-The three meet, but while Ratbat speaks of violent revolution, Megatron and Orion want more peaceful means to reform the system, preventing the incitement of chaos.

-Ratbat, left vindicated by the duo's refusal, bombs and assassinates the Council, gives himself fake injuries, plants evidence and blames Megatron for the attack.

-Megatron is shortly arrested, but he knows Ratbat is the real mastermind. His rage swells and he causes a mass riot, rallying other prisoners (such as Soundwave and Starscream) to his cause and escaping, saying that if Ratbat wanted a true violent revolution, then that's exactly what he was going to get.

-Ratbat is soon murdered by this group of prison rioters, dubbed Decepticons by a news media outlet, but the chaos wouldn't end with him and the Decepticons would keep attacking everything in sight, despite Megatron's orders to stand down.

-As chaos consumed Cybertron and the remnants of the Functionist Military were unable to hold them back, Orion was approached by the ailing Nova Prime, who had sensed his time was coming to an end and a new successor was to be chosen. Naming him Optimus Prime, Nova would pass along the Matrix of Light-- Alpha Trion's dormant Weapon Form-- and everything he knew or had ever been taught. Optimus, with this renewed sense of purpose, would confront Megatron alone.

-Megatron was prepared to fight Optimus, calling him a betrayer to everything they stood for, but Optimus corrected him, telling Megatron that he had lost sight of their goals, and if he wanted to truly make things right, he should truly consider long and hard what should be done next now. Megatron, heeding Optimus words, would fly off into space to begin a long process of soul searching among the stars.

-Back on Cybertron, without their leader, the Decepticons were left in disarray and most were re-arrested as Optimus sought to get things under control.

-Those remaining Decepticons who avoided imprisonment would make a bot named Tarn-- who Megatron considered to be an adopted son-- be their new leader in Megatron's absence. Tarn tried to lead the Decepticons, but found too much pressure on his shoulders, causing him to leave their ranks and flee into space as well. This would land Tarn on Earth, who hid out on the tropical islands of Hawaii.

-Shockwave and Jhiaxus, two bots who had been arrested by the Functionist Council for pursuing careers in science instead of the military as ace fliers, would then end up hiring a team of skilled Bounty Hunters-- the Terrorcons-- to retrieve Tarn. In turn, Optimus would send a small team of his own-- the Autobots-- to do the same, led by his own adopted daughter figure, a famous champion racer named Override.

-Upon getting to Earth, the two factions would scuffle a bit as they searched for Tarn. Quickly realizing that his team is outnumbered, Scourge, leader of the Terrorcons, would have his allies dig up some dinosaur skeletons and flood them with a nanotech virus, creating the Fossilizers Paleotrex, Ractonite and Wingfinger, as well as their combined mode, Gravesite.

-Eventually, the Autobots would find Tarn first and escort him back to Cybertron. The Terrorcons, enraged at losing a major payday, would reveal their true colors as cultists who worship Unicron and were mutated or enhanced by his dark powers, hence why they could revive the dead. They would then begin to take over Cybertron, using more of Unicron's powers to brutally injure Optimus and create a false clone of Megatron, weaving a conspiracy that Megatron had actually been dead this whole time, murdered in cold blood by the cruel and unfeeling Optimus.

-During his time in space, Megatron would happen upon The Chemical Lenses, the dormant Weapon Form of Alchemist Prime, a master of manipulation over matter and energy, able to transform any one element into another.

-However, the Chemical Lenses were infected by Space Barnacles, and in his attempts to clean them off, Megatron himself was infected. Alchemist's ghost, noticing Megatron's plight, saved them both from the Space Barnacles. Megatron apologized for his failure, but Alchemist denied the apology, saying he did what he could and that's what matters.

-Alchemist would then bestow upon Megatron a special power, but without telling him how to use it, saying only Prima herself could show him, and only when the time was right.

-With this new unknown power in hand, Megatron would return to Cybertron, only to see what the Terrorcons had done to the planet. Enraged by their chaos and discord, Megatron would singlehandedly carve a path of death through the Terrorcon ranks, killing his clone, Nightbird and Battletrap before then moving on to Scourge himself.

-Scourge was saved at the last minute by Sideways, but not before Megatron had unleashed the power granted to him by Alchemist Prime. Antimatter leaked from his eyes like tears as he reduced Gravesite to atoms and dust.

-With the Terrorcons fleeing and scattered, Megatron would then use his power to repair and upgrade Optimus, giving him a Super Mode.

-Optimus and Megatron would then work together to rebuild what the Terrorcons had destroyed and unite Cybertron under one banner. Should the Terrorcons ever return, they'd be ready.

[Section 4: Side Stories]

Beyond what the main plot tells, various side stories also take place at various points in the timeline.

During Tarn's stay on Earth, he would witness the battles between Override's Autobots and Scourge's Terrorcons from afar, where it would quickly become apparent that he had fallen in love with her.

Tarn would initially be terrified of this fact, but after being taken back to Cybertron and leading the rebellion against the Terrorcons with her, his love would be actualized, and he would ask her to be his Conjunx Endura by the time of the real Megatron's return.

Before the onset of the Great War, Starscream was a prominent Military General working for the Functionist Council, but was court marshalled and imprisoned when he refused to fire on civilians. When Megatron escaped and the Decepticon Riots ensued, Starscream was at the forefront of the chaos, guiding fellow Seekers in bombing several buildings. However, his longtime Conjunx Endura, Windblade, had been inside one by mere chance and was injured by debris. Windblade would break up with Starscream and swear revenge for his seeming betrayal, causing them both to grow cold and distant, though they would cross swords several times at several points in time. Windblade would eventually find peace after the Terrorcons occupation of Cybertron was removed by training with Prowl in the art of Metallikato, but Starscream hasn't had similar luck. He now roams the galaxy as a vagabond, trying to find any possible way he could apologize to his lost love.

At some point in time, Tarn is visited by the ghost of his future self, taking the form of a Samurai named Bludgeon. Bludgeon tells Tarn that he hails from an alternate future where Megatron fails and is slain by Scourge, and he has become haunted by the action, unable to pass on. Bludgeon demands Tarn not make the same mistakes he did, to prevent that future from taking place, and Tarn agrees, though without clear instruction. Regardless, Bludgeon vanishes into the afterlife, leaving his sword and skull mask behind. Tarn has since begun taking up both, training day in and day out, waiting patiently for Scourge and Sideways' inevitable return.

[Final Section: Misc. Details & Fun Facts]

-Megatron's Antimatter powers gifted to him by Alchemist Prime mix the jagged spines of WFC Dark Energon with the clouds of energy emitting from his eyes of their IDW depiction, making them extremely dangerous and unpredictable.

-Early drafts of the story had Tarn and Override be Megatron and Optimus' biological kids, but it was changed so they're adopted instead so that the timeline makes more sense.

-There is no Ashen Wings version of the DJD or Damus/Glitch. Tarn has always just been Tarn and, likewise, was never corrupted from being Optimus' friend into a worshipper of Megatron.

--There was plans initially for an Ashen Wings version of the DJD, but they would've had different code names and group title, but without Hasbro making any Legacy figures of them, they can't be included.

In conclusion, that should be everything of note about Ashen Wings. If anyone has any more questions, I'm happy to answer. This AU's plot is also always updating as I expand my collection, so this post will no doubt be updated in time.

-The plot of there being a conspiracy regarding Megatron's death and the creation of a clone wasn't the initial plan, but things sort of evolved this way when I wanted Studio Series Bumblebee Movie Concept Art Megatron, but had to justify its existence in conjunction with Studio Series Gamer Edition Megatron when I had just gotten that before BBM Megs was announced.

For now, however, this is where I'll leave everything off.

#transformers au #maccadam #transformers fan continuity #transformers ashen wings #long post #word vomit #too many characters to tag

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unseededtoast · 1 year ago

Text

Rectify | Bucky Barnes

Part 6/37 | Part Five, Part Seven

Summary: I've lived every day for the past five years looking over my shoulder. I knew they'd come for me, it was inevitable. I was foolish to think I could outrun my past. It's followed me everywhere I go, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Never would I have anticipated that the shadows would lead me to the light.

Bucky Barnes x OC

Series Warnings: Discussion of human trafficking, alcohol consumption, graphic depictions of violence, sexual content, discussion of suicidal thoughts.

a/n: Hi everyone, thank you for checking this out, I appreciate any and all support! This series is also posted on Ao3 and Wattpad if you prefer those formats/platforms! This is a completed series, and it's going to take some time for me to transfer it to Tumblr, so please bear with me!

"He used us both as pawns to get more money and power"

"Respectfully, I disagree." I listen to Director Fury shoot down my request to let Bucky out of the glass cage as he tries to walk past me. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and decide to try and reason with him some more.

Steve and I came up with our plan last night and decided to wait until the morning to find Director Fury and ask. According to Steve, asking Fury in the morning would be the best strategic move because it's, "likely someone hasn't completely pissed him off yet". Though this encounter is making me doubt the accuracy of Steve's statement.

"Sir, being trapped in a cage is inhumane and would be bad for anyone's mental health. He will still remain in the room, just not bound by the restraints. Please, Director, I know what I am doing I was his handler for many years and it's the reason I'm here." I block his walking path and force him to stop, which probably wasn't the smartest move. He looks down at me with an unimpressed look on his face.

"Fine, you can release the restraints. But if anything happens and he gets out or someone gets hurt, you will be held responsible." Fury sidesteps me and continues walking.

I sigh a breath of relief and walk towards the dining area of base. That could've gone smoother but I got the answer I was looking for, so I'm counting it as a win. I stand in line and gather some breakfast foods on the metal tray before heading down to see Bucky. I don't know where Steve is, he never met up with me this morning to ask Fury, but I figure he'll know where to find me whenever he wants. I wasn't about to waste time waiting around for Steve when I can be helping Bucky. Though I think it would've been helpful if he were there with me.

Once I reach Bucky's room, I open the door and set the tray of food down on the table located on the left hand side of the room. I'm assuming the table is here for interrogations based on the metal fixtures on the top. I turn to face Bucky and smile warmly as I approach the glass cage he's being imprisoned in. He watches me with confusion on his face.

"Good news, I brought breakfast and Director Fury is allowing me to let you out of the cage." I say and begin undoing the restraints on his wrists as he watches my every move. Undoing the restraints brings back familiar and unwelcome memories, but I hope that this will be the last time he's bound like a prisoner.

His skin is warm, and I can see where his right wrist has been worn by the restraints, the other is metal which obviously shows no wear or tear. My heart breaks a little seeing the irritated skin, there is no reason he should've been kept in this condition for so long. Suppressing my anger, I undo the last restraint and Bucky stands. He rubs the sensitive skin on his wrist and then stretches. I can't imagine how freeing that feels. I take a few steps back to give him space and watch as he enjoys being free from the cage. It's a new experience seeing him just be himself, and it warms my heart. Just as I remember, Bucky stands about six inches taller than me. I walk over to the tray of food and pull a chair out for him.

"Care to join me for breakfast?" He looks at me from across the room and makes his way over slowly. I grab an orange off the tray and begin peeling it, hoping that by being relaxed he also feels relaxed. I have to admit I am a little nervous. I've never interacted with him in this way, it's all uncharted territory for us both. It's definitely going to be an adjustment but it's one I welcome with open arms.

The sweet citrus smell fills the air and I eat a piece of the orange, placing the peel on the table. Bucky sits and looks over the food on the tray and looks up to me.

"Help yourself, take whatever you want." I say with a small nod, encouraging him. My plan is to use this time to get him comfortable in his surroundings and around me. There is no pressure, I want to work on our foundation of trust. Bucky takes a piece of toast as I eat another piece of orange. I sense he's feeling a little apprehensive about everything, which is to be expected considering the circumstances.

I catch another glimpse at his wrist and see there is dried blood. He must've fought the restraints hard. I'll clean that up before I go and make sure it isn't at risk of becoming infected. We sit comfortably in silence as we finish up the food and I push the tray away from us.

"How are you feeling today?" I ask and watch his body language closely. I can tell from his rigid movements and the way he keeps looking around the room that he's uncomfortable and paranoid.

"I'm alright. Thank you for letting me out by the way." He gives me a quick, small smile and I nod my head. He quickly breaks our eye contact and looks down at the table, messing with the orange peel I had laid there.

"Of course, there was no reason for you to be kept in there like that." I answer him and he shrugs.

"It's not the worst thing I've been through." I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing he's right.

"You'll never have to go through that again, I promise." I say and he just stares back at me with an unreadable expression. His expression suddenly takes on a look of confusion,

"You said something similar to that the last time I saw you." He states, and I try to remember back to that day. I can't quite recall my exact words, everything was quite chaotic. He clears his throat,

"You said, 'They'll never be able to do this to you again, not if I can help it.'" He recalls the incident. I'm both surprised and intrigued that he remembers my exact words and decide to push him a little more to see the full extent of what he is remembering.

"Do you remember anything else?" I ask, also curious about how quickly and frequently his memories are coming back, and if they seem to be aided by triggers or prompts. He nods his head,

"Yeah. Some things are clearer than others." He doesn't offer up any more information and the room falls silent.

I don't want to be overly pushy and demand he shares what he remembers, I'll be able to get my answers in time there's no need to rush anything. When he's comfortable and trusts me, he will tell me if he wishes to. He looks down at the table and seems to be in deep thought. I hear the metal plates of his arm adjust, a sound I haven't heard in years.

"You know, every time Dane reprogrammed me the last thing I would remember was your face. Things got a lot worse once you left, Adalyn, and not just for me." He makes eye contact with me, and I see the pain in his blue eyes. My heart sinks to my stomach,

"I am so sorry, I don't think I'll ever find the words to express to you how sorry I am." I say quietly, knowing that within my heart I'll never be able to forgive myself, especially now considering he suffered even more drastically after I defected.

"Don't be sorry. You were forced to do things you didn't want to. When I saw you walk in the other day for the first time, the one thing that came to mind was you pushing the button to scramble my brain. But then later I started remembering more things, it would just come to me out of nowhere." He says and I make a mental note of what he's describing. I nod my head, encouraging him to keep talking. He's being more forthcoming with information than I thought he would be considering how apprehensive he was yesterday.

"I remembered you on the stage, the first time you programmed me. I was strapped to the chair in the middle. Before you pushed the button I remember you leaned down and told me you were sorry, and then.." He trails off, recalling a night I remember all too well for all the wrong reasons.

"Right before I went out there my father told me I needed to make him proud. The entire thing was just a big production to show investors what he was capable of creating. He used us both as pawns to get more money and power. That's all he ever cared about." I say recalling that dreadful day. I remember it all too well.

"I'm glad you made it out. I wasn't sure if you lived or not, I never really knew what happened." He says quietly,

"I'm glad you made it out too." I smile. Bucky has a kind and forgiving soul. He easily could hold a grudge for all eternity against me for what I did to him, but he's not. I hold out my hand and look to his wrist.

"Can I see?" I ask and he puts his hand in mine so I can look at the damage. There are small cuts all over, though they're not actively bleeding. His skin is indented from the restraints, with purple bruising all over. He watches me as I examine him, I can feel his eyes on my face the entire time.

"I'll be right back, I'll find some things to clean this up." I say and grab the tray we used for breakfast. I nod to him as I leave the room and see Steve standing in the hall with his arms crossed. The door closes behind me and I stand next to Steve, observing Bucky.

"How long have you been here?" I ask, curious as to how much he heard.

"About half an hour or so, I'm sorry I didn't meet up this morning I had something else that needed tending to. But I see you got Fury's approval. Gotta say, I was a little surprised you went without me, seeing as how you've only been here for a few days." He faces me and I break my gaze from Bucky to focus on Steve.

"Well, Bucky's wellbeing was on the line and I figured you'd end up here sooner or later." I smile, feeling more comfortable around Steve. There's just something about him that just lets me be relaxed.

"You know, he's only talked about Hydra memories, he hasn't mentioned anything about me, or his life before Hydra." Steve's face is full of concern and worry.

"I think that's because I was closely associated with Hydra, so all of those memories are coming back first, plus they're the freshest memories he has. I think in a few days he'll be okay to see you. I want to give him some time to adjust and make sure he's handling everything alright. This isn't a sprint, it's a marathon." I pat Steve's shoulder to reassure him and he nods, perking up at the mention of seeing Bucky. But before Steve corners me with a bunch of questions about it, I change the subject.

"Hey could you help me find some things to treat Bucky's wrist? It's damaged from fighting the restraints." Steve nods and leads me through the halls to the infirmary. The lady at the desk is sweet and retrieves the things Steve asks for.

We make a pit stop to drop off the breakfast tray, and I grab some dinner things for him. I want to make him as comfortable as I possibly can, it'll be beneficial for the entire process of getting his true self back along with getting him to trust me. Although I'm not only doing this to build trust, I want to do it for him. I care about him deeply and want to know he's being taken proper care of.

I walk into his room again and see Bucky pacing around, probably starting to go stir crazy from being in here though he's only been out of the cage for a short period of time. I smile at him as I set the tray and supplies down. Steve is watching from the other side of the glass, anxious to see if Bucky remembers anything pertaining to him I'm sure. As I open a bottle of hydrogen peroxide Bucky makes his way over to me and takes a seat. I wet a cotton ball with the peroxide and hold out my hand so I can see his wrist.

He gently lays his hand in mine and I start cleaning the damaged skin. I'm careful to not be rough, and to take my time. The cotton ball cleans off the dried blood, staining the white cotton a brownish red color. I put the cotton ball down and reach for the antibacterial ointment. I spread the white cream over the small cuts, glancing up at his face every few seconds to make sure I'm not hurting him. Once his cuts are covered I put cotton balls over them and I unravel some light gauze, wrapping it around his wrist.

"Keep this on until the morning, I'll take another look when I come." I say and give his hand a light pat as I let it go. I sit next to him so he doesn't have to eat dinner alone. He starts eating and I look around the room. It's blank and devoid of anything.

"Do you like to read?" I ask Bucky and he scrunches his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I think I like reading." He says and takes another bite. I'll do my best to find some books to bring him so he has something to occupy the time I'm not here. I wish I could spend all my time here with him, but I know I have to work in the lab sometime as well if we ever want a chance to undo the programming. He finishes his food quickly and I feel guilty that I'll have to leave him here tonight.

"I'll be back first thing in the morning. I'm going to try to get someone to bring some furniture for you, and I'll try to find some good books for you to dig into." I say and he smiles sweetly.

"Thank you, Adalyn." I grab the tray from the table and nod,

"Of course, it's the least I can do. Goodnight, Bucky." I say and go to leave the room. He gives a small wave as I open the door. Just as expected, Steve is still here.

"We'll definitely get some furniture down here for him." He nods his head, watching Bucky stand up from the table.

"We're making progress, slowly but surely. To be honest, he's already a lot more open than I thought he was going to be. But for him to be released from this room he's going to have to undergo stress tests. I think he'll be ready for that in about two or three weeks if he keeps this pace of remembering and staying stable." I talk as we both go back up to the main floor of the base.

"What kind of stress tests?" Steve questions.

"It'll have to do with seeing how he reacts when confronted with loud sounds, flashing lights, that sort of thing. It's just to make sure he can maintain his composure." I assure Steve as we walk towards our rooms.

"He'll be okay though, right?" Steve worries.

"Yes, he will be okay. I won't put him through something I don't think he's ready for. He may be strong but he needs to be cared for gently for the time being. His mind extremely fragile right now, and I bet he's terrified, though he likely won't show it. Earlier today he said memories come out of nowhere and I can't imagine that's easy to deal with." I say as we stop in front of our doors. Steve's face is riddled with concern. I put my hand on his shoulder,

"Steve, get some rest. Bucky will be okay and he'll need you to be at your best when you see him again." I say and he nods, turning the knob of his door. I go into my room as well and kick off my shoes. I get ready for bed as my mind races with thoughts about how well today went.

I think Bucky's making phenomenal progress in a short amount of time, and I hope his progress doesn't plateau anytime soon. Introducing Steve once he's shown he can handle Hydra memories is likely to induce further memory recollection. At some point, I'll need to get him up to the lab to run some tests, and I already know that conversation with Fury is going to be a nightmare. Although, Bucky's not a huge threat. I'm almost certain that nobody on this base except me knows how to activate the Soldier, meaning he's practically harmless.

However, I want to see how he's progressing each day and take it one step at a time. I don't want to rush his progress and I don't want to overwhelm him. It's a delicate balance that I'll have to manage. But I'm remaining hopeful.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x oc #james bucky barnes #winter soldier #steve rogers #hydra #marvel #shield

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