#oc: ten singing horns

[worldruins]

Face paint :-)

ft. 2 of my ocs and 2 of @kociamieta’s

[grayintogreen]

Okay I've never done this for LitMoR because there's three times as many OCs and I always feel weird talking about "voice claims"" in a fandom that doesn't... do that. Or really have a huge OC culture in general, but since Hellaverse does and I HAVE seen people going "if my OC was real, they would be played by x" before, I wanted to provide the list and some references so you can hear them as I hear them.

This list is painfully biblically accurate to the casting pool Vivzie uses (either Broadway actors or voice actors who have done musicals), barring a couple exceptions. It also contains the Canon OC's, because lbr my interpretations of Eve, Crymini, Lilith, Baxter, and Arackniss are not going to be canon and I'm okay with that. Roseverse is an AU.

ANYWAY. BENEATH THE CUT ARE A BUNCH OF YOUTUBE CLIPS + long-winded explanations. ENJOY. I’ll have to do another one because there’s a ten video limit and I had more characters to cover plus there’s characters who haven’t been introduced yet.

EDEN ESPIONSA AS EVE

Listen I will fully admit this decision was spurred on by "Nothing Left to Lose" but Eden Espinosa is hella good at playing resentful second fiddle bad girlies, given her entire career feels like it comes down to "Idina Menzel but affordable" (don't listen baby girl you're amazing).

ELIZABETH MITCHELL AS LILITH (SINGING VOICE: LADY GAGA)

I've gone over this one before, but I stand by it. I know Vivzie's hc voice for Lilith for real is Lady Gaga, but it wasn't vibing with how I've been writing her, so Lady Gaga plays her when she's singing (specifically the very raw, less sylized way she sings ASiB) and Liz plays her every other time. Watch that Blonde4Blonde love scene and tell me that isn't Lucillith reunion coded.

CHRISTOPHER FITZGERALD AS BAXTER

Now if Baxter appears in canon as more than a cameo, I would want him to be played by an actual trans actor because WE CANNOT IGNORE THE FACT THAT ONLY FEMALE ANGLERFISH HAVE LURES (and Viv denotes trans characters in imps by their horns so we know she's done this kind of thing to cue the audience in), but since this is just for fun and for me to have something to refer back to when I'm writing for vocal consistency, I gotta go with this nerd.

Note: I did NOT realize he played Kimiko Glenn's love interest in Waitress until I was looking up a video.

BARRETT WILBERT WEED AS CRYMINI

This one is actually at least marginally possible because BWW already voices Octavia. Part of the reason why she and Stolas have that cute little moment in Chapter Five of OWDLIF is because she shares a VA with his daughter and it was a dumb little moment for me, personally. (The clip in there with the live version of Dead Girl Walking where she sounds a little drunk and she's reading the lyrics off her phone is the exact energy for Crymini.)

Also “Fight For Me” from the Heathers musical is the Crinomini theme.

BRENNAN LEE MULLIGAN AS ARACKNISS

Here's one of our exceptions! This came out of nowhere because at first I was using Jeremy Jordan in Newsies as the basis for his voice, but it VERY QUICKLY- like while writing the first chapter- morphed into Sean, so that's what I'm stuck with. Also I'm sorry it's so long, but trust me it's worth it. Brennan is an improv god.

LIN-MANUEL MIRANDA AS CHANCE

YEAH YEAH I KNOW. YOU LOVE CHANCE ANYWAY. I will say that Roseverse Chance is specifically closer to In the Heights!LMM, whereas LitMoR Chance is very specifically Lee Scoresby. Ergo In the Heights.

ERIKA ISHII AS DIANA

The third exception. Though Erika has been doing voice work and has been in a musical game, even if they didn't sing in it, so who knows.

Also this video clip is so Dianacore. The whole thing.

KHARY PEYTON AS AAMON

This is like the main reason I posted this, because I need everyone to be aware of just how hot Aamon sounds despite him being a giant toolbox.

REBECCA FERGUSON AS ROO

Listen. LISTEN. She can sing. She's got a sexy voice. She's NOT LIKELY TO EVER BE CAST, but Rose the Hat is like 85% of my entire aesthetic for her. Her secondary aesthetic is Kate Shindle as the Mad Hatter in the Wonderland musical who is slightly more castable.

[abellinthecupboard]

Consider

(the 1950s) 1. Consider a train, passing fields and farms; silos, barns, Holsteins and lowing tractors, corduroyed farmers sweating in the bright day, dust rising from the earth like the ribbed drone of flies purling green in the primeval daylight. Consider the sonorous horn of this hematic streak weeping brightly as it speeds on, straight as the arrow in its headlong tumble, rumbling laughingly as it sifts the dappled greens and browns of that spare landscape, tempering the endless acreage provisioning the nation—that flat, felt land sprawling alike the singing coastal cities so relentless and intractable, curmudgeon- ly and close-fisted, devouring their children in the tens of thousands with the gawping mouths of their Mohammedan skyscrapers lowering and wind-blown, piercing and lighting up the vast electric night in ensemble. Consider this myria- pod existence of steel and ossified will thunder- ing by on two slate-silver ribbons running paral- lel for countless miles, lacing the vast Midwest, stitching up the endless column of ties and oc- casional grade crossings like hemp boot-laces, stringing the fields together with gravel and barbed wire, signage, burrs and tall grasses. Consider how this train plies its route with a hale abandon, calling its rhythmic lightning up from the earth, up from the rocks and the dirt and flocks of mourning doves calling out in the redbuds and maples toward the enormous light.

2. This train may crash. I tell it to you now: this vagrant smear of maroon and vital orange that rends the fields with searing, luminous fire as it hurtles incandescently over the grassy-knolled, grain-bleeding, cornrowed Shield toward its terminus in sprawling, smoking civilization— the Twin Cities, with their endless depots and boxcars and freight yards and shunters all toil- ing away from sunup till sundown; with their murky tenements and lucent towers, shopfronts and movie-houses, dances halls and all the rest— may meet its fragrant, instant destruction on a bad section of track or a turn rushed into, top- pling car by car: crashing, careening, jerking, jittering, jackknifing, compacting, and collapsing in on itself like an accordion in subsidence, steel walls crumpling and windows shattering, roofs peeling open like sardine tins, men and women in blue, brown, and grey suits thrown about like ragdolls in total confusion, landing broken and haphazard to be crushed by overturned settees, or ripped to shreds by the wheels and steel gird- ers, blood spilling out of mangled bodies to douse the sparking flames lapping greedily at their char- ring limbs, their faces frozen in silent cries of agony or mortal terror, their eyes blank and milk- white, rolled back into their fractured skulls, and the many passengers aboard, embarking at innumerable stations, may, unknowing, be spend- ing their final breaths in the upcoming moments.

3. Consider this slick culebra sidewinding its way across the vast Prairielands at the heart of this continent, this orange, black-backed serpent braiding its way through the empty Shieldland toward the far, Western mountain ranges so indomitable, snow-capped and sky-scraping, vertiginous holy schist and gneiss thrusting their gnarled rug-folds into the blue mountain air, hog- backed and glaciated with Methuselan water. Consider this train, a city on wheels: coaches and dome cars, taverns and diners, sleepers, the mo- bile post office. Consider the inside of the obser- vation car, strikingly modern and strewn with amenities: Plush reclining seats and couches, panoramic windows, lamps and indirect lighting. Softest touches. Crisp, clean lines throughout, wood veneer and polished metal. Stylish, canny understatement. And air-conditioned, the 20th Century's saving grace of all graces. Consider its construction, steel trusses and plate glass in a gyroscopic half-bullet-head, an arch geo- metric prism 27-faceted, surrounding idle men and women in pressed suits. A bird-cage of light enshrouding in an elongated glass dome, swimming in the rays of blue afternoon sun. How shall this fabricated luxury hold its own, if the onslaught of Nature should present itself?

4. Consider the Atom Bomb, which was dropped on Hiroshima by a bomber baptized after the pilot's mother; which killed over 60,000 people instantly, vaporizing them into atomic particles that stained the stone steps and roads of the city, and crafted a crater over two miles wide, destroying buildings with fanatical passion, pul- verizing stone, concrete, wood, and tile through heat and shockwave blast; which continued to kill Hiroshima's citizens by the thousands in the days and weeks that followed, through radiation sickness, burns, and malnutrition, bringing the total death toll to 146,000; which happened also in Nagasaki three days later with a death toll of 80,000 souls, a lesser number due to the moun- tainous terrain of the locale redirecting the blast- waves of the second Bomb; and some top gener- als in the war who were against the use of these bombs, who preferred to continue using con- ventional incendiaries to carpet-bomb as they had above Tokyo, and President Truman who ordered they be used; and the young pilots who likewise were uncertain of their duty's moral standing in dropping bombs of such unbridled brutality on innocent civilians who had little to do with Imperial Nippon's military machine beyond those conscripted laborers in factories; and the new world also which spawned on that day, August 6, 1945, a world of great and terrible machines which the World's Powers hurried to stockpile in an ever-escalating arms race which we now find ourselves confronting; which hangs over our heads a wanton sword that casts our faces in sickly pall with cadaverous refracted sun- light, our eyes sunken, our hands bony and grasp- ing at shreds of blind hope in this uncertain Age—

5. Consider the engineer and the conductor in the cab of the locomotive, as it streaks across vast, thicketed Montana, en route from Chicago—with its dockyards and freighters and ore-loaders all toiling and laboring dustily away, with its spider- web of train stations and rail lines connecting our nation's farthest points together, a vast and ever-complicating machine—toward Spokane and Seattle on the Pacific coast, hauling its frail cargo of ordinary human lives in sveltest finery, its interior stylings the crème of our postwar modernité. It is their job to make sure that their train leaves safely and arrives safely, never encountering a disruption or delay. What if, through negligence or illness, they might fail in their duty, and thus through their onus their train come to grief? If so, the men and women aboard this lightning flyer, in their elegant trav- eling clothes, mothers watching over sons and daughters, fathers reading the daily paper or talking politics with their fellow men, economy passengers in their reclining chairs, spendthrifts in their private rooms, honeymooners in the Super Dome taking photos of the passing land- scapes, all of their lives would be forfeit! 150 souls injured or extinguished in a burning wreck of twisted metal cockle-shells piled ignominious on some Alpine rail line, blocking traffic in and out of the pass where they met their end. What, if such a fate befall these innocent travelers!

6. Consider this wry, fitful, intransigent world in which we find ourselves now inhabiting, which demands our servitude and utmost compliance in the new ways of living running rampant, pug- nacious, impersonal and impervious to all as- sault now, restructuring our lives into modes cold and strange, where at this very moment Hollywood is making blockbusters in sunny Italy borne on the backs of her poor Southern farm- ers, and Hollywood is flying her stars into Rome to appear in these Spaghetti-films and crass tab- loid papers cropping up, staffed by ungovern- able photographers and reporters, and Elvis is gyrating his hips to the youth-shod trill of a million prepubescent girls, and Rome's beauti- ful liners are sinking in Nantucket's waters, and the Iron Curtain has come down with a bang, and airplanes are the finest new way to travel, no longer the means of California's elite, and what's a few crashes to douse public opinion? The new Comet's flaws are merely contrition. America is searching within the atom for Peace, and seeking to emphasize her right to the sky, stockpiling her nuclear marvels, singing her war-cry, hawking her blue jeans for the whole world to buy, and cities are putting fluoride in their water supply, town taps burnishing teeth pearly-white, and Senator McCarthy has the whole of the nation seeing Reds in their stock- ings, and Allen Ginsberg is hawking his scurri- lous poetry, and supermarkets are proliferating, supplanting the grocers, and America will admit to no wrongdoing in dropping the Bomb, and the Marshall Plan is siring economic Miracles, and everyone wants their plastic flamingoes, as America and Russia wage proxy wars across Eurasia, bombarding their vassals, and merry the Devil who tends the flame-flowers of evil, and Kaliningrad is in ruins, and so too is Poland, and Russia has outlawed jazz yet again, and every man fancies himself a poet, and the whole world is sliding into intractable panic, children huddling under desks and fearing the sirens an- nouncing the imminent bombs overhead spiral- ing, alike a clumsy old albatross careening onto the deck of a sultry destroyer hove to and bran- dished in territorial disputes—How does one keep hope in this godless new age? How can't one madden at the news overflowing in these rank, algal days from our many newspapers? And what can be done if one drops the bomb on the heads of those riding this automaton stri- ation, as it cascades volubly over her tempered steel ribbons? What if this this train should yet wreck? What then? Who shall mourn these inno- cents caught in the crosshairs of Fate's ready rifle- men aiming so deadly at the forefront of history?

Coda. The train does not crash. The engineer and con- ductors attend to their duties, and no harm bursts in the air above. All is well on this autumn day.

— Sean Eaton, featured in Creation Magazine, August 2024 Issue (Source)

Note: This poem is an homage to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl".

[a-hazbin-reader]

Hi! I've heard that you like to be told about characters. Well, I've come to give you a good meal! By the way, I sent you my request, but if you deleted it, then everything is fine, I understand you and do not condemn you. Well, let's get started!

(I don't have any art with my character at the moment, but one day I'll draw her.)

Her name is Roxanne Rose. She was born in the UK into a wealthy family. Her parents were scientists and therefore they wanted their daughter to follow in their footsteps, but Roxanne was different. She was more attracted to art than science. (By the way, her parents' names are Richard and Rachel.) Her parents condemned their daughter's interests and called art a "waste of time."

"You'd rather study physics or mathematics than smear paint on paper!" That's what Richard and Rachel used to say. Therefore, Roxanne often painted everything that came to her mind in secret from her parents.

She was a huge dreamer. She constantly dreamed that when she grew up, she would become a famous actress and singer and would conquer the hearts of the audience.

But the ten-year-old girl had a terrible illness. She had schizophrenia. At first, Roxanne did not show this disease, but one day, after injuring her finger when the girl was climbing trees, she saw that not blood was flowing from her wound, but liquid gold. She was not scared, but fascinated by the sight. But after a while, her hallucinations began to intensify. Every time she shed her blood, gold flowed from the wound, and sometimes flowers appeared in the place of the wound.

One day, or rather night, Roxanne killed her parents. Their bodies turned into porcelain, gold flowed from them, and roses and lotuses grew on their bodies. And it was then that Roxanne decided that now the whole world is one huge stage and canvas where she will create and perform.

After that, the girl was sent to an orphanage, and no one knew that it was she who killed her parents, because Roxanne had good acting skills.

Throughout her growing up, Roxanne studied acting, dancing, singing, music and drawing. And when she entered the art institute, she had no equal.

But even after the death of her parents, Roxanne continued to kill, but she hid the murders very carefully.

When Roxanne became an actress, she gained worldwide fame. But not right away! Everyone considered her an innocent lamb and the epitome of art.

She was nicknamed the "Art Demon" for her methods of killing, but no one knew that the killer was a popular actress.

Roxanne soon met Alastor when she came to perform in New Orleans. She often came to his studio and actively communicated with him. It turned out that Alastor adored Roxanne's work. Soon a strong friendship was formed between them, and Alastor began to call her Roxy.

A few years later, Roxanne was caught by the police right in her house. Then her victim was an artist who called the police when Roxanne went to the store to get materials. After that, she was imprisoned for life. But a few months later, Roxanne committed suicide. It was 1931 then.

When Roxanne found herself in hell, she did not understand whether this was reality or her sick fantasy. But it turned out that this was all reality.

Armed with a revolver, she began to create her masterpieces again.

This is basic information at the moment, but I have more information.

And the question is, can I discuss the OC in your chat?

In the meantime, let's move on to the approximate appearance.

The facial features and hair are about the same.

In hell, she's a ram demon. There are ram's horns on her head. Also, her facial features are more sheep-like. She has a white fur, but its structure is more similar to that of a smooth-haired cat.

I also have a multi-part fanfiction with Roxanne in the process.

That's all for now, but you can ask me for more information in the messages.

WE LOVE MULTIDIMENSIONAL WOMEN ON THIS BLOG!! The backstore 👏 The motivation 👏 The demon design 👏 I feel for her and adore her so much already

She could probably kill me but I would die for her

[rainintheevening]

OC Mundane Tag Game

Tagged by @kraytwriter, and Imma have fun with this!!

Rules: Pick an oc you'd like to talk about and answer the questions for them! Then tag ten people, or as many as you can. 'Underdeveloped character I adopted' is fine, too! Absolutely no pressure to play, though.

Also, if some of it can't apply to your ocs, just answer what would be the answer - like if they're in a historical setting, they likely can't watch movies, but what is a movie they'd like?

(Also, most people have many ocs, so feel free to retag people and answer as many times as you get tagged! Or get really wild and just answer for as many ocs as you'd like! :D)

Doing this for my beloved Addie (my clone oc)!! (@leon-anna I know you want to hear more about this guy.)

1. What is their favorite movie?

He loves watching the old kids' show Lucas Starr Adventures with Luke and Leia. It's about a boy named Lucas Starr who has a droid friend and travels around the galaxy having adventures and making friends.

2. What is their favorite season?

As a member of the Skywalker Family Guard, he mainly lives on Naboo, but he LOVES snow. They don't get much of that on Naboo, but they do on Aldaraan, so he loves going with Padmé and the kids to visit the Organas in the winter.

3. What do they find annoying?

Getting interrupted while reading, that's a big one. Also Rex constantly threatening to blast Threepio's head off. Addie likes the droid, because he knows so many languages and customs, and Addie gets C-3P0 to teach him stuff.

4. How would they like to spend their Christmas or equivalent holiday?

Okay, I'm still deciding what to call the main holidays in the Galactic Calendar. And different systems have different holidays riffing off of that. BUT. Everyone celebrates the New Year, and that always has parties and exchanging of gifts or tokens to wish happiness and success in the coming year. On Naboo, with the Skywalkers, there's always a beach party (Year starts in Spring), a bonfire, usually a visit with Jar-Jar and the Binks family, and of course attending the big fireworks display in Theed. Addie loves how chaotic it can get; he's a big extrovert. He usually ends up running around with the twins pretending to be the adult.

5. Do they play an instrument? If so, what? How good are they at it?

Addie has attempted to learn how to play several Gungan instruments. He's good with the whistle, not so much with a horn or the drums.

6. What's their favorite meal to eat?

Anything besides ration bars or the stuff they grew up with on Kamino! He likes spicy stuff alright. There's a couple Tatooine dishes his (eventual) wife makes he particularly loves. And always something sweet to finish off with.

7. Do they have a favorite video game or board game?

Addie is a crack dejarik player. Even Leia, whom he teaches, doesn't get better than him. It drives her crazy, especially because Luke beat him once, ONCE, and she still thinks Addie let him win. (He didn't.)

8. Do they celebrate their birthday?

Yes! See my header art for this evidence. I headcanon that by the time clones reach the physical equivalent of 25, their aging has slowed to a normal rate, so 25 is a big deal, especially since so few clones made it that far during the war. Addie loves to celebrate his birthday each year after that. Someone always makes a cake, usually Padmé's mom, and there's a party, and afterwards Padmé makes all the boys take a night off, so they usually go to the local pub and drink and sing and dance until midnight.

9. What's their bedtime routine?

It does depend on whether he's on the night shift or not, and of course this changes as the twins get older and after he gets married. But he always reads for a bit, sitting up in bed. He always keeps a blaster under his pillow. He always drinks one glass of water before bed. And he usually puts himself to sleep by reciting constellations in his head.

10. What's an oc (or canon character) that they like to spend time around? What do they tend to do together?

Addie hangs out with C-3P0 a lot, having him teach him languages and customs. He thinks the droid is fun, even if he can be a bit stuffy. He also likes hearing Threepio tell about Anakin as a boy, and life on Tatooine. He doesn't mind that Threepio is a droid; he's totally different from the droids in the war.

Kinda want to do this for more than one oc, but my energy is low today, so I'll leave it at that.

Tagging... ummm, @authortobenamedlater @clawedandcute @sailforvalinor @griseldabanks @catkin-morgs @leon-anna and anyone else who wants to blather about their babies.

[goblin-iz-whack]

Goblin's StEx ocs!

Jay the ore jenny:

My self insert! A genderfluid Ore Jenny who hangs around Flat-Top and Dustin. ADHD in full swing, loves to talk and flap their hands. Gets crushes on a lot of men- They're a bit small for a freight truck and wear goggles due to poor eyesight. Just an excitable lad.

Striker the diesel engine:

A diesel who was born with no wheels and weak legs, needs crutches to walk around. He lives in a yard in Tennessee, married to Trax, the adoptive Dad of Greaseball. A bit of an older guy, the true Dilf. Very caring and kind, but will also wack you if you do something dumb.

Laddie the kiddy train:

The engine of a kiddy train in an abandoned zoo. None of his coaches are sentient, the only reason he's sentient is because he has a small motor. Has heelys instead of skates, uses a bell rather than a horn or whistle. He tries to be optimistic but it's really hard when nobody has visited him in ten years and they took all the animals...

The Pipes/Smokebox the steamer:

A Steam Train who's boiler burst, was left wandering the woods blind, mute, and half deaf because the pipes and the explosion just wrecked him. He's mainly seen as an urban legend that's told to trainlets to dissuade them from leaving the yard, but he's very much real. He wants to find someone to fix him, but everyone runs away when he's near.

Snowy the snow plow:

A huge snow plow that reverse hibernates (sleeps all year until snow falls). Very no nonsense and rough, though also motherly, the perfect blend for an old lady. Has ice skates instead of normal skates and carries a big snow shovel around. Poppa/Momma's sister, they argue a lot though. Famous for having all the muscle and a big chest, ultimate milf. Married to Firebox, he's her malewife, and the mother of Hotspur and Coldsnap.

Firebox the Steamer:

A small steam train who likes to joke and goof off. Mans honestly has like no life outside of his wife and kids- He absolutely adores his giant wife and would worship her if she asked (she does). He spends most days with their sons, mothering them-

Hostpur the Diesel:

The literal embodiment of a puppy. He's Goofy, excitable, and honestly not that smart. Even so, he is lovable and loyal, he has a lot of friends. He was born a steamer, but was converted into Diesel when he grew up. He is a hopeless romantic and has a crush on a Sleeping Car named Virgil.

Coldsnap the Snow Plow:

Basically the opposite of his brother. Small, quiet, and thinks before he does things. He's his Mama's Apprentice, and takes his future role very seriously. When he isn't hibernating, he's trying to keep up with Snowy while simultaneously keeping Hotspur from playfully tackling him.

Gio the electric engine:

A young electric engine who failed as a racer. Gio was conceived in a test tube...but failed to impress his creators. He's a massive nerd and likes to play Sonic. He has a hard time grasping his electricity, often flaring and causing power outages. He has headgear that he has to wear most times, and he's green, so most don't think he's very attractive.

IQ the bay window caboose:

He grew up in a small flock of cabeese that had evolved to not have a voicebox. Eventually, growing tired of the silence, IQ fixed himself and learned to speak. He was kicked out of the flock, but he's fine by his own. He likes to sing terribly and play the accordion.

Nolan the Irish engine:

Hailing from Ireland, Nolan looks like a model engine: strong, handsome, a pretty coach by his side...but he's really unhappy. He's had to stifle his identity and personality in order to appease his yard. Cricket is in the process of breaking him out of all this,

Cricket the Australian engine:

From Australia, Cricket is just a happy guy. He likes wearing dad shirts and going to carnivals. Lately, he's been focusing all this optimism on helping Nolan with his trauma.

Toolbox the Therapy Truck:

Born a repair truck, Toolbox realized he wasn't all that inclined to help with actual repairing and welding and all that stuff. He settled for being Apollo Victoria's one and only therapist, much to the chagrin of his twin, Sprocket.

Sprocket the Repair Truck:

This guy is one word: Grumpy. He takes his job extremely seriously, which makes him a bit less sympathetic to certain things. Even so, this guy is basically like a toasted marshmallow: you gotta get past all the burnt parts to get to the soft middle. He's a secret romantic with a long distance partner, also likes romance novels and bubble baths with champagne.

Chug the Rescued Engine:

Once upon a time, authorities investigated a facility that bred trains and said authorities saw a million violations and shut the facility down. Out of that facility came Chug, traumatized and missing his babies. These days, he's doing a lot better. He lives with Toolbox and their dozen foster kids.

Tally the Ticketmaster:

Not a train, but a ticket machine. Tally sells tickets to human passengers, but he wants more in life. His feet are bolted to the ground, and he desperately wants to leave his post and have fun.

Bernadette the Business Class Car:

An older coach that is a reference/agent for most great racers. She raced with dozens of champions when she was younger and understands all there is about racing now. She has a new york accent, a big tooth gap, a 60s pin curl hairstyle, and loves to smoke and wear a lot of red lipstick.

[babatunjixoxo]

Works Masterpost

in order of creation

besides honor, a compromise Erik/T’Challa [non-con]

pendulum Erik/T’Challa/Nakia [ot3]

this one is happier Erik/T’Challa [one shots]

bloody waters  Erik/T’Challa [Canon Divergence long fic]

A Traditional Breeding  Erik/T’Challa [a/b/o]

Mating Run  Erik/T’Challa [a/b/o]

in reverse T’Chaka/N’Jobu [canon divergence]

we change shapes Erik/T’Challa [shapeshifting]

two old panthers, in love  T’Chaka/N’Jobu [canon divergence]

foreign  Erik/T’Challa

horns like a devil Erik & Loki [character study]

rules of kingship and other rites T’Challa/Group

all men must die Game of Thrones [Time Travel Fix-it]

a knight and his queen Cersei/Jaime [Canon Divergence]

guest of honor  Erik/T’Challa [AU]

blame it  Erik/T’Challa

familiar  Carol/Monica

nine times out of ten  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe, Wakandan Empire]

All Hail  Erik/T’Challa  [Canon Divergence]

double date  Erik/T’Challa | Tony/Rhodey    [Canon Divergence]

all for us  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe, Wakandan Empire]

chance meeting  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe, BDSM Universe]

take care  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe, BDSM Universe]

heartbeat | love lies  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe]

long distance  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe]

fallin' (ai, ai, ai)  Erik/T’Challa [Alternate Universe, University Setting]

wretches and kings  Erik/T’Challa

Black Panther Ships (attempt) Map 

do-re-mi  Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe]

praise for the mother (the third) Erik & Ramonda [Alternate Universe]

Brevity in Death Erik & T’Challa  [Time Travel Fix-It]

a game for 3 Erik/T’Challa [bloody waters omake]

heavy duty Erik/T’Challa

tell me why you gotta look at me that way Erik/T’Challa  [Alternate Universe]

Head of House Erik/T’Challa [non-traditional a/b/o]

Elevate Tony/Rhodey [a/b/o]

if hover-boards were wishes...  Erik/T’Challa

so, my darling Female OC/Female OC

Gatekeeper (Sing To Me)  Erik/T’Challa [One Shots]

school these kids (they can't read)  Erik/T’Challa [kid-fic]

homebound Erik/T’Challa [Canon Divergence]

night and day. Brunnhilde | Valkryie/Hela

S.I.H  Erik/T’Challa

the only thing to fear is never being scared Nakia/Shuri

this jackal doesn't need to hide Erik & N’Jobu [Time Travel Fix-it]

adjustment period T’Chaka/N’Jobu [Canon Divergence]

call Erik/T’Challa [kid-fic]

shape of you Erik/T’Challa [age regression AU]

Do You Trust? Erik/W’Kabi

Sorry for Now Erik/T’Challa

Nice To Have M’Baku/T’Challa

something sweeter Erik/T’Challa

fallin (temptation) John Walker/Lemar Hoskins

puzzle of us  John Walker/Lemar Hoskins

lost it to trying  John Walker/Lemar Hoskins

four letter words  John Walker/Lemar Hoskins

kneeling on broken knees (what's up danger?)  Erik/T’Challa

Broken Mirrors T’Challa [What-If....?]

fault line N’Jobu & Erik

pyre Erik & Rhodey

Not Friends Tony/Rhodey

longing T’Chaka/N’Jobu

dreamgirl Ramonda/Erik

stopping point  John Walker/Lemar Hoskins

one more time (walls down)  Erik/T’Challa [Resurrection U]

catch up (dangerous) Eric Effiong/Adam Groff [Sex Education]

two souls Lord Voldemort/Harry Potter [Canon Divergence]

look at this heart, can you see the floor? Erik/T’Challa/Erik [Dimension Travel]

[trashcanband4]

The Bastards Ch. 1

Fandom: Reign (2013) Pairing: Sebastian (Bash) x Oc. Setting: French Royal Court. Warnings: None The Bastards Masterlist

The BastardsCh. 1

"The Bastards gotta stick together, right?" Ten year old Liam Hayes taunted his seven year old sister Maisie where she stood next to King Henry's bastard son, Sebastian.

"I'm not a bastard!" Maisie yelled, stomping her little foot into the snow with her gloved hands on her hips.

"Yeah ya are." Her other brother Jack, two years older than her, argued.

"Am not!" Maisie yelled back. Her face red with anger.

"Are so! Why do you think you have red hair and brown eyes when Momma and papa have blond hair and blue eyes like us?" Liam asked with an attitude.

"Let's go play." Sebastian, three years older than her, grabbed her hand and started pulling her away from her brothers.

"Gladly." Maisie grumbled and followed after Sebastian while the two boys behind them chanted, "Bastards stick together, bastards sick together."

RRRRRRRRRR

The carriage hit a hole in the king's road, jerking Maisie awake. "Have a good nap?" Greer asked her from where she sat on the opposite bench.

"I've had better." Maisie answered, stretching her neck. "Do we know how much longer it'll be?"

Kenna, who was sitting beside Greer, looked out the window. "We're here."

Maisie was the last one out of the carriage and as she was stretching her legs when a second carriage pulled up in front of the French court from the opposite direction as the one that had contained the five eighteen year old girls who were Queen Mary's ladies in waiting. "There's Mary." Aylee, the more shy of the five girls, said excitedly as Queen Mary stepped out of the black and gold carriage, her eyes instantly finding her ladies making a smile stretch over her pretty face as she walked over to them. The five girls curtsied before Mary embraced them in a could of giggles.

“We missed you so much.” Kenna said as they all pulled away and looked at their friend.

“Oh, Kenna, Maisie, Greer…I’m so happy to see you.” Mary told them, holding Kenna and Aylee’s hands as they were closest to her in the circle they’d formed. “Lola, Aylee…we’re all together again.”

At the sound of scuffling feet they all turned to see that people had lined up on each side of the sidewalk leading to the castle’s main door. “Mary, you’re hair. Didn’t the nuns teach you anything?” Greer asked as she hastily attempted to fix Mary’s windblown, slightly frizzy hair before the royal family could see her like that.

Mary, however, was more interested in the trunks that were getting taken from the carriage that contained the ladies' things. “Oh, Greer, those can't all be clothes.” Mary said noticing most of the trunks bore Greer's family crest.

“There’s jewelry and silver too. Making up in volume for what I lack in station I suppose.” Greer replied, making them all giggle.

Horns were blown, drawing everyone's attention to the castle. “Here they come.” Kenna said, clearly eager to see the king, queen and Mary’s betrothed.

“His royal highness King Henry the second!” someone announced as the horns continued to play.

“Well, that’s King Henry, but…is that Catherine?” Mary asked, taking a step away from where she’d stood in a line with her ladies.

“No, they’re still waiting on her.” Kenna answered. “That’s Diane De Poitiers, his mistress.”

“So the rumors are true.” Aylee said with a bit of a judging look at Diane. Maisie however, didn't look down on Diane and instead gave the woman a small smile, unsure if she'd remember her.

“Unlike her you’ll have no trouble finding husbands here.” Lola added.

“Oh we’ll certainly enjoy the hunt.” Kenna said with a look at Greer, Aylee and Maisie then looked at Lola. “What about you?” Lola gave her a flat look, making Kenna roll her eyes. “Eh, don’t tell me. It’s about that boy from Aberdeen.” Kenna sing songed the last word mockingly.

“Colin said he’d wait for me.” Lola told her, a little upset by Kenna’s prodding.

“Till when? We might never be back on Scottish soil. Not if it all works out and Mary reigns here.” Greer pointed out.

“What do you mean if?” Aylee asked.

“Make no mistake. We’re here now to get our young queen in the game.” They all looked at Greer with frowns. “Alliances can shift. Before they do, Mary needs to win the prince's heart.”

Kenna rushed to Mary's side excitedly. “Is that Francis? He’s gorgeous.”

Maisie looked up to see a dark haired, light blue eyed man who was, as Kenna just said, very gorgeous.

“No, that’s not Francis. I know it isn’t.” Mary answered, sounding very sure of herself.

“That’s Sebastian.” Maisie replied as she moved to stand beside Kenna.

“Diane’s son. I hear the king favors him.” Kenna added.

Maisie watched as Sebastian walked around the king and his mother to stand behind them. More horns were blown as queen Catherine was announced and walked to stand slightly in front of Diane. Not long after, a blond-haired, pale skinned, clearly royal man, avoided the sidewalk altogether and moved to stand across from Mary. After he bowed to her the two young royals engaged in an amusing greeting that made the ladies giggle at their queen before they started down the path into the castle.

RRRRRRRRRR 

Mary's ladies stood in a room with a stuffy woman dressed in black. “You have returned to the court at your own queens bidding. As nobile ladys you must counsel her. Prepare her, account for her. For the princess Elizabeth's wedding, as with any event, you must acquaint yourselves and Mary with all visiting royal and dignitaries. Who amongst you is fluent in italian?”

They all just looked at one another before their eyes settled on Aylee. “I suppose I am.” she spoke up though it sounded more like a question.

“You will sit next to the pope’s cousin.” the stiff woman answered before she took in a deep breath and rolled her eyes. “He has no teeth and speaks very quickly.” The other girls giggled, Maisie only cracked a smile and smacked Kenna on the arm faining disapproval.

RRRRRRRRRR

Now in Mary's chambers the girls played around with makeup, jewelry and dresses. "Maisie, try this one." Lola said as she held up a lavender gown with silver beading on the satin corseted bodice and a flowing skirt of tulle. "It'll go good with your hair." Maisie took the dress, iffy about the tight corseted top. She usually opted for more loose fitting dresses for fear of being too much attention to herself.

After putting it on and letting Kenna lace up the back she looked at herself in the full length mirror. Most women would kill for Maisie's hourglass waist, but she hated it. "Where have you been hiding that waist?" Kenna asked as she took a step back. Maisie blushed as she picked up a purple beaded headband.

"Away from the eyes of the boys back home hoping to snag a wife." Maisie answered as she put the headband on.

"Are you saying you don't want a husband?" Mary asked where she sat at a dressing mirror applying kohl to her eyelids.

"I'm saying I didn't want a Scottish husband. We've all known since we were children that we would return to France eventually. It was just a matter of when and..." Maisie paused debating if she wanted to tell them the truth.

"And what?" Mary asked.

"Okay…I know this is going to sound silly but when we lived here as children, I promised my heart to a boy. I'm hoping to find him." she answered as she tied the band behind her head then adjusted the lock of hair to the left of her face that was always braided with silver beads intertwined into it.

"It's been nine years. Don't you worry he's forgotten you?" Aylee asked.

"Yes, that is a concern, I’m sure he will remember me just as I remember him." Maisie shrugged.

"Are all these gowns really from Paris?" Greer asked, changing the subject as she finished putting on a dress with a green boddes and cream satin skirt.

"Yes, every single one." Aylee answered where she was trying a gold beaded belt around the waist of her soft pink dress.

"If Collin could see me now he'd marry me in a second." Lola said as she twirled in her cream dress with green beading. "I look of age now. We all do."

"You know what I'd like to do?" Aylee asked and they all looked at her. "Explore. We haven't been here since we were children. Surely the castle has changed. Who's with me?"

"I am." Lola answered.

"Go, I'll catch up. There's something I want to see." Marry told her ladies as they all rushed out the door.

RRRRRRRRRR

At the wedding reception Maisie was standing with Aylee and Mary when Colin, who had decided he couldn’t wait to be with Lola and came to be with her, walked up and offered Mary a glass of wine. “Your grace, beautiful evening is it not?” he asked as she took the glass from him. When he kneeled and kissed Mary’s hand Maisie's eyes found Lola, watching from a few feet away, a hurt look in her eyes.

As soon as Collin walked away Mary noticed she’d accidently hurt Lola. “Maisie, I want to go dance.” Mary told her as she took her hand.

“It’s improper to dance alone.” Maisie argued, but she didn’t let go.

“I won’t be alone.” Mary argued and Maisie looked at Aylee for help.

She received none and Mary only released her hold on Maisie's hand to grab Lola's. “Lola come dance with me.” Lola looked at her the same way Maisie had, like she was crazy. “Take off your shoes. Come on, dance with me, take off your shoes.” Mary encouraged her ladies so they all kicked off our shoes and followed her out onto the empty dance floor.

As they grabbed hands and circled together as if playing a game of ring around the rosie, Maisie felt herself letting go, feeling like a carefree child. A girlish giggle left her lips as the larger circle broke and she and Greer grabbed hands, twirling around a few times before she let go and all of the ladies danced freely around their spinning queen. Eventually others joined in with them.

When feathers started falling from overhead, Maisie stopped and looked up. Still, with a smile upon her face she watched a feather float down until Greer sweeped by, making her lose track of it and insead, notice the light blue eyes of Sebastian looking right at her. Butterflies stirred in the pit of her stomach and only picked up speed when he gave her a soft smile.

A yelp slipped from her lips and pulled her out of the moment when Aylee grabbed her hand and Greer grabbed the other, pulling her back into a dancing circle that formed around Mary, who once again twirled, her arms above her head. As soon as the music was done everyone started exiting the ballroom. “Why’s everybody leaving?” Mary asked, slightly out of breath.

“It’s time for the consummation.” Lola answered.

“The ritual, the ceremony, the mystery…aren’t you curious?” Kenna said as she grabbed Mary’s hand and pulled her after everyone else.

“Where are we going?” Maisie asked when they branched off from the people who followed the royal couple into the bedchamber.

“I played in this area often as a child. I know where we can watch without getting caught.” Kenna answered quietly.

“You mean they really watch them…you know?” Aylee asked innocently.

“It’s tradition for royals.” Greer answered.

“Yes, but we’re not allowed." Aylee argued as they came to a stop in a small dark corridor. A curtain hung on the wall.

"Don't you wanna know what you're in for someday?" Kenna asked, wonder and curiosity clear in her voice as she pulled the curtain aside. Kenna always had been the most curious when it came to men. They watched the servants ready Elizabeth for bed before Philip walked in, wearing only a long night shirt.

Elizabeth looked around, nervous about the other eyes in the room watching them. But Philip cupped his hands on each side of her face, making her see only him before they kissed. From the way Elizabeth relaxed it was clear she'd already forgotten everyone else but him. They watched until long after Philip had laid her back on the bed doing things that pulled sighs and moans from both of them as everyone watched their silhouettes move in time as one. "We should go." Aylee spoke up, pulling the rest of them from their thoughts before they followed Aylee out of the corridor and into the hallway.

"Split up." Mary whispered so they all went in different directions.

Maisie had found her way back to the ballroom, hoping to snag one of the berry tartlets she'd spotted before. Unfortunately the tray was now empty. "Drat." She sighed to herself.

"Worked up an appetite, have you?" The voice of Sebastian came from behind her and a smile took over her lips before she wiped it off her face and turned around. "What with all that dancing."

"I may have." She answered and as a server walked by Sebastian took a pomegranate tart off the tray and held it out to her. "Thank you, Bash."

"You're welcome, Maisie." He told her with a soft smile as he watched her take a bite of the tart.

"Is it safe to assume you remember me?" Maisie asked. "Or have you simply familiarized yourself with the names of Mary's ladies?"

"I remember you." He told her with a twinkle in his eyes. "A boy never forgets his childhood love."

A blush colored her cheeks as she laughed. "Childhood love huh?"

"I did vow to marry you one day." He pointed out.

"Actually you wished it, on a shooting star, when I was seven." She corrected him.

"I was sure you would have forgotten about that and me." He said with a look of wonder in his eyes.

"A girl never forgets her childhood love." She answered with a blush and a shy smile.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?" He asked as he held out his hand.

"I'd love to." She answered as she took his offered hand.

They made their way outside into the cool night air. "So how does it feel, being back at court?" Bash asked.

"Nostalgic." She answered. "It has me remembering things I'd forgotten about."

"Like what?" Bash asked as they walked along the sidewalk.

"Like how we climbed that tree over there. My bare foot slipped off the limb and I got a huge splinter." She said with a point to the large tree in the distance.

"I remember that. I brought you to my mother and she got the splinter out." Bash added.

"She was so kind to me even though my parents looked down their noses at her." Maisie replied.

"I'm sure they looked down on me too. I'm surprised they even let you play with me." Bash added.

"They didn't look down on you." Maisie replied, earning an interested look from him. "If anything I think they pitied you a bit. They said you couldn't help the situation you were born into."

"I know for sure your father didn't like me." He argued.

"I think that may have had more to do with the fact that you were sweet on his daughter." Maisie told him with a pointed look.

Bash laughed "You're probably right. How are they, your parents?"

Maisie's eyes fell. "They passed away, not long after we moved back to Scotland. Our house caught fire, my brothers and I made it out, they didn't."

"I'm so sorry." Bash said as he rubbed her hand in his with his thumb.

"It's fine." She answered as she steered them over to the stone half wall of the pathway they'd been walking and let go of Bash's hand to place hers on the wall, looking out at the lake. "My uncle, father's brother, took us in. He and my aunt had no children of their own." A comfortable silence settled over them. Eventually Maisie's eyes moved from the lake to Bash's hands that rested on the stone wall beside hers. A small smile stretched her lips as she turned toward him, rested her hip on the wall and held her right hand out to him. He took it and slipped his pointer finger over a small scar on the fatty part of her palm between her thumb and wrist. "Do you still have yours?" She asked.

He held his left hand out to her, showing her the scar on the same part of his hand. She pressed her palm to his, like they had when their scars were fresh, bleeding cuts, inflicted by the sharp blade of Bash's hunting knife. "I know it's none of my business but I have to know-"

"There's no one else." She answered knowing what he was about to ask because she was dying to know the same. The worry on his face eased. "Never has been, though the people back home would give you a different answer."

"What does that mean?" He asked with curious wide eyes.

She laughed. "There's this boy, Keelan, we're best friends, nothing more, but we let people think there was more to protect him from gossip." She explained. "We figured out when we were fourteen that he prefers boys. If people found out it wouldn't be good for him. So since I had no interest in other boys and he had no interest in girls, we used our friendship to protect him." She looked away from their hands and into his eyes. "What about you? Is the gossip true?"

"Depends, what's the gossip say about me?" He asked, looking amused.

"I think the words Aylee used were "He has a terrible reputation with women." Though I didn't get any specifics and I don't know her source." Maisie answered.

"There have been others." He answered. Her shoulders and heart fell. She tried to take her hand off his but he slipped his fingers between hers and closed them. "They meant nothing to me."

"Any man can say that." She whispered, her eyes on their hands. His gripping her relaxed one.

"I mean it." Bash assured her. "Give me a chance to prove it?"

She took her time thinking about it. He could have lied about his past, but he owned up to it. She wasn't stupid. Girls were pressured to safeguard their virtue while boys weren't considered men if they were still virgins at a certain age. After the promises they'd made as children and nine years of saving herself for Bash she owed it to both of them to give him a chance. So she closed her fingers, holding his hand. "Don't make me regret it."

"I wouldn't dare. Especially if you can still throw that punch I taught you." He replied and she laughed. “Not only did you bloody your knuckles but my nose as well.”

“I only did what you told me to.” Maisie said defensively. “And you healed just fine. I can’t say the same for the poor boy back home. His nose is still a bit crooked.”

“And what offense landed him on the receiving end of your dainty, and clearly still powerful, fist?” Bash asked.

“He thought it would be a good idea to grab my backside.” she answered. “It was like an instinct I didn’t know I had. I turned and punched before I'd even fully registered what had happened. I got in so much trouble for that.”

“You got in trouble?” Bash asked with a frown. “He was the one in the wrong.”

“It’s not proper for a Lady to know how to throw a punch.” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Every woman should know how to defend themselves, titled or otherwise.” Bash argued.

“I agree with you.” Maisie said with a smirk. “And I have you to thank for not just that moment of self defense but several others over the years. So, thank you.”

Bash gave her a soft smile. “You’re welcome.”

"I should probably turn in for the night." Maisie pointed out realizing it had gotten late.

"Then I'll bid you goodnight like a gentleman." He told her as he moved her hand around in his, brought it to his lips and kissed the back of it.

She closed the space between them, stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss to his stubbly cheek. "Goodnight, Bash."

[gimme-a-thrust]

FizzarOzzie Headcanons Pt. 1

Ozzie is very fond of pet names, and has a habit of calling Fizzarolli Fizz, Olli (So they are Ozzie and Olli), Olli Baby, Baby, and Parum Libidinis (Little Lust in Latin).  

Fizz will only respond to Ozzie calling him Olli. He will not acknowledge anyone else that tries to call him that, even if they are friends.

Fizz was never as into it as Ozzie, but he did eventually start calling him Babe (he will not ever use ‘baby’ for reasons he can’t explain), Ozz/Ozz Man/Big Ozzie, Babycakes (different from baby as it implies that Ozzie eats children and that’s one of Fizz’s favorite euphemisms for blow jobs), and Hot Stuff. This has been retconned HERE.

He is also partial to calling him a slut, but affectionately. Ozzie does not return the sentiment around people for the most part.

They seem to be allergic to the ‘L’ word (Verosika often tells Ozzie that they are clearly in lesbians because she thinks it’s funny), but they show each other their feelings often through actions.

Olli is grey asexual (demisexual) and has only ever felt sexually and romantically attracted to Ozzie. Ozzie is a hypersexual pansexual who has only ever felt romantically attracted to Olli. They have an open relationship, but Ozzie is the only one that takes advantage of it. Often, Olli likes to watch.

It took them a solid ten years to come to terms with the fact that what they had was love. Olli was positive that Ozzie was going to get rid of him because of how he feels about the matter, and because of the Hell he gave Stolas for being with Blitzo. 

Ozzie could never do that, and only came to the conclusion when he and Nikiva (oc) talked about it. She asked him what he would do without Olli, and he didn’t even want to think about it. He waited for three weeks before breaking the news, to which Olli replied with ‘I hoped you wouldn’t notice.’

Ozzie also had to explain that he doesn’t think being with an imp is the problem, so much as that it’s Blitzo that he’s with. Due to Olli’s dislike of him, Ozzie dislikes him.

Ozzie adores all of Fizz’s jokes and is very invested in his creative talent. Fizz enjoys Ozzie’s dancing, singing, and entertaining talents just as much as he craves his touch.

Olli will do literally anything for Ozzie and his image. 

Some disparaging comments from a few of Ozzie’s clients prompted him to remove his own horns in order to make it less obvious. Ozzie was worried sick over it and that cemented for a few people they are friends with that they might have moved to ‘love’ territory.

The amputation and following robotic upgrades of his arms and legs was for kink-related play, and he does not regret it. Initially Ozzie wasn’t sure about it, but he wouldn’t have Olli any other way, now.

The RoboFizz sex bots are fairly accurate down to a lot of details, but Ozzie won’t give away several of them because his Olli is the best Olli.

He signed a contract with Wally Wackford to have them produced in his factory, and they have become decent business partners and friends. 

Wally still doesn’t like that Ozzie and Olli will randomly decide to have sex even if he is there, however.

Fizzarolli got his faith in the legal system from Ozzie, who is a big proponent in suing for damages/mental grief, as well as any other reason someone might sue someone else. 

When he was fifteen, his parents gave him his inheritance early and retired. However, they sued him for it back a few months later, claiming that he stole it. He hired a good lawyer (who had a thing for feet and so he happily did all the kinky foot stuff with him to help pay for his services), and ended up winning the case. 

Should Fizz need legal advice, Ozzie is always willing to give it or find him a proper lawyer for whatever he needs one for.

[larsisfrommars]

Yo, like, I’ve gotten enough out of a serious bout of depression to wanna actually like, write and draw and stuff, if y’all are curious about my OCs and/or my story setting or my stories feel free to ask cuz like wrote best when asked to ramble by real humans. You can ask here on my writing blog but you can also ask on @ichayalovesyou I don’t mind! Here’s just as a taste~

It’s called Down To Earth

It’s a sci-fi fantasy where the magic system is based around music (mainly singing, but dancing, writing music, painting/sculpting influenced by music, listening very careful to music etc.)

My main character, Isaac, is deaf, his magic is based around Clairvoyance. He has synesthesia that creates visions of the past and future through sensing vibrations (I did a lot of research and, in most cases, people who can’t “hear” can still sense vibrations and balance/equilibrium, and the brain can be hardwired to “hear” music because of aforementioned vibrations). I have ten main characters total.

The peoples/races in my story are called Beastfolk, based off of a bunch of different folkloric half-beasts. While there are more, the ones that are primarily represented in my story are Harpies (Isaac is one), Minotaurs, Satyrs (goat horned), Centaurs, Faun (deer horned), Sphinxes, Remus (wolf/dog folk, kitsune), Meekses (mouse/rodentfolk) and Pixies. The story also features androids called Ancient Machines, and crashed/grounded kaiju sized sentient bio ships called The Great Machinators (most of them are no longer alive though).

It’s a combination of punks with a little high-fantasy, each faction embodies a different punk. The Island of Flight is solarpunk, The Antlerwood is biopunk, Scrap’s Canyon and the free township of Barrel’s End are steampunk, the Badlands are post-apocalyptic dieselpunk. The Empire of Blight is cyberpunk.

The themes are pro-environmrntalism, anti-capitalism, all of my main characters are at least one of the following: POC, LGBT+ and/or disabled, most are a combination of the three. They’re all teenagers (13-18 years old), the genre/maturity level is YA but definitely on the dark dystopian side (think maze runner/hunger games). I wanted the primary idea being the heroes that overturn the systems of oppression being the marginalized members of those who will carry our future.

There’s more to tell but I’m not sure how to express it unprompted. Maybe I’ll do a low -down on the MCs soon.

[worldruins]

Burying all that with shitty OC sketches that I will tag in the morning. Good night!

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Saturnalia- Marcus Gallo x OC

Marcus Gallo x Karisa Antila

Description: Karisa invites Marcus and Stylax to Flavia’s house for her Saturnalia party, and the night ends unexpectedly better than she and Marcus thought. 

Word Count: 2k

“Morning boys,” Karisa called as she entered Stylax and Marcus’ workroom. Aurelius (the waterboy), who had been talking to the boys about something rather embarrassing, whipped around with a deep blush on his face, nearly splashing the entire pitcher of water on her is Marcus hadn’t grabbed her arm from his spot at the table and yanked her to the side. 

“Gods, Aurelius,” she exhaled exasperatedly. “Watch where you swing your pitcher,” she demanded, smacking Stylax’s arm when he snorted at the double entendre of her words. 

“Sorry Miss Karisa,” Aurelius mumbled, looking down embarrassed. “I’ll uh, go fetch some more water.” He left without looking at any of them, and once he was out of hearing range Stylax and Marcus burst out laughing. 

“Man, that never gets old,” Marcus snickered. Karisa rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. 

“You guys are so mean to him,” she muttered with a shake of her head. 

“You’re only saying that because you pity him,” Stylax accused in response. 

“Am not,” the girl responded defensively. 

“Are too,” he retorted. Marcus didn’t let their bickering continue as he looked at the girl. 

“Anyways Karisa, to what do we owe the pleasure of having you down here for?” He inquired, leaning his head in his palm. Karisa seemed to remember why she had come down there and perked up. 

“Ah, right. Well, Flavia is very busy today, but she wanted me to invite you guys to a party she’s throwing at her place.” 

“Party?” Stylax repeated confusedly. 

“Invite us?” Marcus added in the same tone. 

“Well, she’s inviting all the staff, but she asked me to do it since she has several meetings today that she needed to prepare for,” Karisa explained. “It’s for Saturnalia and there are supposed to be some reputable guests attending that she wants all the staff to meet.” 

“I don’t know Karisa,” Marcus trailed off slowly, looking down at the table awkwardly. A small, knowing smile settled on the girl’s face and she leaned down a bit. 

 “Cynthia said she may be there,” she mentioned in a sing-song voice. That, of course, caught Marcus’ attention and he brightened a bit. 

“Really?” He asked. It almost made Karisa’s heart break, knowing how much Marcus fancied Cynthia. Nevertheless, she nodded cheerfully. 

“At least she said she would last time we spoke,” she added quickly. 

“Yeah, I’ll be there then,” Marcus finally agreed happily. Karisa giggled then nodded before looking at Stylax for his answer. 

“You think she’d let me bring Helena?” He inquired, to which Karisa shrugged. 

“I don’t see why not. Lotus will be there so I doubt Helena wouldn’t be too far behind.” 

“Then yeah,” the man shrugged. “What time does it start?”

“Around 8:00, but just come whenever you want.” The boys nodded, and Karisa wished them a quick bye before heading back to Flavia’s office. 

At nearly midnight the party was still going great. People were laughing, talking, eating and some were even dancing, everyone was having a great time. Karisa could tell by the look on Flavia’s face that they had at least a few well off customers in the future. The only person she could see that wasn’t having fun was Marcus. In fact, she hadn’t even seen him since he first arrived. Surely he hadn’t decided to leave already? After searching for nearly ten minutes, she finally found him on the edge of the back porch with a drink in his hand. She closed the back door behind her, muffling the music and chatter inside, before walking over to him. 

“Not to toot my own horn or anything but I decorated the house nicely. You’re missing a pretty fun party inside,” she informed him with a small smile as she took a seat on his right side. “What’re you doing out here by yourself?” The boy sighed and looked at his lap. 

“Cynthia didn’t come,” he muttered quietly, shocking Karisa. 

“Wait what?” She questioned with wide eyes. Marcus nodded, still not looking at her. 

“Yeah, Helena stopped by her flat before she and Stylax came here. Cynthia said that parties weren’t her thing and she didn’t want to go after all,” he explained. Karisa’s heart broke yet again, but this time for a different reason. 

“Oh Marcus, I’m so sorry,” she muttered genuinely. “I really thought she would have come, she’d been talking about it ever since I mentioned it.” 

“It’s fine Karisa,” he attempted to dismiss her apology. 

“No, it isn’t,” Karisa shook her head. “I made you come to this party for nothing, what kind of friend am I?”

“A good one either way,” Marcus responded simply. The girl sighed then shook her head. 

“Still.” After she finished talking, she watched him grab something from his left side. 

“I was gonna give her this,” he added, holding up a white Lily. “Guess it’s all for naught though.” His hand dropped to his lap, flower still in hand. The girl debated on what to do next, ultimately deciding to pick up the flower and place it in her hair. 

“How do I look?” She asked with a playful smile. Marcus looked at her and a smile tugged at his lips. 

“Amazing,” he responded. Karisa tried not to take his compliment to heart. 

“Then it’s not all for naught,” she said simply. “That way it doesn’t go to waste and you have someone to give it to. Though I can’t say I’m a good replacement for Cynthia.” At her name, Marcus’s shoulders dropped a bit, so Karisa continued. 

“Marcus if you don’t want to be here, no one’s forcing you. In fact I’ve already seen people begin to leave. You should probably get home.” Marcus nodded after a moment and sighed before standing. 

“Do you want me to walk you home?” He inquired. Karisa shot him a thankful smile but shook her head. 

“Flavia has me on cleanup duty when the party’s over. It’s not a long walk home for me anyways,” she responded. 

“Alright then, goodnight Karisa.” 

“Goodnight Marcus, tell Grumio I said hello.”

“Will do,” Marcus replied, watching for a moment as she turned back to the evening sky while her drink swirled in her hand. He left shortly after then walked the thirty or so minutes back to his flat. 

“Hey Grumio,” he greeted upon arriving, looking dejected. 

“What’s wrong?” The servant asked, immediately noticing his friend’s mood. 

“She didn’t go to the party,” Marcus sighed, plopping down beside Grumio. 

“Really?” He questioned, sounding genuinely surprised. “She told me she was gonna tell you about her feelings tonight.” Marcus’ eyes widened and his eyes snapped to his friend. 

“She was?” He asked, sounding as alarmed as he looked. Grumio shrugged nonchalantly and nodded. 

“You shoulda seen her the past week,” he added before putting on a horrible girly voice. “Marcus likes Cynthia, and if he’s happy I’m happy. Who am I to get between him and who he wants?” He mimicked before huffing and leaning back in his seat. “I only just convinced her to talk to you two days ago. Guess the pep talk was for nothing in the end then.” Marcus’ eyebrows knit together in confusion. Why would Cynthia refer to herself in third person? No offense to her, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t smart enough to even understand that point of view. Unless…unless they weren’t talking about her. 

“Grumio, who do you think we’re talking about?” He questioned slowly. 

“Karisa,” Grumio answered with a shrug. “Who else?” 

“Karisa likes me?” Marcus asked, looking absolutely blown away. 

“Course she does, keep up, would ya?” The man responded, none the wiser to Marcus’s discovery. 

“For how long?” 

“Almost since you moved here. Why?” Marcus didn’t answer, but instead leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His mind was reeling as he looked back on their relationship. All the compassion, the friendly gestures, the looks she always gave him. It was because Karisa fancied him? It felt like something awakened in Marcus, and he was standing before his mind could catch up. 

 “I’ll be back,” he informed Grumio, already heading to the door. 

“It’s nearly 2:00 a.m.” his friend pointed out confusedly, but Marcus didn’t listen. His mind continued to run as his feet moved on their own accord, seeming as if they already knew where to go. Nearly half an hour later he was on Karisa’s doorstep knocking on her door. He saw a light emit from the living room window, signaling that a candle had been lit. That means she’s awake, Marcus thought. Just a second later the door opened and Karisa poked her head out, looking confused. Not that he could blame her of course, it was 2:00 a.m. and he was randomly on her doorstep. She still had the flower in her hair, which meant she hadn’t gone to bed yet, so he felt a bit better about this. 

“Marcus? What are you doing here?” She questioned tiredly. “Is something wrong?” Marcus only stood there at first, trying to figure out how to go about this. Ultimately, he threw caution to the wind and stepped closer to her. Before she could question him again his hands grabbed the back of her neck and pushed her towards him in a kiss. It was rather messy at first, since Karisa hadn’t expected such a move. Once she melted into the kiss thigh, it was like heaven on earth. Unfortunately, the girl had to pull away just a second later for air. 

��I’m an idiot,” Marcus mumbled low enough for only her to hear despite them being alone outside, eyes still closed.  

“What are you talking about?” Karisa inquired breathlessly as she stared at him. 

“For not realizing what was in front of me all along,” he explained, a bit louder this time. “Grumio told me what you said to him, I’m an idiot for going after someone when there was an amazing girl by my side the entire time.” Karisa blushed and she had an internal debate on whether to thank Grumio or kill him. 

"I didn’t mind the wait,” she responded softly. His eyes opened once more and he stared into her eyes, an adoring grin painting his lips. 

“Well now you don’t have to wait,” he spoke before kissing her once more. “Not anymore. Now that my eyes are finally open.” Karisa bit her lip and nodded hesitantly, which made Marcus worry. 

“What is it?” He questioned. 

“I don’t want to be a rebound for Cynthia,” she answered quietly, almost as if she didn’t want him to hear it. 

“Oh Karisa,” he breathed out softly. “I would never do that to you. I’m here because I love you and you love me too. That’s all that matters: us.” Karisa looked comforted by his words and a smile appeared on her face once more. 

“Okay,” she muttered. “Would uh, would you like to come in? It’s late and I know it’s a pretty far walk back to your house.” 

“I thought you’d never ask,” Marcus sighed in relief, Karisa giggling afterwards as she led him inside. “After pretty much running all the way here my feet are killing me.” Her eyes widened and she faced him after closing the door behind them. 

“You ran all the way here at this hour? Why didn’t you just come in the morning?” She asked bewildered. 

“I couldn’t wait, and I don’t think I can keep you waiting,” he explained coyly, which made the girl’s heart melt. 

“Well now that you’re here, how about we get some rest?” She inquired, already heading to her bedroom. Marcus followed her immediately and the two settled into bed in a spooning position. Karisa intertwined her hand with Marcus’ that laid over her waist. 

“Did you have a good Saturnalia?” She inquired after a few minutes of complete silence. Marcus opened his eyes and smiled at the back of her head lovingly. 

“With you? Always.”

[heyitsaloy]

ooo for the oc asks, for both kerre and graoth:

☀️ 🍼 👀

♥ @reachfolk

This is going to be fun! It honestly, made me think a bit more about their relationship.  Kerre ☀️ - Truth be told, Kerre is genuinely happy with a gift that Gratoth made her. Gratoth crafted twin orichalcum swords in a traditional Redguard style with the help of an old Redguard master blacksmith who lived in Orsinium at the time they moved to Wrothgar to open the orphanage. It made Kerre cry when she received them, as it reminded her so much of her home in the Alik’r Desert, in a small village called Balaara. Before meeting Gratoth, Kerre was the happiest travelling the world on the open seas on a boat called Sahan’s Regret, where she stayed for free in exchange for her talents as a sword-singer. She become known as The Ghost.  However, after meeting and falling for Gratoth, her home is where ever Gratoth is.  🍼 - Oh boy. Kerre is a bundle of nerves when it comes to children. She has no idea how to treat them, last time she was told to watch kids she gave a Khajiiti child a dagger, it was dull, to defend themselves from bullies. After that situation, which occurred when she was eleven, Kerre was never trusted with children again. So when Gratoth suggest opening an orphanage in Orsinium, Kerre was essentially terrified. What if the kids got a hold of one of her weapons? Or what if a child were to get kidnapped by bandits? What if one of the kids got sick? A lot of what if scenarios ran through Kerre’s head before, she decided fuck it, and dived in to help children. After the orphanage was open for five years, Kerre decided to adopt an Argonian child by the name of Usheen with Gratoth, after the father asked them to take care of his son and handed them an idol of Sithis. Which makes Kerre wonder if the father was a Shadowscale, however after he left, she could not find him at all in the following days. 👀 - *through the eyes of Delphine*  I cannot believe this individual is the Dragonborn. T’uzen is a literal disaster waiting to happen, considering her lineage. One of her ancestors was the Hero of Kvatch who went missing, another became a vampire, and the others? They were various nameless individuals who always seem to be at a center of a catastrophe. Perhaps the T’uzen line is cursed, although many seem to say blessed. My own research suggests that the Dragonborn grew up in Balaara, a remote village in the middle of the Alik’r Desert. Her parents are relatively unremarkable, the father was a mercenary with ties to the Dark Brotherhood chapter in Hammerfell, while the mother was a talented sword master, and alchemist who had resorted to carrying out contracts for nobles who paid for her particular talents. That is beside the point, the Dragonborn, Kerre shown skills in swordsmanship and mental abilities at an early age and was sent to the Abbey of the Blades to train. It was there that the Dragonborn learned the Way of the Sword at the age of eleven. About six years later, the Dragonborn was said to have mastered this style, but eventually grew bored by her surroundings. It’s around this time that it is difficult to track the Dragonborn’s steps. Some rumors say she went on a pilgrimage, while others say she became the pirate known as The Ghost. The true story is that she became a pirate, and raided Nordic ships. It should be noted that the Dragonborn used her skills as a sword-singer to incapicate her enemies, as it is noted by witnesses that she has never killed anyone unless it was in self-defense She was arrested on the Sea of Ghosts, and sent to Helgen to go to trial. It was obvious from the events that happened there and at Whiterun, that I needed to get to her first before the Greybeards did. I did manage to intercept the Dragonborn, who seemed to be disorganized and lacked some much-needed sleep. Talking with her for a while makes me believe that even though she seemed well, she was falling apart. I didn’t introduce myself as a member of the Blades, however, as it seemed like she would not be able to handle that.  Kerre is about 27 when the events of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim starts.  Sorry that was super long! I really got into it. Below the cut is Gratoth’s answers.

   Gratoth

☀️ - Gratoth is typically happy whenever music is involved, just not a frog-caller, a horn that utilizes frogs, which can be found typically in Blackmarsh. While growing up in Wrothgar, she was by her father, who adapted a bardic lifestyle. The two of them often travelled around Tamriel, which exposed Gratoth to all forms of music. She found herself falling in love with the bardic lifestyle, and at the age of sixteen applied to the Bards College, and was denied. This did not stop Gratoth, however, she travelled to Cyrodiil and paid for private lessons from bards. Eventually, Gratoth gained the attention of nobility everywhere, thanks to her singing and instrumental capabilities. After about ten years (I personally see Gratoth as 32 when the events of The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim starts), she is hired by Elenwen to perform at the Thalmor Embassy for a reception event. Gratoth graciously accepts, seeing this to be a highlight of her career. It was here, that Gratoth met Kerre, and literally felt like the world had stopped, and no one was there except for Kerre and herself. This makes Gratoth recall her father’s stories about how he met her mother, saying that it felt like the entire world stops, showing him the most important person in his life, aside from Gratoth.  (Imma stop here cause this is where the HC’s come in) 🍼 - Gratoth has strong maternal instincts. Children are amazing to her, and need to be treated with the same amount of respect as an adult. After two years, the dragon crisis and the vampire crisis had been solved. It was during this that Gratoth tried to bring up the concept of adopting children with Kerre, but Kerre had shown some hesitation, which Gratoth understood given the entire situation with Daviya and Kirati, she understood. Kerre had explained her hesitation to Gratoth as, she felt like something terribly was about to happen. About six months after this conversation, during Frostfall, the cultists of Miraak showed up. Gratoth promised to wait for Kerre, and that she would be ready for the day that she returned. It took a year and a half for Kerre to return to Skyrim, but at this time she was ready to look at the idea of adoption. So, Gratoth suggested an alternative, that they move to Orsinium and open up an orphanage, which they named Flockhawk Orphanage Sanctum. Five years later, they adopt an Argonian child, Usheen, who they were personally asked to raise by his father. Any search for Usheen’s father resulted in dead ends. Despite this, she was overjoyed for the opportunity to raise the young Argonian as their own. 👀 - *a senior member of the Bard’s College* This Gratoth person seems to be a promising singer with an eye for instruments. It was rather unfortunate that we could not accept her here. So, I sent word to my colleagues in Cyrodill to keep an eye out for a brown haired orc with a gold raven pin in her hair. I really do wish her the best, even if we could not help her here. Gratoth is rather talented, and will most likely be going to high places in her future. Although, I wonder how an Orc, like her, became a singer. When asked, Gratoth did not seem so keen on sharing. Perhaps it was seeing other bardic troupes perform, or talking to bards in the local taverns. Whatever the case may be, I pray for her future success.  Here is the finished product! I hope you all enjoy it. :) 

[kitmon]

Keys Are Under the Mat {1/?}

Llewyn Davis x OC

Summary: Struggling singer/songwriter, Llewyn Davis, has faced the rough and tumble world of the music industry as well as the callous hand of life. When an up-and-coming folk singer makes a trip back home and finds herself at the hands of the battered down couch-surfer, her first thought is to offer him a bit of compassion.

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of sexual activity

“Hold me, while I cry into your coat

Tie the rope round my throat, why don't ya?

Did you even read the note I wrote ya?

Boy, you're my antido-o-o-o-ote

Baby, it's only you I dote"

Her delicate fingers danced along the strings of her amaranth-colored acoustic. It was a fairly new guitar, given to her by a rather close colleague. She used to play at the Gaslight Café exclusively in the late fifties, not because she particularly liked that venue, more so because they were the only ones who gave a fraction of a fuck about her shitty guitar with a few broken strings and a makeshift capo that was made in the bathroom 10 minutes before a show using a sharpie and a rubber band. The crowd was always friendly; never hostile or awkward, just... supportive which was always appreciated on her part. Having people enjoy or at least pretend to enjoy her music was comforting at the time. As of right now, she was only visiting for old times sake, nostalgia purposes.

The new guitar was a testament to the amount of shit she'd been through. I mean signing a record deal is a pretty big deal, right? Having people know your name and buy your album. I mean, she was no Bob Dylan but she'd get stopped in the street from time to time which was unquestionably a step up from the loogies and cat-calls sent her way. Even now, her appearance at the usually humdrum populated café has drawn more attention than anticipated. The seats were all taken and the rather small building held far more people than the fire marshal recommended, but what a turn-out it was.

The audience hummed the chorus, cautious to not tune out her newfangled voice as it continued, nonchalant as ever as if there were only a few unamused patrons sitting in the crowd, but there wasn't. The populace of Greenwich Village loved her. She made a shit-hole like Greenwich something for people to keep their eyes on. And she didn't disappoint.

Her eyes remained lowered as she rather curled into herself and let the song end with a guttural reverberation. There was a silence as her eyelids lifted marginally, letting out a few pants of air to recover. Then an uproar, a surge in applause! She glanced up and flashed a charming smile, one that only showed the top row of teeth and caused her childish eyes to crinkle as she let out a giggle, concealing her laughter from the large array of eyes with her dainty hands. She adjusted herself and lifted a hand to reach the microphone.

"Thank you, you guys are a lovely audience, much nicer than Queens," the crowd let out a dispersed chuckle at her humor and she smiled again at their enthusiasm. She loved this, the feeling of having immense support. It made her feel... alive, to say the least.

"Okay, I'll be back in 20, take it easy while I'm gone." She waved off the crowd, unfurling herself from her guitar strap and handed the instrument to the stagehand, thanking the man afterward. She smoothed out any puckers or creases found in her dress as she stepped down from the stage, heading towards Pappi and another bystander, one who looked as if he'd been sleeping on the floor for days. Poor sucker looked as if he didn't even own a winter coat.

Pappi's arms extended out towards her, inviting her into his embrace. "You did great, kid," her eyes brightened at the compliment as she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her rosy cheek flush against his chest. The action should have been far more intimate than the two adults interpreted it, and most others would have perceived it that way as well. In fact, most familiars thought Pappi was fucking her most of the time.

Which he wasn't and neither one had ever considered it. Just business partners with an intimate brother-sister bond. Nothing more, Nothing less. The taller man, gripped her by her upper arms to gaze at her, with a gentleness, "Really, gave em a show."

"Aw thanks, Pappi, but I've got to admit that I'd still be singing songs on my back porch if it weren't for this dump." She jested, her hands hanging from her hips. Pappi let out a deep chuckle which was softened by her one-off laugh that wasn't exactly delicate or poised but was attractive in an unorthodox sense. The banter played out until somebody approached Pappi and tugged at the sleeve of his button-up to get his attention. She looked with furrowed brows and a curious expression as the man whispered in Pappi's ear with what appeared to be urgency. Pappi muttered a quick swear under his breath, and looked up at her with an apologetic frown and the same knitted brows she once wore.

"Sorry, kid. There's a few thugs out back making a mess," he patted her on the arm and told her he'd be right back after taking care of the 'mess'. Her head bobbed in understanding as her eyes watched as Pappi followed the man outback and into the fray. Her stare lingered on the door, but it was the serendipitous turn of her head that allowed her to acknowledge the ragged man sitting at the bar. His eyes fixated on the golden hue of the whiskey in his glass. She was almost certain he hadn't moved an inch since she came over, only stayed staring at the same glass of whiskey for at least five minutes. God, he looked like hell. His coat was hanging on by a thread, quite literally. Holes in miscellaneous places, unruly hair that looked like it hasn't been combed in days, shoes that looked soaked by the snow just outdoors and a runny nose that looked like the result of an oncoming cold. His wardrobe fitting flawlessly against the backdrop of the monochromatic greys and tans that made up the scene of New York in the Sixties. He looked familiar, she was sure of that. It was likely he'd played a few gigs at the Gaslight, same as her. Then again there were dozens of scruffy looking musicians who sidled into the Gaslight to perform, this one was hardly any different.

She sucked in a breath through her nose and ambled towards him, "So, you a friend of Pappi's?" Her elbows supported her weight against the hardwood bar, her fingers interlaced with each other as she peered down into the swirling rings of the once tall-standing oak. It took him a bit longer to register that she was speaking to him, "Oh, um, yeah, I guess..." His hand slipping up towards his face to rub at the skin, waking him up. His hooded eyes look over to her and away from that untouched glass of whiskey. Her laugh startled him, unexpected as it was. Her giggle was an unfamiliar sound. It shattered through the blaring car horns outside, the chatter of the audience, even threw the bullshit that spewed out of the radio sitting on the counter across from them. He just stared at her, unaware of just how ignorant someone would have to be to notice all the shit that's taking place everywhere around them and still have something to laugh about. It was selfish, but who wasn't these days. Everyone wanted others to be as devoid of joy as they were. Of course, there were a few stragglers who managed to keep a pep in their step and a smile on their faces. Those are the ones who get broken. They break down so quickly in a place that loses hope quicker than a bucket with gunshots loses water. But, she wasn't ignorant, and he knew this. She just decided to not take anybody's shit. And when nobody gives a fuck whether your dreams are accomplished or not, you learn to say fuck off right back. I guess that's what separates the losers from the winners. Her demeanor and the way she carried herself, with the balloon-sleeves and ruffled collar of her dress shirt, the way it was neatly tucked into her pinafore, it gave the impression that she was... incapable. But she was ten times more capable than almost everyone in that Café.

"If you don't mind me asking," she lifted her hand to wave down a bartender, not making eye contact with him until she knew someone was coming to attend to her request. "Got a name?" Her bright brown eyes locked with the gray and muddied irises of his own and it ignited a raft in his brain, making him adjust his position in self-consciousness.

"Um, yeah. Llewyn,"

Llewyn, Llewyn... she's heard that name before. She takes a sip from her glass of red wine the bartender had passed to her not to long ago. She takes a sip and contemplates why that name sounds so familiar.

"... Llewyn... Davis?"

It had slipped from her lips before she could even register it. And it surprised him, far more that she knew who he was. He couldn't remember meeting her or introducing himself to her before but then again, he was a performer. Not a very popular or reputable one mind you, but a performer none the less. She'd probably seen him at the Gaslight once before or something.

"Uh..., yeah... Hey, how'd you, um?"

"Oh, um I think I might own one of your albums. Inside Llewyn Davis, right?" The mention of his less than successful solo artist debut was a bit upsetting but he just dismissed it and looked away. "Yup... that's the one." His voice sounded disappointed and beaten but who could blame him. Chasing a dream so far that it only leads you to a dead-end can be frustrating.

"You know, I really enjoyed it," she mused, much to his disbelief but it must have only been out of politeness. "That makes one of us," he mutters, his frown dropping a millimeter or so. She couldn't decipher what he was referring to, but she could tell that whatever it was, it had sucked the rest of his joy and drive out of him. The business will do that to you, take a starry-eyed kid and promise them a dream only to drop them on their ass and tell them they'll never be more than a stand-in gig for a bunch of nobodies.

"I really loved the song— oh, how'd it go?" She pondered, the way her thick eyebrows scrunched up in concentration giving her the wonders of a child. The same way her determination to prove the potential the album had was childish. But it was the truth, she did enjoy the album and even recommended it to a few friends back when she bought it, now it just sits in a blue milk crate next to her record player, collecting dust. He gazed at her expectantly waiting to hear her utter at least a single lyric from his album.

"Oh!" She snaps her fingers in triumph, startling Llewyn once more. "It goes," and she readied her voice with a clearing of her throat and sang what she could remember. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," his eyes widened a bit at the surprise of her actually acknowledging his music, and the fact that she enjoyed it, no less. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," the lilt in her voice echoed through the Café and a few patrons stopped their chatter to cherish her sweet voice. The silence stuck around for a beat and her eyes fluttered open after her display.

"Yeah, that's it!" Her outburst wasn't expected and nearly knocked Llewyn out of his seat for about the fifth time.

"Yeah," he muttered, letting his eyes linger on her form a moment longer than he'd like to admit, brows furrowed in thinking. "Whad'ya say your name was again?" He questioned, curiosity getting the better of him. And there was that damn giggle again, opening his eyes to a whole new world of possibilities where you can giggle and laugh about things without having to feel sorry about the lack of a difference it makes. She answers and it's just nothing special but at the same time it feels like... a novelty. "Dorothy.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Caged Birds Don’t Sing -Chapter Two-

Note: The character that gets introduced in this chapter is NOT an OC. Just keep that in mind.

Chapter Two

The Night Owl and The Boogeyman

Sleep quickly became a hassle, and not just because of the new and very frequent nightmares. It hurt when Joan tried to lay on her back, so she spent at least an hour each night in bed just trying to get comfortable. When she would eventually fall asleep, she rested deep in a pit of terror.

Right now wasn’t one of those nights, unfortunately.

Joan sighed, looking across the room at her dresser. The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of her night light. After how she met her doom in her past life, she had a certain dislike of the dark. Or, rather, what’s in the dark. Not even her therapist could dispel that fear and paranoia…not yet. And she doubted she would ever be able to.

She closed her eyes, rolled over onto her back, and took in a long, deep breath. Then she opened her eyes, and her heart nearly stopped.

The room was pitch black.

The nightlight just went out. Breathe. Breathe.

Joan let out a muffled cry and covered her mouth. She breathed in deeply and then pulled her covers over her head.

She needed to get out of bed. She needed to get out of bed, and to cross the room, and to turn the light on. Or maybe run to one of her housemates. Maria or Maggie...

She couldn’t do it.

Fuck, she had to.

Joan took in a deep breath, and then pulled her blankets around her. She pulled one over her head like a hook and wrapped it about her neck and shoulders, let it drape in thick waves around her arms. Then she wrapped another around her legs, and made sure that each of her feet were fully enveloped in cloth.

Painfully, agonizingly, she slipped out of bed, ready at any moment for something to jump out under her bed and grab her. It didn’t matter whether she was a one-winged “survivor” or a hallucinating madwoman- her fears could hurt her, and she had the scars to prove it.

Nothing grabbed at her ankles. She took in a deep, slow breath, then shuffled unhappily to the side of her room. She kept her hands fully bundled in cloth as she reached out to feel for the light switch, and after a moment, she flicked it to the ‘on’ position.

Nothing happened. Joan gulped and leaned into the wall, shaking and covering her face with her blankets.

It’s okay, a fuse must have blown. Just go back to bed. You can wake up tomorrow with the dawn, and see to the fuse when it’s bright out. Maria can fix it. Nothing to worry about.

She had to shuffle back to bed, which was another nightmare, and she climbed tortuously back onto the open mattress. After a moment, she reached over to her nightstand. She had a lamp on it. She paused.

Do I really want to see the room, poorly illuminated, with shadows all over the place? I should just go to bed. I really just need to go to bed.

Soft, hissing noises rippled through the room.

Oh. My. God.

Joan lunged for her nightstand, nearly knocking it over as she turned on the lamp, but also grabbed it for protection. It came on with a burst of radiance, and she rolled onto her back, pointing both it furiously around the room.

Nothing. She peered under the bed, and then got up and stalked around her room, shedding her blankets in lieu of a stronger shield: force of will.

Nothing. Not on this side of her bed, not on that. Not under the dressers or in the wardrobe.

…I…I must have been hearing things, she reasoned. The trees groaning outside, maybe. Or the squirrels.

She took in a deep breath, and then slowly moved back to her nightstand. She righted it, and then tossed her blankets onto the bed and spread them around. She was shaking slightly.

I’ve got to calm down. I wasn’t this scared in the forest. Probably. I’m killing myself with these fears…

She laid back down on her bed and pulled her blankets up to her chin. After a moment, she arranged a blanket about her head, so it was covering her hair and the sides of her face, a psychologically protective shield against her nightmares. She set the lamp on the nightstand.

Breathe deep.

She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. A warm breeze tickled her chin.

What…?

Joan’s eyes popped open wide, and she twisted her head to the side. Her bedroom window wasn’t open. And it wasn’t warm outside... So how…?

She jerked as if to sit up, and something above her caught her sight.

A head stared down at her, several feet above her own. Bright eyes blinked as the huge body hung weightlessly from her ceiling, with its hands and feet pressed firmly against the smooth paint. It had no hand or foot holds, and was clearly defying gravity.

Joan screamed.

Then it screamed.

The creature fell from the ceiling with a heavy and loud thud and scampered backwards against her dresser, claws flapping and slapping in the air. Its ears perk up and antenna twitch before the door suddenly flung open.

“Joan?!”

Maggie burst into the room, worry bright in her eyes. Joan leapt towards her, feathers ruffled in distress.

“Maggie! Get out of here! You gotta-”

Joan’s frantic words died on her lips when she looked over her shoulder and saw that there was nothing there. She blinked in shock, completely dumbfounded.

“Joan...are you okay?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah,” Joan said, “Yeah. Yeah! I’m fine! I just...thought I saw something, that’s all! You can, um, go back to bed now.”

“Are you sure?” Maggie quirked a brow.

“Yes.”

“Well...alright. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight!”

Joan shut the door and scanned her room before walking back to her bed. She was about to climb under the blankets when she heard a growl. At that, she lunges for the nightstand again, flicking on her lamp and also grabbing it for a weapon. The bulb came on with a burst of radiance, illuminating the figure hanging from the wall, shielding its bright blue bug eyes with one arm.

It was that WingEater from the shack, Joan realizes. Slowly, its arm lowered and it peeked over at the girl.

“You!” Joan cried, “What the hell- You-”

The monster growls harmlessly. It opens its mouth and a tongue slithered out, swirling around in the air.

“Stop that.” Joan snapped, “Why are you here? And before you ask- no, you can’t eat my other wing.”

The monster closed its mouth. Its antenna twitch around for a moment before it crawls up the wall and across the ceiling to get closer. The grey and black wings on its back fan in the air. That meant this thing has eaten someone.

“What do you want?” Joan asked in a softer, more fearful voice. She’s trembling, clutching onto her lamp and blankets tightly.

She couldn’t understand why this thing was here. She wanted to scream for her roommates because she felt safer with them, but she was afraid they would get attacked.

Why wasn’t it hurting her, though? Instead of getting a verbal answer when she asked the question, the WingEater hung downwards and began touching and picking things up from her dresser, even tasting a few items (which Joan yelled at it for).

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” The owl demanded, marching over and snatching away a pair of scissors that were about to be coated in monster saliva.

The beast blinked its eyes at her then picked up some lipstick. It began to scrawl something on the wall. A letter.

“B”

Joan swallowed hard. She didn’t know what was more frightening, the handwriting, which was so messy and smeared it would make a psychiatric patient proud, or the fact that this thing knew what letters were.

“Is...is that your...name? B...? Bee?”

The WingEater- Bee- reared its head back, blinked, then purred in response. It held out the lipstick to Joan, who recoiled backwards.

“Are you-” Joan faltered, “Are you visiting me?”

Bee’s wings flapped, which was probably a yes.

“But- but why? I don’t- I don’t understand...”

Joan is shaking hard. Bee notices. It tilts its head slowly, twitches, and then it’s gone.

The room is silent.

———

The next day, Joan goes to the library early that morning before work, desperate for answers. She had assumed it was all a dream, as the writing on her wall was gone, but then she noticed how her red lipstick was worn down.

Joan found a book on WingEaters on one of the shelves, checked it out, and began reading on her way to the theater:

WingEaters are large, bipedal carnivores that primarily prey on humans. When they eat someone’s wings, they gain an identical pair of their own.

In appearance, WingEaters can be ten to thirty feet tall, although some are able to alter their height. They walk on two legs but are also swift on all fours and can move around like that if they choose.

They can come in a variety of colors: Black, Blue-black, Indigo, Dark purple, Dark red, Scarlet, Cinnamon, Burnt orange, Bronze, Dull gold, Dark green, Chestnut, Charcoal grey, or Brown. Usually very dark shades.

Each finger and toe is tipped by a serrated, hooked claw, made for latching deep into skin. There’s a barb at the end of the tail. Antenna, horns, and pointed ears crown the head. Their eyes are bug-like.

Females have hackles on the backs of their necks, which males lack.

WingEaters only have wings if they have eaten a human. They can grow multiple sets, which make them much faster when it flight and more fearsome.

These monsters are very powerful, possessing special abilities and instincts to help fight. The ends of their tails can either inject a paralyzing nerve toxin or eject boiling acid. Some can grow retractable quills out from their backs, which vibrate and make horrendous buzzing noises. Their jaws are incredibly powerful, as are their claws, and they have heightened senses.

WingEaters live in a group called an “infestation” or “colony” and there is a special hierarchy to their civilization.

The Hive Queen- The largest WingEater in a colony. She is the queen and leader of the other WingEaters and is highly lethal when provoked.

Brood Mothers- Brood Mothers spend most of their lives breeding and laying eggs to expand the clutch. Despite usually being stationary, brood mothers are very dangerous if angered. They have been known to spit acid and lay eggs inside of humans.

Drones- The “hunters” of the colony. These WingEaters...

Joan read through the book, trying to find something, anything that’ll let her know why the WingEater- err...Bee- hadn’t attacked her. She scanned each paragraph, but couldn’t match anything to it.

Alpha? No.

Omega? No.

Nurse? No.

Worker? No.

Rogue? No.

Beta? No-

Wait.

Betas- These WingEaters are usually seen wearing strange garments. It was thought to be attached to their skin, but people have reported betas without the garbs. They wear them to highlight their butcher-like job in the colony. Betas are in charge of taking care of prey down in the chambers of the hive.

Bee had worn those weird clothes, meaning it must have been a beta. But that didn’t explain why it hadn’t been hostile towards Joan. She continued to read but found nothing else. No books ever spoke of a WingEater being passive or peaceful.

This just didn’t make any sense.

Joan sighed, toiling over the events in her head. She was so distracted that she accidentally bumped into someone and nearly dropped her book.

“Ow. Shit. I’m so sorry- Oh, hey, Cleves. Sorry about that.”

Cleves gave Joan a smile and brushed her wing against the girl’s arm.

“It’s no problem,” The red-winged blackbird said, “How are you feeling today? You look a little pale.”

Joan shrugged a little.

“Right now? Fine, I guess. I just got a lot on my mind. How are you?”

“Good! Ready to perform.” She chuckled lightly and Joan smiled a little, although it felt forced.

“I’m gonna go to bathroom real quick.”

The fledgling sidles away, shuffling towards the bathroom. While washing her face, there’s growling from behind. She froze.

“Bee?” She called out softly, kind of testing the name at the same time.

The monster responds with a chirp. It’s perched on one of the stall doors, head tilted like a puppy. Joan didn’t have to turn around to see it- the mirror’s reflection did that for her.

“If you’re in here, then does that make you a girl?”

Bee purred. So it was female, then. That would make sense, as it- she- had the hackles on the back of its- HER- neck.

She climbed down from her perch and looked at the door for a moment. Outside, crew members could be heard talking. Joan prayed one of them wouldn’t walk in and see the predator casually hanging out inside.

The WingEater growls. The anger was building as her wings stretched out, feathers sticking up in various directions. Her claws sunk into the cracks in the tile floor, chipping the plaster around her hands.

She was mad. But about what? About the crew? It’s like she could almost tell that some of them were jerks. But why would that anger her? Why would she care? Was she watching when they messed with her? Where had she been? Did she just not like people? But if that were the case, why wasn’t she attacking Joan? Was it something else?

Suddenly, she shrieks.

The beast swung her arms around, smashing mirrors and ripping up the tile. Her screeches and shrills were ear-splitting, practically shaking the walls as she destroyed the bathroom. She was in a frenzy and it terrified ajoqn, who was already backed up into one of the corners.

Eventually, Bee calmed down, breathing heavily, exhausted by her outburst.

“Are you done?” Joan’s voice came out shaky.

Bee looks at her and chuffed. She jumped up onto one of the sinks (or what was left of it), balancing perfectly on her haunches. Somehow, it didn’t completely crumble under her fourteen foot tall body.

“Listen to me,” Joan started softly, “You’re dangerous. If you ever do this,” She gestures to the mess, “to my wingmates or somebody I care about, I won’t be your friend anymore.”

That’s not the threat she wanted to say, but she didn’t think she could intimidate this deadly monster. Did she think of Bee as a friend, though?

Apparently the beast did, as she recoiled backwards, eyes bulging. He clicks and keens a few times before extending a clawed hand outwards. The owl jerks away.

“You take anyone away from me,” Joan warned her, “and you become nothing more than another fucking monster. Just like the one who ruined my life.”

The grasping hand froze. Bee pulled her arm back, staring for a long time. Then, she began fidgeting, visibly panicking. She gurgled and whines and bleated. After a few seconds, she was gone.

Just like the night before.

———

It was the dead of night when Joan bolts up in a cold sweat. She’s trembling violently, choking on her soft sobs. The bonds of her nightmare recedes but the gore continues to flash behind her eyes.

Breathe. Breathe. Just breathe. It wasn’t real. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re- Breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Why can’t I breathe why can’t I breathe why can’t I-

Soft growling came from the darkness.

Joan froze, but a sob escaped her lips. She shakes harder, pulling her one wing closer to herself. A serrated claw touches her shoulder and she jerks away, cowering beneath her blankets.

Don’t touch me. Oh god. God god god god god-

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, gurgling, growling, purring. Bee appeared to be fussing over Joan’s head, like she was trying to figure out what to do. Her claws glide down the girl’s back, brush across the scar, and Joan flinches. She flinches, too.

The monster lowers herself down from the ceiling and onto the bed. She moves slowly, linking her arms around Joan’s middle in a strange embrace. Her tail curls around her, wings folding over her shoulders, easing her in closer.

When Joan began to cry a little, she nuzzled against her neck and purred in a soft, reassuring way. The beast was comforting her.

Slowly, Joan peeks her head out from under the blankets. Glowing blue eyes blink at her before the cuddling continued.

“You’re getting my covers all dirty.” She mumbled unhappily.

The grime and what was probably coagulated blood was rubbing off on her sheets. She shuddered and hot tears roll down her cheeks. She feels Bee shift a little and a talon raises up to try and wipe her eyes.

“I’m never going to get better...”

Joan was confiding to this creature in a way she couldn’t to anyone else, not even her sisters or wingmates or doctor. The pain and despair and vulnerability had built up so high- she was drowning in it. The owl chokes hard.

“I’m never going to sleep without nightmares. I’m never going to forget about what happened to me. I’ll never fly again, unless it’s in my own delusions. For the rest of my life I will be fighting against the temptation of my own insanity. And for what? I don’t know. It’s important to keep going, but I’m never going to get b-better...”

Her voice is tight with emotion and pain. Everything is a whirlwind of muddled feelings and suffering. Blood is roaring in her ears.

“I don’t work right anymore. I don’t know how to be happy. Sometimes I’m happy- when I’m playing music- but every other time I’m just miserable.” A quivering inhale, “I try. I really do, but nothing works. All my doctor does is dope me up on antidepressants until I can’t feel anymore, which is nice at first, but then it becomes painful. The numbness, I mean. I can’t- I can’t enjoy anything anymore.”

The fledgling weeps. Her fists clench and she carved bloody half-moons into her palms. She wanted to rip open her stitches, she wanted to tear out her feathers, she wanted to set herself ablaze because the pain was the only thing that made her feel again.

“I wish it never happened.” She grits out, like there’s sand lodged in her throat, “I wish it hadn’t been me. I know that’s selfish, but I just-“

She breaks down. Her trembling gets worse, as does the torment. She needed an anchor and she needed it now.

“If you’re going to be here- if you’re going to stay- then keep me safe. Please.”

There’s a firm growl in response. It relaxes Joan- she doesn’t know why.

When she closes her eyes, there’s less gore flashing around in the fuzzy darkness. A tongue gently licks away her tears, a soothing gesture to end this horrible night.

———

“Thank you.”

The monster coos. Bee is still there the next morning, which was a little risky, but Joan really appreciated it.

Joan climbed out of her bed and cringed. Her blankets were stained in some kind of dried up muck, thanks to Bee rubbing against them all night.

“You are filthy.”

Bee chirruped and tilted her head around. She rubbed her hand against her smock and gurgled in surprise when it came back all dirty. She wiped it off on the floor.

“Not on the carpet!”

The monster jumped a little and looked up at Joan. She wiggles her tongue at her and skitters onto the wall, bleating contently with her new friend.

“You’re such a cat, you know?” Joan chuckled, “Now, get down from there. You need a bath.”

The monster tilted her around.

“Yes, a bath. If you’re going to stay, you need to be clean. It’s a Saturday and my roommates are out, so let’s get to it!”

Joan began to wonder if, like a cat, she had an aversion to water.

Only one way to find out.

[dispatchvampire]

Jump, Jive, & Wail (Bucky x OC)

Pairing:  Bucky x OC (in progress)

Warnings: Death by fluff, casual swearing, smut in later chapters 

Series Summary: A bunch of interrelated  of fluffy ficlets about Bucky and Grace. For a woman who’s more spice than sugar, she’s awfully sweet on him. 

Chapter Summary: In which Bucky has the worst kept secret crush in the history of ever on the cute, new, tattooed teammate. Grace is shy but definitely interested, and just waiting on the right dance partner. 

Playlist: I made a playlist as I wrote this in case you’d like a soundtrack as you read. 

Ch1: Rock This Town

The gym late at night in the tower was his sanctuary. Bucky lived for the late nights when he could beat the bags to hell, work his heart and lungs to their maximum and otherwise chase the demon of insomnia with the sword of sheer fucking exhaustion. He liked being by himself and away from Steve’s well-intentioned smothering and the curious/wary looks of the other Avengers. Well, not all of them. 

Grace never looked at him like he was a hand grenade with the pin missing. His cheeks heated as he thought of her shy smile when they met, and how he’d catch her watching him every now and then. Pretty smile, sweet face, and the kind of body that made him actively fight inappropriate thoughts. She was powered, something about warping space-time, and she always seemed so light and bubbly and full of energy, even if she was on the shy side. She didn’t approach, but then, neither did he. If neither of them were ready, that’s just how that was gonna go, and damn Stevie’s thoughts on the matter. 

Steve, bless him, heard all about his crush, like he was a pressure valve that kept it under control and well-hidden, except… well, Steven Grant ‘I’m Waiting For the Right Partner’ Rogers believed he should go and see about asking her out. Yeah, not so much. He wasn’t ready, she was too sweet to have anything to do with the likes of him and he’d just as soon not let his darkness color her world. 

Buck wrapped his hands as he headed down the long corridor to the gym, shaking his limbs out and tying up his black shorts again just to make sure they stayed up, narrow hips and all. He was a little confused to find the hallway lit like it would be for daytime, and for growing strains of  music to be floating past him. Not that there wasn’t music normally playing in the gym, or at least what passed for music today, but this was… Fast beat, swinging horn section, blazing hot piano and an upright bass, this was music and someone was absolutely going to town in the gym when he would normally be there alone. 

He didn’t recognize the song as he came through the door, but the dancing. Holy shit, the dancing. Eighty years stripped away and he was transported to a darkened dance hall with an ten piece band onstage and couples tearing it up on the floor. 

In a tight black tank top that showed off the cheerfully colorful sleeves of tattoos up her arms and showcased the rack he absolutely had not thought about in loving detail, some grey workout pants that tied off at her knees and perfectly framed each and every luscious curve, and her hair tied up in a black and purple polka dot kerchief, Gracie was cutting quite the rug in the hardwood area usually reserved for Tasha’s ballet. And her partner Barton wasn’t doing too terribly, either.

Bucky wasn’t jealous. Really. He meant that.  

He watched as they danced and shifted around each other, occasional leaps and slides over and around and looking like they were having the time of their lives. Buck watched as he leaned against the wall just beyond the mirror and barre, taking in the beautiful fluidity and unadulterated joy of her movements. Sinuous hips, light on her feet, with impeccable timing, she was incandescent to watch, and when the song ended, he couldn’t help but whistle and clap his praise. 

Barton’s eyes lit up as he headed to the barre to collect his towel and wipe off his ruddy face. His formerly black sleeveless shirt looked almost soaked through with sweat he was sweating like a priest in a brothel.  “Thank God you’re here.” 

Grace frowned and snatched up a bottle of water from the floor by the mirror. “Oh hush, ya big baby. It’s only been three songs.” 

“Five, and she’s a menace. She’s been slowly but surely dancing me to death and I need a break.” Barton made a show of panting and downing his own bottle of water as quickly as possible. 

“Nothing slow about that music,” Buck replied, winking at her and pleased when she giggled. “You need me to step in and show you how it’s done?”

Barton smirked. “It’s your type of music, Grampa. Let’s see you do it.” 

“Grampa my ass.” Challenge issued, Buck stepped to Grace’s side and offered her his hand. “May I have this dance?” Her big dark eyes rounded in what appeared to be shock, so he teased, “Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart. Best dance of your life, I swear.” 

Her full red lips now grinning broadly, she nodded and took his hand. “J, hit it.”

‘Jump, Jive, and Wail’ leapt out of the speakers in all its full-brass glory, and he grinned wickedly. This, he remembered. It may not have been Louis Prima, but he could work with this. Leading her through the steps, they stopped every now and then for a shift or turn, and even the occasional toss. He laughed as she twisted in the air and came down in a slide between his legs before coming up dancing. Barton was right, she was a demon in the best sense and he loved it. It was perfect, this tiny moment between them, where their mutual shyness was put aside and they could just be, both in their element and having a good time. 

Barton caught his eye as he vacated the premises between songs, mouthing “You’re welcome” with a sly grin as he scooted out the door. Maybe his crush hadn’t been so surreptitious afterall. 

He didn’t have time to ponder that, though, as another song came on, this one even faster than before. It was a breakneck speed and Bucky was here for all of it. She weighed next to nothing as he tossed her in the air, catching her and jumping right into a Lindy Hop-Charleston combo that was incredibly athletic, even by his own memory’s standards. 

The music wasn’t anything he recognized, though it was clear the band was fantastic and so long as the music played, he was more than happy to keep dancing with her. Three more songs played through, including Benny Goodman’s ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ and even Buck was feeling the heat. 

“Hold up, J,” Grace panted as she headed back to her water bottle, and the music died just as quickly as it started. “Thank you.”

“Of course, Miss.” 

For a hot second the only sound in the room was their mutually labored breathing as they stared at each other. She was positively glowing, a sheen of perspiration lighting up her butterscotch brown skin and making her smile that much more luminous. He felt like a limp rag, wrung out and still wet, and he couldn’t believe he luck. They started giggling at the same time, likely fed by endorphins and what have you, and she had the best laugh, like music and raindrops and he was so far gone over her, he’d set fire to his map. 

“Head’s up,” she called as she went to the cooler and threw a bottle at him with alarming accuracy. He caught it easily and nodded his thanks. 

“You’re pretty great at that,” he told her as she came back to the dancefloor, cheeks flushed, this time not from exertion. 

“You are, too. I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that with you.” Her eyes grew huge as she realized what she’d admitted to, and covered her mouth for good measure. “I… I’m sorry. That should have… I mean… Dammit.” 

He couldn’t let her stammer her way into walking back the words, not when they were everything he’d wanted to hear. “We’ll have to do it again sometime.” He offered her his shyest and most disarming grin, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he awaited her response. 

Grace brightened considerably, straightening up and taking a couple tentative steps in his direction. The way she licked her lips nervously made her lush mouth look that much more kissable. “Oh yeah?”

Taking a chance, Buck slid up right next to her and wrapped an arm around her waist, praying he was getting this right. “Absolutely, sweetheart. Now work for you?” The way she stepped into him and gazed up at him, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, he did everything he could to convince himself the warmth in his chest was heartburn and not at all a reaction to the fire within her. Either that or he would be kissing her off her feet. 

“Any chance I could get next?” 

And just like that, the moment was broken by little Stevie Rogers. Again. Buck dropped his head as he exhaled deeply with his eyes closed, flashing back to their childhood back in Brooklyn. They popped open immediately, though, when he heard her giggle and felt her little hand patting his chest, burning a hole into his skin through the fabric of his shirt as surely as a blowtorch. 

Turning to face him, he found his best friend in grey workout shorts and a black tank top, leaning where he had been when he’d watched her with Barton. His smug little grin made Buck want to pop him in the mouth, but given the mixed company, he refrained, but only just. Instead, he just smiled proudly and replied,  “Stevie, I love you, but this right here is way too much car for you.”