#the clouds are big and fluffy on the horizon and look so cool! the birds are singing! I’m comfortable and cozy!

[whimseee]

making an active effort to stay in the present!!! so proud of myself 💪

[bunny-lily]

Tether Me - Chapter 5: Part 1

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader Summary: Right in the middle of you savoring the beverage and scrolling aimlessly through your phone, a piece of paper was suddenly smacked down onto the wood in front of you. You paused mid-sip and looked at it blankly, then traced the source of its origin up to Satoru’s gleaming, boyish grin. When had he let himself in?

You raised a curious brow at the man, finishing your gulp. “What’s this?”

“That, sweet girl, is a wedding invitation,” he declared with all the vigor of a show host announcing the spoils the victor had attained, “and you’re gonna be my plus-one.”

Your other brow lifted to match the first. “Eh? Since when?”

“Since now,” he sidled up to you, leaning into your space. “I need a wedding date, after all, and I’ve chosen you to be the lucky lady to accompany me.” CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here) AN: additional warnings: depictions of past abuse and childhood abuse, misogyny, violence, assault/battery. See Ao3 for extended tags. Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4 | Ch: 5 - 1 | Ch: 5 - 2 WC: 10.8k

The sun is warm today. 

It coats the exposed stretches of skin on your arms and legs in a cozy, yellow glow. Shadows from the leaves dancing on the branches of the tree behind you cast across your face, splotches of blueish-gray that provide a hint of coolness on your relaxed posture.

The sky is your favorite shade of teal, with fluffy, white clouds spread across it far and wide, forming funny shapes and animals that only you can discern. There’s a bunny-looking one that you’ve been following for a while now, watching as it extends its legs while bounding lazily across the eonic, untold cyan. You’ve named it Marshmallow for its resemblance to those bird-shaped, sugar-coated treats.

Which doesn’t really make sense, but you don’t care all that much. It makes sense to you.

So far, the story you’ve created about Marshmallow is simplistic, but it’s giving you something to do. Marshmallow is frollicking in a massive meadow, running around between tall stalks of indigo grass and snowy flowers. She’s celebrating her freedom after escaping the maws of a vicious wolf, bouncing back and forth in joy as she claims the sky as her home, where no wolf can catch and eat her so long as the sun shines through the heavens.

There, she is safe to chirp and thump her little feet and fly as much as she desires, no longer fearing being trapped in the muzzle of a hungry beast.

In the far distance, you can see a smear of dark gray hugging the horizon. It’s not close enough for you to fathom how big it is, but you can tell by the streaks underneath it that it’s raining over there. The flowers will be happy, you think. Fresh water to help their roots spread and their petals bloom.

You like days like this, where it’s quiet and calm. Birds spring from the electricity cables spanning down the length of the street, a bug occasionally buzzes past you, and the air smells sweet.

Your legs swing back and forth lazily over the short, cement-brick wall in front of your house. The light stone is brisk under your palms, a comfort in the burn of summer. You’ve already had a crisp icy-pop earlier, but now you’re uncertain if you should have saved it, as the temperature has gone up quite high.

It’s peaceful out here, but, confessedly, incredibly boring.

Yet, you savor it all the same. Anything is better than being in there, where your heart rarely has a chance to settle, always tapping on your veins to keep them active and roaring with blood laced too heavily with poisonous adrenaline. It’s nice to have an opportunity to rest and relax, a rare moment of serenity, even if you do feel a little lonely.

Glass shatters somewhere behind you. Skin meets skin.

You wince.

The world grows a little more dim. The bunny splits in half.

Tranquility can only last for so long under the richly fragrant blooms of the Callery pear hiding you from the sight of those within the house.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman!?”

You stand up slowly, your fingers already growing jittery as you brush off the dirt and prickling twigs that dug imprints into the backs of your thighs. The heat no longer bothers you.

“Can’t you do anything right!? Can’t even get me a fuckin’ beer! You’re useless!”

“I’m–”

They left the kitchen window open again, the mesh serving to let air in while keeping insects out. It does nil to block sound.

“This is the one fuckin’ time I get a goddamn break from supporting this fuckin’ family, and this is how you repay me? By droppin’ my goddamn bottle of beer?”

You’re scared. You don’t know why you are, he always gets like this. He’s always yelling.

You think you’re used to it by now, you try to tell yourself that you are, but your heart still pounds uneasily in your chest. It feels like there’s ice in your veins, prickling and spreading frostbite in tiny kitten nips. It spreads to your stomach, growing heavy and sinking lower and lower, steel through honey.

You hate being scared. It makes you feel sick. You wish you didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

“I’m out there, breakin’ my back every damned day for you and that stupid brat–” you flinch, “workin’ my hands to the bones, and all I want is a drink to wind down after a long day of work.” It’s midday on a Saturday. He woke up an hour ago. “I ask my lovely, darlin’, sweet little wife to get me a beer, and what does she do?”

You think you can hear a woman mumbling something, but it’s hard to make out over the man’s screams.

He bangs his fist on the laminated kitchen counter, by the sink. Metal utensils stored to dry clink against each other from the force. “Answer me, woman!”

“You…bumped…accident–”

“Speak up!”

“Y-You bumped into–”

“Oh, so, now you’re goin’ off and blamin’ me?”

A sob. “It was an accident.”

“It’s always a fuckin’ accident with ya, ain’t it? Always forgettin’ shit, always lazy, always so clumsy. All you women are incompetent. Can’t even get me a damn drink without wastin’ my hard earned money. The money that supports your livelihood, by the way.”

There’s a hiccuping sound, followed by another bang on the counter.

“Now you’re throwin’ hysterics! You ungrateful whore, fuckin’ manipulative bitch, usin’ crocodile tears. I’ve been so kind, so patient, so lenient with you,” you tried to count the bruises he left on her one time, but you lost track after thirteen. “But, you’re just so fuckin’ spoiled, yeah? Damn hag. It’s ‘cause of me you get to sit your pretty ass at home all the time and do nothin’ all damn day while I’m out there, breakin’ myself for a useless bitch of a wife.”

Your nails dig into the tree’s bark for support. A white petal twists and ebbs as it falls from a flower above, landing on your shoulder.

She’s silent beyond short gasps of air and phlegmy sniffles. A stifled choke here and there.

“Don’t ignore me, bitch,” he hisses, then groans in defeat, as if he is choosing to surrender and indulge her. “Agh, it’s pointless, you’re too fuckin’ stupid to understand. You damn women are always so fuckin’–”

He says a word that makes you cringe horribly.

The heavy stomping of boots follows his tantrum, then there’s complete stillness. You wait outside for a long time, hesitating. You want to go to the woman, to comfort her despite your young age and inherent naivety.

You startle out of your skin when you hear the screechy garage door open and hare around the bulking trunk of the tree to hide behind it. Your back presses into the rough material, breaths barely filling your lungs before they’re pushed out again. Your skin crawls at the subdued sounds of the man’s mad ramblings, too indistinct for you to make out.

His tone tells you enough. It tells you he’s angry, and that he’s saying a lot of bad words that you’re not allowed to say. 

Bad words hurt people, baby.

As hidden as you can manage to be, you peer around the calleryana, grimacing at the loud, metallic thump of his car door slamming shut. You watch as the contraption, old with time and lack of maintenance – ‘It’s vintage,’ he slurs, bragging about the red machine like a proud father that treats it better than he treats his own teeth. Better than he treats you. – coughs and rattles down the short length of the driveway.

It turns along the curb, twisting ‘til its nose faces your direction. You jolt back out of sight.

You’ve always despised the sound it makes, the horrid noise passing by you and growing quieter as the car chugs down the gray asphalt. Like a dying goat. Or, cats yowling as they tear into each other in the dead of night. Jarring and uncomfortable, instilling a sense of dread in you.

You wait for a long time like this, staring blankly at the end of the street, holding your breath. You wait for the car to reappear at the turn, to come back no sooner than it had gone. You wait for him to loop the neighborhood. 

If he’s in the same mood, or worse, who knows what could happen. Maybe, he’ll have the courage to pull the trigger and end it all with a swift right hook this time.

Minutes or hours later, the street remains empty, and you exhale the breath you’ve been holding, allowing yourself to cautiously hope he won’t return for a while.

Itchy imprints are left on your palms, the backs of your arms, and upper back as you peel away from the tree and sneak across the yard to the rear of the house. Even though he’s not here anymore, you still walk on your tip-toes and avoid stepping on sticks or leaves.

The backdoor is open. It leads into the living room, with the kitchen doorway on your right. From this angle, you can see the fridge and sink. The cup holding the clean utensils has been knocked over.

You walk forward and turn left, instead. You stick to the walls, where the wooden floor doesn’t creak as loudly, and make your way to the bathroom. The light flickers on, struggling for a few seconds. Its orange illumination is dim and makes you nauseous.

You pull out the stool from the cupboard under the sink and pop it flat, then climb on top to reach the mirrored cabinet above the faucet. It’s a singular, fluid action; a habit, muscle memory honed over time.

You pry open the semi-shiny, scratched panel and dig around through the mess of products inside. You push aside aftershave, old tubes of half-used creams, rusted safety razors, and bottles of miscellaneous concoctions that intrigue and scare you in equal measure.

You collect the needed items, stacking a stocky, dark bottle of hydrogen peroxide, cotton pads, knock-off antibiotic gel, and bandages into your arms. It’s not as heavy or hard as it used to be, and you don’t forget anything after so much practice.

Hopping off the stool, you shuffle your way to the kitchen.

From the doorway, you can see the woman sitting on one of the dining chairs, partially facing you. Her face is in her hands. Her shoulders tremble with mute weeping. There’s green glass and something wet spilled across the floor.

You’re careful to mind your step and veer around it.

If she’s aware of your presence, she doesn’t react, and says nothing. She doesn’t lift her head as you wriggle your gathered spoils onto the table, diligent in making sure none fall off. She doesn’t make any noise as you pull out a chair beside her and hoist yourself onto it. She’s eidolic as you sort the items around into a neat order for easy access.

She only responds when you reach a small hand forward and curl it around her wrist. Your fingers barely reach halfway. 

“Mama.”

Her movements are lethargic, tired. She lowers her hands sluggishly and looks up at you, but she has that far-away glaze over her eyes. She’s staring at your face, but her mind is a million miles away, unseeing.

You learned it was useless to try and bring her back to earth when she’s drifted so far off. So, you don’t bother attempting. Not anymore.

There are a couple cuts on her face, one stretching diagonally under her left eye, and one curving from the right side of her chin to partially underneath it. A bruise is swelling along her temple, and an old ring of claw marks adorns her throat like a necklace. Dried tear tracks mar her visage, eyelids puffy and scleras red. He was forgiving this time.

She lets you guide her palms down to rest on her lap. Her muscles don’t twitch as you dampen a pad with hydrogen peroxide and delicately begin dabbing it on the wounds to clean them. The blood, no longer beading and trickling, fizzles under the influence of the solution. You take care to not get any loose fibers caught in the new injuries.

It was nice of him to leave the ones that are still healing alone. He isn’t always this kind.

You’re too focused on your work to notice when your mother comes back to herself. The fog over her irises lifts, replaced with a glassy sheen, but no tears remain to fall.

She looks a lot like you, just older, and fatigued. Faint scars linger and taint her sullen expression. Her eyes are sunken, cheeks hollow. Your eyes are the same color, as is your hair. Your upper lip follows the same curve hers does.

The only difference is your age, what you’ve been through.

Your bruises, along your limbs, weren’t caused by him.

You stopped asking questions a long time ago, too. Around the same time she stopped physically showing any sort of pain or discomfort she might experience from you taking care of her. You smear a thin layer of the gel over the cuts, capping the tube.

As you’re reaching for the bandages, she suddenly grasps your wrists, spooking you.

“Promise me, baby,” she urges you frantically, voice low. Like she’s afraid he’ll hear her, even though he isn’t home anymore. “Promise me you’ll never let a man tie you down.”

You gaze at her – at the shallow cuts on the side of her chin and under her eye, the rapidly swelling bruise on her jaw, the spot forming on her temple – and nod once. It’s not a difficult choice. Hell, you don’t have to think about it to agree. 

All you’ve ever known about love is that it does nothing but hurt those who experience it.

All you’ve ever known about love was taught to you by fists and shouts.

All you’ve ever known about love was that it would break you, like it broke her, if you let yourself fall to it.

Wordlessly, you swear you’ll never end up like your mother.

Audibly, you seal the vow. 

“I promise, mama.”

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

It’s cold outside.

The sun hid behind the wide expanse of ashen-gray clouds that painted the sky a new color, one of mottled Nile lily and argent. You could make out shallow waves and hills in the skyline, but not much else, the world washed in desaturated periwinkle.

It made for a great environment for pondering.

Months had already gone by since you made your vast move to this quaint little stead, all in the blink of an eye. It was nice; peaceful. The routine you'd built up kept where no other had before, and instead of boredom and mundanity, or the anxiety that came with getting too comfortable, you were enjoying yourself. 

You were content.

In the mornings, you'd eat breakfast with Satoru and oftentimes Suguru, then continue the well-proceeding renovations on your house. In the afternoons you'd work at Granny’s shop, and your nights were free. Usually you'd either go to the park for a while, hang out with your friends, or go straight to either Suguru’s or Satoru's house.

Geto-mama and Geto-papa took a particular liking to you and enjoyed having you over. You learned very quickly where Suguru got his spice tolerance from, the pair of parents being worse than him in overusing various pepper seasonings.

His parents were also ridiculously tall, especially his mother, who stood toe-to-toe with Suguru himself. He was the spitting image of her.

You underestimated how much Geto-mama liked plants until she sat your pretty ass on the armchair in her living room, threw a blanket over your legs, and proceeded to whip out decades’ worth of knowledge on all kinds of husbandry.

Which, actually, was very entertaining and engaging, with plenty of hands-on activities. You were now the proud mother of a cardboard egg carton full of itty bitty forget-me-nots. 

When she told you that she was a kindergarten teacher, it all added up.

She was a blast to listen to, every conversation with her energetic and fun. You had a great time everytime you hung out with each other, leading you to frequently exchange flower and vegetation pictures with her over text. She had some shockingly hilarious husbandry memes, and you’d never seen Suguru come close to pouting before he learned you texted with his mom more than you did him. 

Sure, it was barely a downward twitch of his lips, but he looked so much like a wounded puppy that you had to fix the situation ASAP.

Which meant texting his mother in secret.

His father was vastly different from his mother. The silent type who didn’t speak much, spending most of his free time sitting on the couch, filling out crossword or sudoku puzzles featured in the weekly newspaper. 

You chalked him up to be the type to emotionally close himself off, until you saw him embracing his wife while she cooked, face buried against the crook of her neck while she rambled his ear off about anything and everything. 

You picked up on how he followed her around soon after that, always trailing after her around the house, lamb and shepherd. 

They shared more similarities than you initially caught. He was a teacher, too – a professor of ethics at the nearby college, specifically. Though he wasn’t talkative, he made for fascinating and thought-provoking conversation when he was in the mood to chat.

Suguru was a lot like his dad, you concluded, based on careful examination of the way they interacted with others and the world around them. They were both the wordless protector types, speaking more in gentle touches, subtle expressions, and words of affirmation than with open, boisterous actions. They were observant and highly aware of the emotions of others, and acted well on them.

Which is to say, they could both read you like a book. They knew when you were thirsty or hungry before you did. You weren’t as close to Geto-papa, but despite his quiet nature, he made it clear to you that you could go to him for anything.

Unlike them, Satoru was nothing like his dad.

You met Gojo-sama once, and wanted to keep it at only once if you could help it.

He wasn’t necessarily rude or anything, quite the opposite. He was polite, courteous, and respectful.

Problem was, he scared the absolute bejeezus out of you.

He carried this constant aura of authority with him everywhere he went, stern and straightforward to a fault. Where Ijichi was a trembling mess in front of Satoru, he went ramrod straight when in Gojo Saichi’s presence. He turned himself into a statue, and you couldn’t discern if it was from fear or great reverence, because Gojo-sama was quite kind to him, all things considered.

You were still spooked by the man, though, and preferred to avoid him. Lucky for you, he more-or-less lived in a town a few hours away, far enough to need to take the train, as he was busy working.

The only person you’d seen him cower before was Granny, as she apparently also knew him since he was younger. Whatever that woman was built of, you wanted it.

One day, sometime in late summer, you broke the golden rule of avoiding the park on Thursday nights and very quickly found out why Aoi and her boyfriend fucked there. They went at it like rabid animals – hell, you thought they were animals at first. Then, you saw a bit more ass than you were bargaining for and bolted out of the park, swearing to avoid the bushes they had chosen to desecrate at all costs.

You had come to know most of the more commonly seen townsfolk by name now, but that was about it. You were still introverted, after all. Everyone outside your group was an acquaintance, generally. You knew some people better than others, whether by intention (Granny, Shoko, Utahime) while others not so much (Aoi's boyfriend’s ass), but that was fine.

You sighed softly as you watched lilliputian snowflakes drift past the window of Granny’s shop, your chin propped up on your palm. They stirred and danced, waltzing with one another, then came to rest on the ground.

It wasn’t cold enough for them to stick – winter in this part of Japan was fairly mild – but it was alluring nonetheless.

You couldn’t remember the last time you stopped everything to just…observe. You hardly had enough time to settle and let your lungs fully fill to admire the scenery anywhere else you went. A shame and a waste, you knew that. Some of the places you drifted to were revered for their natural beauty, or hypnotic architecture, or lively communities.

You’d be lying if you said you went to them with the first two in mind. Mainly, you drifted towards densely packed locations. The more people, the more sounds, the less you were able to hear your own thoughts. Clubs, dating apps, friend groups full of names you would never remember, nothing worked.

Being unable to think left you feeling like your sanity was being torn apart by ragged, filthy nails. It made you want to rip into your own skull to wrench out the obnoxious fucking buzzing. At first, you thought there wasn’t enough noise, that the rattling was a result of there being too much room in your cranium that let things clatter about.

Living above subs and stumbling your way into various parties, drinking your weight in liquor until you couldn’t think at all, making out with someone knowing that you wouldn’t be able to handle anything more than light petting, nothing sufficed.

It’s possible you moving to such an isolated valley wasn’t such a difficult thing to believe. Something, something, insanity.

The passage of time seemed nonexistent here. When you arrived, you were slipping into summer, battling the hellish heat under the AC at Suguru’s house blowing on full blast, prancing in the river with Satoru, and now it was snowing. It felt like only yesterday, or at most before yesterday, you had arrived.

The memory of your first night on a floor you couldn’t believe you actually slept on in hindsight was so distant, yet merely a few hours back on the clock of your mind.

Intrusive thoughts – the same that told you to stab your hand, jump off a cliff, fantasize about your worst fears and subsequently having panic attacks because of it – persisted. Hard habits to kick, but they were significantly quieter nowadays. Further spaced out, too.

The voice of the demon clinging to your cervical spine, the one that urged you to run like your feet were on hot coals, had all but gone mute. Sometimes you got the thought, but it was more reflex than anything else.

Maybe, just maybe, you found where you were supposed to be.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Granny’s calm voice roused you from your reverie, drawing your attention to her.

Like you, she peered at the slow-falling flakes, following the twirls and spirals they made when a mild breeze caught them. If you had to name the expression she wore, it would be reminiscence. You’d think that, after living here for as long as she did, one would be used to the sight of the year’s first snow. Impassive, even, or perhaps irked by the omen it brought, but the childlike wonder sparkling in her eyes told you otherwise.

You sensed you would never truly get used to it, either. 

“Yeah,” you matched her tone, returning your fixation to beyond the window. “I’ve seen snow before, but never really…”

Granny easily picked up on what you didn’t voice. “It’s quite magical.”

You nodded faintly, unbothered by the countertop digging into your elbow. 

The day was uneventful for the most part.

Geto-mama had stopped by earlier in the day to pass you a plate of mini lemon tarts, which you idly nibbled on while reading. She had taken to using you as a test subject for her experimental baked treats, and (to your massive relief, since you lived in constant fear of Satoru and Ijichi and their calamitous baking skills) she made amazing snacks, and taught you when she had the time to.

Everyone else was busy either completing preparations for the forecasted snowfall, promised to last the week, or they’re already bundled up at home, staving off the frost from within.

Which meant it was slow-going at the shop, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

It gave you time to catch up on the new manga series you’d picked up from the shelf of the store after becoming curious about it. It was an odd story, something about a boy whose body was doused in a fire that could never extinguish, but it kept your mind busy.

The tale under your hand was…difficult to stomach. Not for any massive horror or emotional reasons, no. Rather, it was so painfully cringy that you had to periodically stop and take a breath to steady yourself.

The plot was rather good, an interesting concept for a world that would make for a fantastic anime, but the author really enjoyed causing his readers physical pain from the dialogue. It made for fantastic taunting material, though, and Satoru and you enjoyed ripping into the characters.

It amazed you that this author apparently had a popular manga in both Japan and the States that was released only a couple years after this one, because wow. It was bad.

The dainty chime of the bell drew your attention away from your manga in time to see Suguru ducking under the door frame, giant that he was, a furoshiki-clad object in hand. A quick skim over the shop had his sights landing on you, locating his target. His eyes creased into slim lunes, the corners of his lips digging into the plush of his cheeks as he approached you.

You stepped out from behind the counter and oof-ed when his free arm encompassed you and tugged you into his hoodie-covered chest. 

He placed the side of his face against the top of your head and rubbed it endearingly. You never chalked him up to be the type for physical affection when you first met, but here you were, practically getting scented by a territorial feline.

“Hey, you,” he lilted, withdrawing after far too much time passed for the embrace to be considered a normal greeting between friends. His palm stayed in contact with your figure, gliding across the curve of your waist as he was pulling back, seemingly reluctant to part. It raised goosebumps on your nape and along the lengths of your arms.

“Hey, Suguru,” you welcomed, your lips subconsciously tilting upwards. Your heart filled your chest with a warmth akin to the heat the hot chai he frequently made for you. “What brings you here?”

“Brought you lunch,” he explained as he set the object down on the register counter. A succulent scent wafted towards you, forcing you to restrain your stomach in a chokehold around its neck like a crazed mutt. Decorum and politeness were vital in the presence of royalty.

You crooned, grinning wider at him. “Aww, Sugu, you didn’t have to do that.” 

He merely shook his head, tucking his hands into the center pocket of his hoodie. “It’s no problem. You mentioned you never tried somen or nikujaga, so I figured I’d make you some.”

His kindness and thoughtfulness had you swooning, so much so that you had faith even the biting chill of the world outside the temperate shop wouldn’t dare bother you.

“I’m serious, Suguru, you’re too nice to me,” you pouted playfully, to which he shook his head in disagreement.

“No such thing,” he replied, leaning back against the wall behind the counter. He jerked his chin towards the bento box. “Eat before it gets cold.”

Not needing to be told twice, you untied the cloth and pulled it away, further unveiling the mouthwatering scent. The container was still hot as you scooted it off the cloth that you folded neatly, then frowned minutely.

“You didn’t bring a box for yourself?” You asked, worry etched into your brow.

He smiled at you. “I ate earlier, don’t worry.”

“Such a good man, dear,” Granny reappeared, squeezing his arm affectionately. “Your parents raised you well.”

“Thanks, Granny,” he said, keeping an eye on you to make sure you ate. His concern was assuaged when you began feasting contentedly, his shoulders loosening. “How’s the shop?”

The old woman waved her hand loosely. “Just fine. Not many have come in today. Oh, but your mother did.”

He nodded. “She told me she wanted to stop by and drop something off before she went to work.”

“Tarts!” You covered your mouth with your palm to muffle your words and pointed at the plate of half-eaten snacks next to you. “Sho yummy.”

“Ah, her lemon tarts? Those are pretty good.” He approved. “Don’t let Satoru know she gave you those.”

“How is Yoriko doing?” Your sorta-grandmother asked, since the topic was brought up.

“Mom is alright,” Suguru answered. “She’s fussing over the snow, as if it doesn’t snow every year.”

She complained indignantly. “She’s just like her mother, that one. Always worried about the smallest things. Your father is a terrible enabler.”

He snorted. “You think he’s any better? They enable each other, it’s an echo chamber.”

She tutted disapprovingly. “Missing the forest for the trees,” she mumbled, then reached out and patted your head. “You can leave for the day after you finish eating.”

You furrowed your brow. “Really? But, it’s so early.”

“It’s alright, there won’t be much work to do today. You should go enjoy it.”

You were prepared to argue further, but were halted by the hard glare she gave you. “Okay, fine. Thank you, Granny.”

“Good girl,” she patted you one more time for good measure. “Eat up, now.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get rid of me,” you teased.

“I am,” she deadpanned.

You balked at her.

A laugh rumbled in Suguru’s chest, and you turned to him with wide eyes. “Can you believe this? She’s trying to get rid of me.”

He cocked his head towards you. “She’s just being kind enough to let me steal you away.”

You grumbled as you stuffed more food into your mouth. “Unbelievable. The absolute gall of you people, passing me back and forth like a football.”

He and Granny exchanged light conversation, talking about his folks’ plans for their farm in the coming spring, once the cold season passes, while you nibble away until the box is empty and you’re stuffed.

“Thank you for the food, Sugu,” you sighed in satisfaction and slid off your stool, stretching your arms above your head.

“You’re very welcome. I hope you liked it,” he spoke as he gathered the bento back into its furoshiki.

You chuffed. “You kidding? Your cooking is always amazing.”

The elder jabbed your ribs painfully with her elbow, making you wheeze. Unperturbed, she cupped a hand around her mouth to mutter to you. “He likes you.”

“Granny, please,” you rubbed the spot she impacted. 

Your further objections were cut off when you found a scarf tossed over your shoulders, the fabric being looped around them a couple times to properly cover your neck and the lower half of your face. The culprit of the surprise attack stood in front of you, now sans his own scarf, as he was diligently securing it in place on you.

“Suguru,” you crinkled your nose at him as he tucked the ends of the fabric into the collar of your sweater. You didn’t fight him on it, but you did feel perhaps a teensy bit child-like with the way he cosseted you.

He merely smiled, cupping your cheek when he finished. “Indulge me.”

Granny gave you a knowing glance from your side.

You freed your chin to stick your tongue out at her before you were stuffed straight back into the scarf. It smelled like Suguru, like tea and spice and him, and you instinctively nuzzled further into the thick material.

“My place?” He moved a section of your hair away from your face so it wouldn’t bother you.

You acquiesced easily, offering to take the bento and furoshiki, to which he declined. You waved goodbye to the weird lady who kept looking between you and your friend while waggling her eyebrows as you stepped out of the shop. You had no idea who she was. What a strange person.

Cough.

The bite of winter nibbled anywhere your clothes didn’t cover as you met the outside world. Baby snowflakes began to gather and melt in your tresses, and you shuddered as a slight draft skittered past your legs.

His fingers easily slipped into the gaps between yours, palms pressed together as he tucked both of your hands in the pocket of his hoodie. 

That was the thing about Suguru – he knew what you needed without having to exchange words. He was nothing if not perceptive and observant, a caretaker at heart. Likening him to a guardian angel would’ve been an understatement, in your opinion.

It unsettled you at first, the way he would do something for you, whether or not you said something. You were nervous he could read your mind, but extensive testing (consisting of you saying random gibberish in your head) proved he couldn’t. He was simply good at guessing what you were thinking, and was spectacular at planning ahead.

Your thumb rubbed idle circles into the back of his hand, grazing over the prominent knuckles and thick veins there. 

You admired his hands a lot, everything about them. Their size, the roughness of the pads of his fingers, their strength. You liked that, regardless of the feats he was capable of pulling off with those hands, he was always attentive and dovish in the way he treated you.

You enjoyed watching him tear apart old cabinets the same way you enjoyed watching him leaf through a book. Those hands, the ones that dexterously tore out prickly weeds bare, were the same that affixed the fabric keeping your neck protected from the elements in place. Capable of destruction and creation in the same stroke.

The bones of his wrist were a particular draw to you, you couldn’t help but stare at them whenever the chance presented itself – you swear it’s not in a creepy way. Like a hand fetish, but not sexual. Was that a thing?

Ugh, this was just digging your grave deeper. You had to shift your thought process a hint to the left.

What else could he do with them? You’d bet easy money he’d be killer at knitting if he ever asked his dad to teach him. He had a good sense of textiles, knowing the texture of something before touching it, if he had to at all. 

A flake dropped onto the round of your cheek and you flinched, rubbing at your face with your free hand. As much as you loved winter, you were looking forward to getting to Suguru’s place to get the sprouting wetness out of your hair. You adored snow, but you’d rather snuggle up under a blanket and relax with him.

You craned your head back, taking in the expanse of ash, stretched from mountaintop to mountaintop. 

The crests were sugar dusted, fluffy powder so delicate, you could sink through it effortlessly. Icing glazed down in streaks, brooks and streams frosted by a thin layer atop them. If the town river had a thick sheet of ice over it, you could try to convince your friends to go ice skating with you. 

Satoru would be the easiest to convince, Suguru would be the hardest, and Shoko and Utahime would be somewhere in the middle.

Never having experienced nature to this degree, as you hadn’t given yourself the chance to in years past, you pined for a taste of all of it. Hiking in autumn, swimming in summer, sunbathing in spring…you doubted the snow would be dense enough to ski on, and the mountains were too short and steep, but ice skating was well within the realm of possibility.

Whatever season it was, you were determined to be part of it, and to take it with you.

“What’s on that pretty mind of yours, hm?” Suguru eased you from your daydreaming.

You angled your head so you could see him and still fantasize about flying above the frigid clouds. “Suguru, are you any good at painting?”

His head tilted to the side, woefully reminiscent of a curious puppy. “Painting? I never gave it much thought. Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking of turning one of the walls in my house into a simple mural.”

“What kind?”

You ran your tongue over your back teeth in consideration. “I haven’t decided yet. Nature-esque would be nice, vines and stuff. Nothing complicated.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he replied, squeezing your hand. “We can look at some inspiration together later, if you’d like.”

You grinned brightly. “Absolutely!”

He reciprocated the smile and reached for his door, making you realize you’d arrived. He hiked the furoshiki up to his forearm and curled his fingers around the knob, twisting it and pushing inwards. In seconds, you went from the crisp sting of wintertide to the protection of his home, shielded from the snow and chill. 

The scent of the food he made earlier permeated the residence, undertoned by a layer of sandalwood and agarwood incense.

While you were wriggling off your shoes, Suguru was undoing your scarf, pulling it off with smooth movements to hang it over the coat rack. His hands took your face into them, large thumbs rubbing over the swaths of plushness under your eyes to thaw them out.

“I’ll make you some chai,” he said, sharp, russet irises darting across your features. “Wanna sit in the kitchen while I do that?”

You nodded, fleetingly nuzzling into his hold to warm the tip of your nose. He obliged you, only releasing you when you were satisfied with the pleasant buzz tingling over your skin. He motioned for you to go ahead while he pulled off his hoodie and put his shoes away.

The walls of his home had become calming to you over time, the path to his kitchen now one you could follow automatically. You’d even gotten your own designated spot at the breakfast table in his kitchen. Sure, it was a two-seater, so it wasn’t saying much, but it gave you that happy, fluffy feeling anyway.

You slid into your seat as he came in, his hands busy with coiling his long, obsidian locks up into a messy bun that he pinned into place with a claw clip. He was always careful with his hair, taking measures to ensure its condition remained pristine and luscious. You admired and spited him for it; the former for his dedication, and the latter for inflicting you with the constant desire to play with the silk strands like a honeymoon lover.

Suguru was structured and organized in everything he did, preparing chai not excluded. Your jaw rested on the curve of your palm, your focus placed on him as he moved around the room with practiced dexterity.

If you were honest, this was one of your favorite things to do.

Sitting in silence while observing Suguru do his thing lured you into a drowsy sort of state. Not sleepy, but definitely cushy and snug, an invisible blanket laid over your back, weighted and heated.

He taught you how to make it – rather simple, once you know – but his tasted better than anything you could ever make. You could’ve been biased, but you wholeheartedly believed he made the absolute best chai.

A mug was slid over the tabletop to you, mouthwatering steam rising from it. You peered down at the milky-brown liquid with hearts in your eyes, hands grasping the ceramic without hesitation. Suguru enjoyed drawing cute things on the surface of the drinks he made, and used a shallow bowl of milk foam and a toothpick to painstakingly doodle a pudgy bear for you to gulp down.

“Thank you, Suguwu,” you crowed happily, almost feeling too bad for the bear to drink him.

Almost.

“You’re very welcome,” his hand settled on your nape as you lifted the edge of the mug to your lips, gently blowing on the tea, then taking a sip. “How is it?”

You purred. “So good,” you praised him. “Your chai is incredible.”

He chuckled and positioned his index and thumb an inch or so above your hairline. He pressed down, and you stiffened as a sharp spike of pain went through your temple – then you were melting with a satisfied sigh, sliding back into the chair. You had no idea how he knew where to poke and prod to have you turning into putty, but it left you feeling squishy and content, thus you had no complaints.

“Very good, I’m glad,” he said, accepting your compliments, both spoken and silent. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Put the mug in the dishwasher when you’re done, please.”

You nodded and murmured in acknowledgement, relaxing with a dopey smile as you sipped at your chai.

You weren’t sure when it happened, but you’d gained a sort of philosophical appreciation for things like this. Stopping to smell the roses, feeling the snow on your lashes, tasting vanilla and black tea and cinnamon under your tongue, the things you hadn’t bothered to treasure, you now made sure to.

After a few minutes of slouching and drinking lazily, you sat back up and pulled out your phone, unlocking it to occupy your mind.

Right in the middle of you savoring the beverage and scrolling aimlessly through some social media app, a piece of paper was suddenly smacked down onto the wood in front of you. You paused mid-sip and looked at it blankly, then traced the source of its origin up to Satoru’s gleaming, boyish grin. When had he let himself in?

You raised a curious brow at the man, finishing your gulp. “What’s this?”

“That, sweet girl, is a wedding invitation,” he declared with all the vigor of a show host announcing the spoils the victor had attained, “and you’re gonna be my plus-one.”

Your other brow lifted to match the first. “Eh? Since when?”

“Since now,” he sidled up to you, slipping into your space. “I need a wedding date, after all, and I’ve chosen you to be the lucky lady to accompany me.”

Unamused would be a good way to describe your mood. You weren’t very fond of weddings; they were loud, busy, and grossly romantic. Sure, the idea was nice on paper, but spending half a day (or, more often, far more) watching two people slobber over each other in a socially acceptable version of PDA always made you feel gross and invasive, like seeing something you weren’t meant to.

And envious, to some extent, but you preferred to not dwell on that.

“Take Suguru,” you suggested.

Satoru’s nose wrinkled like you waved something expired under his nostrils. “That old hag? No way, he’d kill all my game.”

You scoffed. “And I wouldn’t?”

“Not at all,” he tipped further toward you. “You are the game.”

“Very flattering,” you returned to your phone and tea. “Today I learned that I’m a game.”

He made an affronted noise and curled over you to stare into your eyes, making sure you had no choice but to stare back. “I didn’t mean it like that! Come on, bunny, it’ll be fun!”

You set your cheekbone against your knuckles. “What’s in it for me?”

The Gojo heir puffed up his chest, going full peacock. “A date with me, of course.”

A tempting offer on its own, but not enough. “And…?”

“And,” he continued, “I’ll treat you to anything you like, just name it.”

You deliberated on what sort of ridiculous thing you could ask for that could get him to back off, partially because you really didn’t want to go to a wedding, and partially because you were curious about what the great Gojo Satoru could and couldn’t achieve.

What could you ask of him? You knew money was of no concern for him, in terms of anything your brain could come up with. You weren’t about to ask him to buy you a whole ass estate, no, you were thinking more in the realm of something purposelessly expensive but practical.

You weren’t a big fan of jewelry, hardly wearing the stuff. You’d had enough of world travel as it stood, so a flight to Spain or France or whatever was out of the question.

Your eyes flickered down to his lips unbidden. Plush, pink, parted with anticipation.

A kiss.

You caught the cringe that bubbled up the column of your spine by a hair. What ugly hell did that intrusive thought crawl up from?

Mentally picturing slapping yourself with a sad, wet newspaper and calling yourself a bad pooch, you jumped on the next thing you could come up with.

“Make soap with me,” you said.

Ah, finally, a good idea. You could use some decent soap to scrub your brain wrinkles free of filth.

He frowned. “Soap?”

“Yeah, like one of those soap-making kits. I’ve wanted to try one of those since I was a kid,” you clarified. 

“Done,” he agreed with a serious bob of the head. “What else?”

You blinked. What else?

As greedy as you could be at times, you already felt bad asking for the soap kit. You didn’t like people spending money on you, even if it was on Satoru’s tab. You knew his wallet ran deep, you were afraid to know how deep, but your point remained.

You gnawed the inside of your cheek.

You really didn’t want to go to the wedding, but you did kind of get his hopes up with that soap kit ask…

It’d be a good idea to know who you were up against.

“Whose wedding is it?” You queried 

His reply brought you a vast amount of satisfaction. “Aoi’s and her fiancé’s.”

Ohohoho, this you had to see. The bush-sex-freaks getting married?

Alright, worth it. “Fine, I’ll go–”

“As my date,” he insisted, not letting you finish.

You half-groaned, the sound ribbing more than anything else. “I’ll go to the wedding as your date. Happy, now?”

He cheered as if he’d won the lottery and pressed a giant kiss to your cheek, rubbing his nose vigorously against it for good measure. “Yippee! I knew you’d agree!”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the up-quirk at the corners of your lips. “I swear to God, if you’re just using me to get numbers from girls–”

“I’m not,” he sneered, following you as you got up, gulped down the rest of your chai, and set the mug away into the dishwasher. “I wouldn’t dare do that, not when I already have the number of the girl I like.”

Something under your ribs twinged. The girl he…likes?

Whatever the odd pinch of discomfort was, you shoved it aside, refusing to address it. “Trying to get her attention by making her jealous of me, then?”

Duckling to mama, he continued to trail after you out of the kitchen and towards the living room. “Nope.”

You made a ‘hrm’ noise. “So, you’re the one who’s jealous and you’re trying to get back at her?”

“Nada.”

You gave up rather easily. “I got nothin’,” you declared, stepping into the living room.

“Don’t you get it? You’re– oh, hey, Suguru,” Satoru cut himself off to greet Suguru, who was reclined in the armchair, freshly showered and casually reading a book. “Didn’t know you were here.”

The nox-haired man halted mid-paragraph and slowly dragged his gaze upwards. A pair of glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, further adding to that skeptical mom look he had going on. “You didn’t know I’d be in my own house? Yet you figured she would be?” He spoke incredulously and gestured towards you.

Satoru shrugged and dropped himself onto the floor in front of the T.V., tugging open the doors of the cabinet it stood on to withdraw a game controller. “Was lookin’ for her. She wasn’t at my place, since I just left it, and wasn’t at the shop. Next logical place: here.”

“What about the park?”

“In the fuck ass middle of winter?” He jeered. “I’m a himbo, but I’m not stupid.”

“Wow, he’s self-aware,” you commented dryly, climbing onto the couch and nestling into the corner closest to Suguru, tugging at the blanket on the back of it to drape it across your lap. “He did find me here.”

“Touché,” he conceded. “What’d he want from you?”

You used the armrest as a support for your back and tapped open your phone, searching for something to read. “Oh, just an invita–”

“Suguru!” Satoru’s commanding tone clipped through your words. “Play Smash with me!”

“No.”

The cotton ball sulked. “Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty pleeeease?”

“Still no.”

“Pretty please with sugar on top?”

Suguru let out a long-suffering sigh. “Satoru, we played Smash just this morning for, like, two hours.”

Gojo’s lour deepened. “Not even if I added ghost peppers on top of the sugar?”

Geto’s upper lip curled. “Gross.”

You set one foot on the floor, keeping your other leg positioned on the couch, and used the coffee table to lean as far forward as you could to pat the absurdly fluffy mop of white Gojo called hair. “I’ll play it with you later, how’s that?”

If fireworks were a person, they’d be Satoru. Dark one moment, then lighting up the sky the next. “Okay! Wanna watch me play GTA, then?”

“Sure,” you assented, entertained by how his giddiness reminded you of a child opening presents on Christmas.

He got into the zone, navigating through the menus with a grace that told you he’d done this countless times. Watching another person play a game could be tranquilizing in its own right; you could turn your brain off and peep the horrors of him crashing a helicopter head first into a street in the middle of Los Santos. 

His manic tittering as he created the most heinous looking vehicle further added to the domestic atmosphere of Geto’s home.

You retrieved your phone at some point to scroll through it, then stopped when you saw a post of a girl showing off her fairy braid. You chewed on your lip, thinking, then dropped your device once you made your choice.

“Suguwu.”

“Mm?”

“Lemme braid your hair,” you demanded, making grabby hands at him. 

You couldn’t make a fairy braid as pretty as that, but you could sure as hell make a stellar normal braid.

He took one glance up from his book to you, then he was standing up from his arm chair to sit in front of you at the foot of the couch, already engaged with the words beneath his fingers again.

Satoru gaped, distracted from his game.

“Wh– you never let anyone touch your hair! Not even me!”

The noiret flipped the page as you carefully undid his bun, clasping the clip to the neck of your shirt. “That’s because you’d do unspeakable damage to my hair if I ever let you. Besides, nobody else knows how to treat hair well.”

A blue eye twitched. “Oh, yeah? And she does?”

Suguru opened his mouth to quip back, only to let out the most scandalous groan you’d ever heard when your nails scraped lightly across his scalp. 

Sweet disciples of Jesus H. Christ, what was that sound?

He reclined into your touch, book promptly forgotten on his lap as he tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“How long did it take you to find a routine?” You asked him, hoping to distract yourself before your imagination took off with the noise now permanently ingrained on your brain. “Your hair is so soft.”

“Trial and error,” he said with a rasp. “My mom has the same hair as me, so I learned from her. You?”

You combed your fingers through his silken locks with a delicate touch, moving slowly so as to not catch and tear any potential knots. Whenever you found one, you carefully untangled it before proceeding. “Trial and error for me, too. My life changed when I discovered leave-in.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Suguru mumbled.

You burst into giggles, your laughter fueled by Satoru’s baffled expression. In two seconds flat, he had dropped the controller and was directly in your face, brows set with determination.

“Braid my hair, too!”

You snorted horrendously and angled your face away out of embarrassment, Suguru’s chuckle making you laugh harder. “S-Satoru,” you heaved. “Your hair is too short to braid.”

“Don’t care!” He grasped your hand and planted it firmly atop his head, his demands made clear. “Do it anyway!”

“Okay– okay!” You panted, willing the rest of your chortling away. “Let me do Suguru’s hair first, then yours.”

Subdued, he sat on his knees on the couch cushion next to yours, and though he didn’t prod, he very much continued to reside in your personal space. His wide eyes were fixated on your hands as they worked sedulously to curve and twist Suguru’s hair into an elegant braid, intrigued with every shift and swoop.

You were no professional, but you were beaming with pride at the end. Using the claw you’d removed earlier, you folded the braid into itself, then pinned it into place, satisfied.

“There, all done,” you announced. 

Geto peeled his droopy eyes open, but made no move to stand and go back to his seat, fully content to stay where he was. “Thank you, pretty girl.”

Satoru threw himself over your lap, face down as he shoved one arm under and the other over the thigh pillowing his head and hugged it in a hold bordering on a death grip. “My turn!”

His poor parents.

Dealing with an adult Satoru was already hassle enough, considering his impatience and penchant for pestering the living hell out of you to get what he wanted. Kid-sized Satoru was probably eons worse, if the anecdotes from others were anything to go on.

You spoiled him, anyway. 

Your fingers carded through his hair, eliciting a loud purr. Given the significantly shorter length of his hair, you elected to transform isolated sections into micro braids. They held themselves together nicely, the rhythmic and repetitive motions lulling both you and Satoru into amicable quiet, disturbed only by the occasional scratch of pages sliding against each other as Suguru returned to his book.

It took you some time to figure out that Satoru had fallen asleep, his breaths deep and even, cheek squished against the plush of your thigh. He was turned towards you, allowing you to inspect his features closely.

He really was beautiful. 

In gaps of time like this, where he wasn’t bouncing off the walls with energy, you could pick apart the details that made him who he was. 

His brows and lashes were the same shade of gardenia as his locks. Thick petals protected those whirlpools residing beneath, hiding the blue of a moonstone’s shine. His lips formed a natural pout, a tad glossy in the middle, dark magenta lining the inside. 

He had freckles, you discovered. They were faint, virtually invisible unless you were this near to him, but they were there. They dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, giving him an extra boost to that boyish charm of his you had become partial to.

He really was handsome, blessed by the heavens, made in their image. 

Your susutake-eyed friend gained your attention with low-toned words, pulling you away from your veneration. “I’m guessing it was about the wedding?”

You took a few seconds to recall what he was talking about, the reason Satoru was looking for you. “Oh, yeah.”

“Wanna be my plus-one?” Suguru inquisitioned.

You exhaled, drawn out and defeated as you laced your digits through the mane of the boy napping on your lap. “Satoru already coerced me into being his plus-one.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be my plus-one, too.”

Your brow knitted. “How so?”

Topaz locked onto you. “Simply by being my plus-one. We’ll all go together.”

Satoru stirred as you mulled over it, your motions pausing in fear that you woke him. But, he merely repositioned, his lanky arms moving to encase your waist so he could press his face against your stomach, then he sank back down into deep sleep.

Your heart fluttered, fingers brushing his hair out of his eyes. 

A bird, downy and young, burrowed into the nest behind the defensive embrace of your ribs, and chirped shyly. A fragile thing, one that cautiously set foot into a desolate and hollow place, hoping to fill it with feathers and, perhaps, an emotion akin to devotion.

It’d need compassionate hands to hold it, to nurture it, let it rise and spread its wings wide until they could sprout from your shoulder blades to return what was once lost.

You had to allow it to do so, though. You had to be the one cradling it to where you were most vulnerable, let it seep strength from your pounding heart, but you recognized that your warmth alone wouldn’t be sufficient. You had to let others in, let their hands clasp around yours, let them share the fires of their souls with you. 

In the past, such an idea was inconceivable. The nest had been empty for endless years for a reason, unsuitable for any kind of life, especially a docile and infant type.

You weren’t in the past anymore.

You were terrified to give anyone entry to the darkness that painted the walls of your ribcage, sapping all light that deigned to creep in, but…

How you longed to feel the sun on your skin, to feel the moon crowning you.

It didn’t have to be everybody, no. It could be just them, the celestial bodies you cowered from yet coveted.

Just Satoru and Suguru.

“Sure,” you decreed. “Why not?”

─────•(-•ʚɞ•-)•─────

You twisted side-to-side in front of the mirror, examining yourself, dissecting every part of you.

You were standing on the rug in your room – your actual room, the one in your house, rather than Satoru’s. After months upon months of hard work, you were finally able to say you’d accomplished your goal of fixing it up to be properly habitable. 

And, yes, you’d stolen the rug from ‘your’ room back at his place to bring here.

One thing you didn’t consider about living alone after having so long to get used to living with Satoru was how lonely it could be, so the fluffy piece watered that feeling down. 

After you’d made the move here, he insisted the room in his home was permanently yours, and that you’d always be welcome there. Well, more accurately, he begged you to stay. While you were too enticed by the idea of having your own house and being able to live in it, you frequently slept at his anyway. It was hard to beat the repose that came with the familiarity of his estate, and knowing he was close by.

But, the benefit of having a solo-abode was that he couldn’t pester the living hell out of you while you got ready for Aoi’s wedding. 

Your makeup was flawless, as it should have been, given how long you’d been slaving away on it. You didn’t do your makeup often, so you were plenty chuffed with how it turned out. It only took two-and-a-half hours, too! 

…You were smart to start early.

The thin chain around your throat complemented the neckline of the dress Suguru and Satoru gifted you beautifully, glimmering like the sparkling dots decorating the profile of the fabric.

Breathable fabric followed the shape of your body, powdered with microscopic, iridescent glitters that fluctuated with every movement you made, catching the light zealously. Satoru had snuck it in with the soap kit, shutting down each of your attempts to reject the gift. 

Suguru had chosen the style, while Satoru selected the color. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t suit you. 

It was perfectly tailored to you, flattering and enhancing in all the best ways.

You wouldn’t admit to anyone that you spent ten minutes running your hands over your tits, waist, and hips after putting it on. You looked good. Like, good good, the kind of pop and spunk and beauty that you’d swoon over in a hit music video. 

You had a pair of sandals that were miraculously a match, which meant you could not only turn down Satoru’s offer to get you a new pair, but you didn’t have to worry about wearing beaten up sneakers, either. There was no way in hell you were letting that man buy another thing for you. He wouldn’t tell you how much the dress cost him, no matter how many times you banged on his chest and demanded answers, so anything more was out of the question.

He relented after bickering back and forth, giving you the relief to dress up without guilt.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

As you finished fawning over yourself, there was a knock at your front door. Your heart rate spiked and you giggled, giving yourself a second to cool off, lest you looked too eager. No man liked that, you’d been told.

You skipped across your house, pausing to admire the accent wall in the living room. Suguru had painted a fairly simple nature scene on it of tree silhouettes encasing a mountain background, and it’d become your absolute favorite thing. You knew he was good with his hands, and you were elated with the results.

Giddy, you popped open the door, where you found the men of the hour awaiting you.

Oh, hell.

They looked like kings in those tuxedos of theirs, fit for royalty. They were already striking, you wholeheartedly believed they couldn’t possibly clean up any better. Boy, were you wrong.

Suguru’s gorgeous mane was interwoven into a plait that rested over his shoulder, dotted with baby’s breath flowers in resemblance to constellations, courtesy of Geto-mama. Satoru’s tresses were swept back, looking minimally less disheveled. You really couldn’t ask much from his hair, it did what it liked, when it liked.

“Oh, my god,” you said. “I wanna see you in suits.”

Suguru laughed, deep and rumbling, orbs glinting with mischief. “Next wedding, princess.”

“Look at you!” Satoru whistled, checking you out blatantly. “Damn, you look hot as fuck. That dress is perfect on you. Who picked it out for you?” He teased, sapphires glimmering. “I wanna get a drink with him sometime.”

Suguru snorted. “You don’t even drink, Satoru.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t get a drink with the handsome fella who dressed our girl up so pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics. “You look fantastic, too, Satoru. Both of you! Seriously, you’re killing it! You’re gonna steal all the attention from the groom.”

“So long as your attention is on me, I don’t care,” he winked, taking your hand to ghost a kiss over your knuckles. Heat rushed through your being, adding to the blush you applied earlier.

Suguru bent over, pressing his own to the spot right in front of your ear. “You look beautiful, angel,” he murmured. Pulling away, the two of them presented corsages – one in blue and white, the other in lilac and black. 

You placed a hand to your chest, taken aback and flattered. You picked up on how their corsages matched the flowers they had respectively pinned to their breast pockets.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you snickered and offered out both arms for them to take and adorn.

They were coordinated as always, neither wrist bare for longer than the other. 

“They’re gorgeous,” you doted. “Thank you.”

Suguru’s palm slid up your forearm, digits pressing so tenderly into your skin, spawning chills under his touch. “Only right for someone as ravishing as yourself.”

You blushed, relishing in the praise. It was alright to indulge sometimes, you considered it a treat for finishing your home renovation. The opportunity was there to let loose and wash away all your worries, you’d be a fool not to take it.

“Coming from you,” you blew him a jesting kiss, which he pretended to catch. “Cheesy.”

“Let’s go already!” Satoru butted in, hooking his arm with yours.

Suguru extended his for you to take, continuing to be the polite and proper of the two. “Shall we?”

“We shall!” You declared. For once, you were excited to attend a wedding.

So long as it was with them, you’d go anywhere.

banner by cafekitsune ♥

taglist: @kimi01985

[turboheller]

All You Had To Say

dean/cas, 2354 words, rating: T, s5 era, first kiss.

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Dean pulled his Baby over—onto what was one of those areas where the roadside had simply worn down from drivers deciding to pull in there, just as he had, rather than it being a true, intended rest stop—and cut the engine on a deep breath's noisy exhale.

It was the delicious ember smell of late September streaming in through the Impala's open windows, then spotting that big ol'tree, which had decided for him that it had to be this spot. 

Baby, she now sighed and made her sexy little arhythmic noises as she cooled and wound down, click-clacking away almost as if she were trying to match the nearly dusk's ever-present cricket chorus. Dean found himself rubbing both hands up and down denim thighs and felt like one of the noisy critters himself. His stupid thoughts were just so loud this evening.

He barked out a laugh into the quiet of his parked car at the workings of his weird-ass brain, then brutally chewed some more on his already reddened bottom lip. 

Get a fuckin' grip, man.

He let a few moments pass, then a slight dizziness reminded Dean that he was a dumbass and that humans were supposed to breathe, actually.

After yanking the keys from the ignition, Baby's driver door creaked that homely creak when Dean hauled ass out of his car then squared his shoulders and set his jaw.

He began to walk.

You couldn't even really call the twigs and chicken wire that separated the road from the field a fence, it barely came up to Dean's knees. He stepped over it with ease and now trod his size eleven Loggers through the dust-dirt and crepe grasses, setting a leisurely pace.

That familiar smouldering smell on the still fairly balmy breeze was much stronger now and Dean pulled long satisfying drags of it through flared nostrils, wishing he could keep it prisoner in his lungs. Wishing he could bottle it, shit. He couldn't get enough of that burning ember scent, truth be told. 

That's part of the damn problem right there.

Mumbling, "Shut up, man," outloud to his stupid inner monologue, Dean now picked up the pace a little and tramped towards the impressively big Oak he'd spotted from the road. It reminded him of the one in The Shawshank Redemption and, well. Dean was never one to shy away from a good movie reference, so. 

When he reached it, he leaned into its body and let his feet give way, backside sliding down the huge gnarly trunk until he was sat, slumped, beneath the tree's sparse autumnal canopy.

He was facing west.

Dean knew that because of what was left of the fall's evening sun and how it shone bright in his eyes, painting the arms of his jacket in pinks and lilacs and oranges. He brought tired knees to his chest and draped his colourful arms over them, hooking hand around wrist. He looked up at the sky through slightly hooded eyes and more specifically at the wondrous mix of big, fat clouds and the more slender ones that curled around the horizon's edges.

The scene was like... like some enormous portion of pudding. Yeah, that pudding Missouri had made for him and Sammy that one time; it'd had some weird fruit in it with black seeds, yet Dean hadn't even minded because it'd tasted so frickin divine.

Passion fruit Ambrosia.

Yeah, this was an Ambrosia sky, if Dean had ever seen one. The tiny little birds flapping away in the distance were those little black seeds and the giant fluffy clouds were the whipped white creamy goodness.

Dean chuckled at himself, knowing he was procrastinating. Took a breath. 

More thoughtfully, he now carefully fingered the hilt of the blade in his jacket's right pocket.

Dad's jacket.

Funny thing, but Dean vowed to himself there and then that he'd take off the leather when he got back to the motel, and he'd hang it on the hook on the back of the door—and he'd leave it on the hook on the back of the door in that shabby motel room near Glenvil, Nebraska, when they left. And he'd never, ever go back there again.

Dean didn't need nothin' from John no more.

Resigned to that now-fact, he cleared his throat, took in more lungfuls of awesome autumn woodsmoke-air, and told himself to just. Get the hell on with this.

Standing again, he unecessarily cleared his throat some more, just for good measure, and rubbed an unconcious hand along the back of his neck. He then said, "Hey, Cas? You around, buddy? Kinda need you to lend me your ears, if you're free…"

Nothing became angel in a heartbeat, in a rush of unseeable feathers and lightning-charged ozone—that same charred smell that already lingered in the air, only much, much stronger.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Hey, man. Uh, thanks for the flyby," he smirked on autopilot, fingers trembling traitorously in their betrayal.

(continue below the cut or READ THE REST ON AO3)

"I've told you a number of times, Dean, I'll always come when you call." Such a fucking Holy Tax Accountant. "Although, I am somewhat confused by your request; I'm honestly quite unsure of how I would go about lending you this vessel's body parts."

Cas was. Outrageously fucking earnest as ever.

"Whaddya—oh, right, the ear thing, yeah. Uh, nah, man, that's just a turn of phrase." Dean cleared his throat again, even though there was nothing left to clear. "Listen, Cas. I, uh. I got somethin' to say."

"Well, I'd be a little put out if you didn't."

Snarky bastard. 

"Yeah, well, you might be a little put out regardless," Dean muttered it under his breath, momentarily forgetting Cas could still hear him with his magic angel-ears.

"How so, Dean?" Cas was now doing the head tilt thing and it was just. That was too fucking much. Dean felt like his melon was going pop and his chest was going to burst open like that scene from Alien if he didn't get this out.

"Thing is, Cas…" Dean now took the switchblade out from his pocket and when Cas' expression changed to that of his signature adorable-and-confused look, it was the last straw for Dean.

"Yep, okay, so there is obviously absolutely no frickin' way I can do this while looking at you, dude. Don't know why I ever thought I could. So, I'm uh, I'm just gonna. I'm gonna close my eyes, and pretend I'm on the phone to you. Okay, buddy?" and Dean screwed his eyes shut and brought his left hand, now curved into the shape of an old-school telephone receiver, up to his left ear. He felt like a first class schmuck but what else was he gonna do? 

The actual ever-loving fuck are you doing?

Dean ignored his idiot brain. He cracked one eye open only to see Cas had done the same as him, with the hand-phone thing. The angel's more-than-perplexed eyes were both open though, wide as monster truck wheel trims.

Dean scrunched his peeping eye shut again. He now absently spun the switchblade in his right hand, antsy, but luckily he remembered to breathe. He took a few big ones and tried again.

"So, it's just. Thing is, I—okay, here it is: I can't fuckin' concentrate for shit with you around no more, man." It came out much harsher than he'd meant it to. “You're just. Too distracting." Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He opened his eyes to barely slits.

Cas blinked. "And does Sam also feel this way?" he asked.

Dean cursed the fact he hadn't yet mastered the art of telepathy and shut his eyes again.

"No, man. It's just—that's just me. It's like. You're just so there when you're around, you know? And it's too much. For me. You understand?"

"I... do not," Cas said.

Dean took another breath—then it all came tumbling out like Jack and fucking Jill.

"Shit, man, it's like. You with all your shoving me into walls crap and your sexy gravel on sandpaper voice and your blue, blue eyes, you know? And hell, your gooddamn addictive thunder and lightening strike woodsmokey angel cologne which, fuck, I can't get enough of that shit?! And, you know, it's almost October so, like, everywhere smells like you! And it just. It just makes me crazy, okay? Like, I want... fuck. I-wanna-touch-you-and-for-you-to-touch-me-and-shit. But. But then, actually, it's kinda more than that, Cas, like. I like you. Like, like you like you. And I don't normally do that kinda thing. Did it once; not anymore. And... and... all of this is just really fucked up because you don't shit where you eat, know what I'm sayin'? And you and me we're, like, best friends, right? That's why I brought the blade, by the way, so you can carve your initials next to mine and Sam's on the inside of Baby, if you wanna. So you an'me, we can be brothers, too. Because. Because it'll be easier then. Because I know you don't feel the same. But, yeah. So. I just had to get this all out in the open, you feel me? So I could—so I can stop feeling all awkward and shit around you and just. Move the fuck on. And before you say anything, I know, alright? I totally get it and you don't have to explain. You're an angel of the Lord and you don't even know how to feel these things, and even if you did, you, like, obviously wouldn't feel 'em for a grunt like me and—"

The ozone smell surrounded Dean and the burning breeze whipped at his cheeks as chapped lips pressed, hard, onto his. Dean's eyes flew open to see Cas' face—all close up and out of focus—and his head felt at once like he'd been holding his breath for seven hundred thousand years.

Cas was kissing him.

Kissing. Kissing Cas.

The angel had Dean by the scruff of the neck, fists balled up and white-knuckled with handfuls of Dean's Henley and army surplus shirt and Cas, he was now opening his mouth, opening Dean's mouth with those chapped lips of his and fuck, his tongue, that was there, warm and wet and licking into Dean, licking Dean's own tongue and teeth and fuckfuckfuck.

Dean was being consumed by Cas.

Dean dropped the switchblade into the paper grasses and grabbed onto the meat of Cas's solid arms just as his own knees started to shake like the oak leaves above them in the breeze, shaking like they were going to give up on him.

Yeah, Cas was definitely kissing Dean alright. Kissing Dean like it was feeding him... So, Dean fed Cas. And it was all suddenly as easy as breathing and totally awesome and fucking sublime and the messiest yet best kiss in the history of kisses.

Dean was thinking of absolutely nothing at all and also of how he could happily do this for the rest of his days, when Cas pulled abruptly away from him. Dean, a damn near panting puppy dog, now had that fresh ozone smell—Castiel's scent—smeared all over him. He felt claimed. And he liked that.

A helluva fucking lot, turned out.

When he could focus his eyes back into reality again, Cas looked more than slightly irritated.

"Why did you not tell me sooner, Dean? We could have been doing this the whole time," was all he had to say.

Dean's brain shorted a circuit. Or all of them.

Cas... liked him back?

Dean threw his head backwards to scan the freshly twinkling stars in that divine Ambrosia sky and breathed in deep, gulping again and again for more of the vital oxygen his brain and body so badly needed to ground him in the here and now.

When he looked at Cas again and tried to speak, he only managed to gurgle out a his second strangled laugh of the day.

He wondered if he'd finally lost his damn mind.

And when Dean could finally think about forming a sentence, the words, "Cas, did God invent Ambrosia—or was that all mankind's good work?" were all he had to say.

After Cas informed Dean that he'd thought the reason he'd been summoned was because the hunter had wanted to stab him again like when they'd first met, the angel proudly carved his name into Baby's interior:

C A S

...the name Dean had christened him with.

Dean was very clear about how they were now something very other than brothers, though.

With a slight curve to those chapped pink lips, Cas climbed into the Impala, riding shotgun next to Dean, and Dean drove them back towards his and Sam's skeevy motel under that barely there fruit-whip sky that was now silently fading into a deep purply-black azure.

Dean turned on the radio and smiled when Cas smiled at Stevie Nicks's voice singing about thunder only happening when it's raining.

Heh.

(They both knew that wasn't strictly true).

Neither had too much to say to one another on the drive, neither—they both knew talking could come later. Dean had said so much before Cas had kissed him, and he was now far too busy experiencing Nirvana for such complicated things as words. And Cas? Cas was always happy with silence. And this one was so damn comfortable.

Dean tried his best to concentrate on the road but he couldn't stop looking across at Cas.

The Holy Tax Accountant looked happy, Dean thought, properly happy—for the very first time since they'd met in that warded old barn a couple years back.

It felt really, really good. 

Dean realised: everything was actually exactly the same as it was before, it was just. More.

Better.

Yeah, better because he too now smelled just like Cas—like woodsmoke and Mother Nature and Handsome Rebel Angel—and better because of the way Cas's gorgeously long fingers seemed to fit so perfectly between his own.

Dean nodded his head and smiled some more.

"This," was all he had to say.

.

[alwaysbeliev]

I Can’t Lose You

Happy Valentine’s Day! This is for the @rdr-secret-cupid adventure this year. Thank you for the prompt, @bloodylove3 and I hope you enjoy!

summary: When Dutch asks you and Arthur to pretend you're married for a job, you're nervous that you won't be able to hide your feelings for the outlaw. You manage to keep it in line, but things go wrong fast.

relationship: Arthur Morgan x F!Reader

word count: 3497

link on AO3

“Alright, here’s where we’ll start.”

It was mid-afternoon. The heat from the sun above was overwhelming, burning whatever it touched. Not even the shade was a relief with its cover. Animals all around were burrowed underground, hiding inside of trees, splashing around in the cool river nearby, and doing their best to stay out of direct light. You idly watched a small mouse scurry through the grass, digging at the dirt every now and then before disappearing into a hole. Quietly, you wished you were that mouse. 

For the hundredth time, Dutch was reviewing his next grand plan. There was a tipoff about a decent score, something that would help the gang move to a new camp, and it would be almost easy to pull off. Almost. But he was careful to plan, detailed to a fault, and now you had to sit through another lecture about making sure you were in the right place at the right time. He stood just inside the flap of his tent as he talked. The others were in a loose circle around him and Hosea.

You felt a drop of sweat slide down the back of your neck. What you wouldn’t give to go jump in the rushing water just a hundred feet away, even fully clothed. Imagining the relief alone made you sweat more. You could feel your skin throb, your cheeks turning red, your shirt sticking to your lower back…

“Hey!”

The sharp sound of Dutch’s voice cut through your daydream, snapping you back to reality. Others were snickering as you jerked your head over and tried to pretend you had been listening.

“As I was saying,” the man continued, “there has been a small change of plan.” 

Whoa, Dutch was changing his plan? But the score was just a week away now.

He carried on, “Arthur will be playing the part of your protective, but quiet, husband. You will need to cause a big enough distraction that we can enter without tipping anyone off. Can you handle that?”

“I thought Hosea was providing the distraction?” Your mind was turning, scrambling to remember if that was the original plan or if you were suffering from heat stroke.

“As I had said before, Hosea will be needed outside. It would seem awfully suspicious to outsiders if 5 men all seemed to suddenly rush inside together, don’t you think?”

You supposed he had a point. Outwardly, you agreed with him, but inwardly, your heart was pounding. Arthur? Husband? You barely made it through the rest of the session, managing to excuse yourself as soon as Dutch was done talking. Never before had you felt the palpitations on your chest that you did now at the thought of being with Arthur Morgan. Not just being with him, but pretending to be married. 

To say that you had a crush on Arthur was putting it lightly. From the moment you had met the outlaw, the sight of him caused your heart to race faster than his beautiful horse. You could barely speak around him, let alone carry on any conversation, and you were certain everyone in camp knew about it. Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly had approached you just last week to tease you about the way you fumbled over your words when Arthur asked a question. Now you had to pretend to be married?

The group dispersed as Dutch finished his grand lecture, chattering excitedly about the huge score. You felt light-headed and were rooted to the spot. Dutch was right, it should be easy, you had played the actor’s role many times before, but this… This wouldn’t be acting. And surely someone was going to notice that.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

A week passed quicker than any week you’d been through before. You and Arthur had prepared a scene, practicing to get it right, and you were feeling slightly more confident. The cowboy still gave you flutters in your heart, but rehearsed lines were much easier than improvised ones, and you were positive he hadn’t seen the longing in your eyes. It was easy.

But what wasn’t easy was how inseparable the two of you were becoming. Every morning, Arthur approached you near the campfire, offering a small treat, typically a piece of chocolate or a small fruit. The first time, your cheeks had flushed hotter than the summer sun. It hadn’t improved much. You would review your plan for the score, pause for a lunch time meal, and continue in the afternoon. Arthur often seemed to have other ideas, wanting a change of scenery, and you would find yourselves a few miles from camp on some rocky outlook or on a river’s shore, just shooting the breeze while the sun seared high above. Arthur even managed to convince you to leave your horse once, riding behind him with arms wrapped around his chest, content just to be near him. 

Finally, the day arrived. The gang all arose early, gathering their tools uneasily. Nerves always ran high the day of, regardless of how much planning had gone into the score, and your stomach churned. Karen had lent a hat, Mary-Beth a beautiful dress in your most favorite color, and you felt so fluffy and over the top. When Arthur saw you, his face seemed to go slack, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“My, my, Mrs. Morgan,” he drawled, taking a few lazy steps to close the gap to you. “Aren’t you lookin’ mighty fine this mornin’.”

Pouting and embarrassed, you waved him off, brushing a tight curl over your shoulder in a weak attempt to mask the color rising to your cheeks.

“Shut up.”

“Hey, now, I’m only tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He laughed before looking somewhat sheepish himself. “Besides, you really do.”

You paused, taking in his sincere compliment.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t have time to respond as Dutch stepped out of his tent, looking the picture of graceful leadership, commanding everyone’s attention. As you turned your body towards him, you saw Arthur’s gaze lingering on your figure, the dress complementing you perfectly. You focused on tugging on your white lace gloves, trying to turn your ears where it mattered.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

“Alright, Mr. Callahan, now, here we are!”

Your voice pitched up, you pointed out the grandest building in town: the bank. Arthur guided his horse to the hitching post before hopping down, turning to help you down, your big skirt catching slightly and flouncing as your feet landed. Grinning at him, you tugged at his arm excitedly.

“Come on, darling, we gotta go get us a loan! That house ain’t gonna buy itself, you know!”

It was clear you were amusing the man at your side. Your anxiety was causing a jump in your performance, pushing you a slightly uncomfortable bit above believable, but you were pretty and young and the men were watching you. That was all that mattered.

With a grand gesture, you shoved the door to the bank open, stepping into the marbled interior with your boots clicking. The teller glanced up from whatever paperwork he was looking at. For a brief second, he studied the two of you, his eyes lingering on you in particular, before a fixed smile appeared on his face. 

“How can I help you?” he drawled. As practiced, Arthur opened his mouth to speak but you butted in before he could.

“Why, hello, Mr…?” You swept forward, extending a hand for him to shake. He glanced at Arthur in disbelief before gingerly shaking your hand.

“Mr. Monaghan.”

“Oh, Mr. Monaghan, how lovely!” You grinned widely, shaking vigorously. “Yes, me and my new husband here are looking to buy a house! Isn’t that just grand? We just got married, you know, just last week! Oh, we had the most beautiful honeymoon, didn’t we, darling? Traveled to see the ocean, oh it was gorgeous! Simply gorgeous! Have you ever been, Mr. Monaghan?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t. Not the way you planned it.

“The birds were so lovely, there were so many of them! Oh, and the food! Simply divine! Have you had seafood before? Crab, lobster, shrimp, oh it was perfect!”

As you rambled, the doors swung in again, allowing entrance to John and Javier. You didn’t spare a look for them, your energy pointed at the teller, and as planned, he didn’t seem to notice them. Your shrill voice and wild theatrics had his whole attention. You carried on as the men got into position.

“They paired the shrimp with-- What was it, my love? This wine, it was a red, wasn’t it? Or was it a white? Mr. Callahan is just hopeless about these things, you know, I’m glad I’m here to help him. Oh we had the most wonderful time together! I thought it might rain one day, there were these horrible gray clouds, but he told me not to worry, even though I wanted to, and sure enough, the sun was out by dinner time!”

The doors creaked again, allowing the last two men in, Dutch and Bill. All 5 men exchanged a look and, in one swift motion, they pulled their bandanas over their faces and drew their weapons. It was satisfying to hear the clicks of a few hammers. Your grin turned wicked and the teller suddenly realized what had happened. 

“We’ll take that loan to go, if you don’t mind.” You couldn’t help yourself. Arthur quickly stepped forward, shielding you with his body so your face was hidden, and you hurriedly moved towards the back of the men, allowing them to do what they needed. It was relatively painless and quiet, the teller moving hastily and without hesitation, filling bags with money and even allowing them access to the room with the safes. You served as lookout, casually standing at the window to keep an eye peeled for the law. Only when you heard Dutch’s signature goodbye did you turn away from it. Arthur made eye contact with you and playfully raised his eyebrows as he strode towards the door and you, ready to make for the horizon.

Without warning, the doors flew open, banging against the wall from the force behind it. Several lawmen were standing, guns drawn, ready to take out the outlaws. Instantly, shots were being fired. You didn’t know who fired first, but you dove out of the way, gripping your hat tightly so it wouldn’t be left behind. For some reason, your only coherent thought was Karen would have my hide.

Men were shouting, the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Flat on the floor, you couldn’t see anything, only heard Dutch shouting orders, police filling the streets outside, the solid sound of bullets connecting with flesh. There was nowhere to take cover. Somebody stepped on your leg and you gasped from the pain. A hand gripped your ankle and dragged you towards a wall. Panicked, you tried to scramble away until you registered Arthur’s voice trying to reassure you. 

“You boys play nice!” a deep voice bellowed from the porch. “We don’t want no hangings, now, y’here?”

“We will play nice when you play nice, Sheriff!” Dutch barked back. 

“This is a fucking massacre!” John spoke to the room at large. The men that had entered before were all on the floor, blood pooling around them, their guns laying forgotten on the wood. More were shouted outside. They were organizing to block all exits from town. There was no way you were gonna make it out now, you started to fear, and you could see the shared looks of the men with you echoing the same sentiment.

A surprised cry arose from outside as another gunshot cracked through the air. 

“There’s Mac!”

With renewed energy, everyone jumped up and sprang for the door. Feeling marginally brave, you snatched a gun from the floor, hoping you wouldn’t have to use it. Bill led the way out. Javier, John, and Dutch quickly followed, and Arthur made up the rear with you in tow, sticking to him like glue. 

The sun outside was blinding. You barely caught a glimpse of the street before you were rushed down the steps and around the side of the building. Back pressed against the wall, the pounding in your head started blocking out your hearing, and you only felt the vibrations in the air and under your feet. Even with all of Dutch’s careful planning, you were still trapped in this mess…

Arthur shouted your name. He stood, almost pressed to you, eyes burning. You snapped to attention, gun at the ready.

“We gotta make a break for it! Be ready on my count!”

It was all you could do to nod. You saw his horse in your peripheral, antsy and pawing, but waiting. You tried desperately to calm your breathing and gathered your skirts up out of your way. At the mark, you all ran, each in slightly different directions to mount their horses, spurring before fully mounted. Arthur was first and you scrambled after him, latching onto his arm and using the momentum of his horse to swing your leg over, skirts be damned. With a sharp cry, he urged his horse forward and away from town.

For a brief moment, you were free. Pounding hooves sounded behind you but were fading fast. The shouts of men continued to rip through the air, but you realized that they, too, were slowly growing faint.  And then a stabbing pain exploded in your thigh. A scream escaped before you could stop yourself. Trained well, Arthur didn’t stop his horse, but he tried to see what had happened, calling back to you with increasing desperation. You had been shot. The panic, the shortness of breath, and now the pain was too much. In a surprisingly short matter of seconds, black filled your vision and you were gone.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The rustle of the trees. The soft sound of running water. Crackling of a campfire. Low voices outside your tent. Your hair brushing your face. Dull and throbbing pain in your leg. Heaviness in your chest. And, finally, the realization you were laying on a cot and not your usual bedroll. 

Slowly, your eyes blinked open. This definitely wasn’t your tent. These weren’t your blankets. Only the soft glow from the fire and a few lanterns shone on the one canvas wall. It was enough light to see that this was Arthur’s tent, the small table with his journal and flower, his photographs on the wagon side. His smell on the blankets. You breathed in deeply.

A snort by your feet caused you to startle. Sitting up slowly, you saw Arthur slumped in a chair, his hat drawn over his face, arms crossed as he breathed evenly, the occasional snore breaking the silence. An strong and sharp pain made you hiss and, in turn, woke the outlaw from his slumber. 

“You’re awake,” he mumbled, barely awake himself as he sat up. 

“Regrettably…”

“How’re you feelin’?”

“Honestly? Not great,” you said, chuckling a little. “But I’ve had worse. Why am I here?”

“Thought you might like a real bed. Well, realer than your bedroll. We can put you out for the wolves, if ya like.” His teasing tone was back, but it was more strained than normal. He looked absolutely exhausted. 

“No, this is fine. It’s… nice.”

Silence fell again. You stared at a thread on the sheet while Arthur stared at you. Usually there was a party the night after a big score, everyone drinking and being merry. There was a strange lack of boisterous laughter, though, and you had the weird feeling it was your doing. 

“How did we make out?”

“Oh, we escaped,” he said, leaning back in the chair again. “But we’re trapped here awhile, there’ll be law crawlin’ everywhere for a few weeks.”

“How much?”

Not even your fixation on the money got him to crack a smile.

“Dunno.” Shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve been in here, makin’ sure you don’t die.”

Arthur’s behavior was bizarre. You hadn’t seen him behave this way when another gang member was injured, not even when John had nearly been lost last year, and it was starting to worry you. Was there something else you didn’t know about? Was your injury more serious than he was letting on? For a moment, you studied his face, the ache and shadows clear in the weak light, and your heart skipped a beat when you saw the barest sign of a light track down his cheek.

“Arthur…” 

It was such a soft whisper, you weren’t sure he had heard you at first. He lifted his eyes to meet yours. You tried desperately to read him for a second before finally caving.

“Arthur, what happened? Did someone not make it?”

At long last, he managed a short huff of air that might be mistaken for laughter. Shaking his head, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he ran his hands across his face, removing his hat and setting it on his wardrobe. When he looked at you again, he actually had a small smile, and relief had replaced what you had mistaken for grief.

“No, no, nothin’ like that.”

“So what’s the matter?”

He tilted his chin up, exhaling long and low towards the sky, seemingly contemplating something. It was quiet for an achingly long time. Another deep sigh and he brought his chin back down, meeting your gaze steadily.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he murmured. “I heard the shot, your scream… I thought you were gone for sure.”

Okay… you thought, still bewildered. We’ve almost lost people before. What makes me special?

“And I didn’t get the chance to tell you…” You had seen him struggle with words in the past, but this was different. It was almost as if his voice was physically fighting him on saying anything. “I couldn’t stand to lose you, truth be told. You mean-- That is, you’re very important-- That’s, well…”

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes as you realized what he was trying to say. You didn’t dare utter a word, hoping, begging him to just spit it out. You weren’t positive this was happening, as now you were almost certain you had actually died and this was the beginning of your personal heaven.

“I can’t lose you, darlin’.”

The tears spilled over and dripped down your cheeks. You couldn’t even feel the pain in your thigh as it felt like a major weight had been lifted off of you. Arthur was startled, concern growing once more on his face at your tears, but when you started to grin and laughter bubbled up, he relaxed and looked as embarrassed as a school boy, dropping his eyes and smiling himself.

“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me to hear,” you finally said, shaking your head at the silliness of it all. “I can’t lose you, either, Arthur. You mean the world to me.”

Slowly, the cowboy rose from his seat and approached the edge of the cot. You gingerly shifted yourself over to allow him to sit beside you, and he took the opportunity. You soaked in the other’s presence for just a moment. With the softest gaze you had seen from him, Arthur returned his attention to you. He lifted a hand to cup your face, his rough thumb stroking your cheek as he drank in your features, looking truly content for the first time. Gracefully and ever the gentleman, he tilted your face up to meet his as he carefully kissed you. It was light at first. He was testing the waters, not pushing too fast. But when you met him eagerly, he leaned in, hard. 

You didn’t dare breathe for the duration of the kiss, your heart a frightening combination of pounding and not beating at all. The taste of whiskey lingered fresh on his lips and left your mouth tingling. When Arthur pulled away, you shifted forward slightly, not wanting it to end. But, courteous as always, he pressed a lingering kiss on your forehead and then sat back again. Your eyes flickered all over his face. You were still unsure if you could catch your breath.

“Wanted to do that for a long time,” he muttered. All you could do was nod. Wow…

“Can you stay with me?” you blurted out. “Tonight?”

“O’ course,” he agreed. He tugged his boots off as you scooted as far over as you could, lifting the sheet for him to crawl into. Warmth radiated from his skin and it was like stepping into a comfortable bath as he wrapped his arms around you. You sighed into his chest, drinking in his smell with your face buried in him, hands gripping his shirt. The dull sting in your leg was in the background of your mind. It didn’t matter to you, though; you were safe here. And this wasn’t going to end any time soon.

[roadkillxd]

❝ prompt: puppy play. ❞

Another Vern and Hawk fic. For context, Vern was trapped in the Upside Down for a while before this and is still recovering. Rick is their big German Shepherd! Hawk is @deardmvz’s baby.

↪ 2658 words — 18+ / SMUT — tw for non-reader fic, panic attacks, vomiting, pet play, and crying.

Vern wakes with a start, sitting up in bed. He puts a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath his palm. The air conditioner emits a rattling noise that makes his skin crawl. 

His brain is buzzing with anxiety. He looks over to make out the dark shape of Hawk sleeping soundly, blankets gently rising and falling with his breathing, the occasional stuttering snore escaping from him.

Rick looks up at him from the edge of the bed, head tilting to the side, his fluffy ears twitching.

Vern releases a shaky breath and slips out from under the covers, fumbling to put his legs on before stumbling towards the door. The black-out curtains leave their bedroom entirely dark, but the rest of the house is lit in a cool morning blue as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. 

He pads down the hallway, leaning one hand against the wall to support him, body feeling light and fatigued. Rick walks along that side of him as well, letting Vern lean some of his weight on the shepherd’s large figure. 

He manages to make it to the bathroom before falling to his knees in front of the toilet. He gags and chokes, stomach twisting with anxiety. Rick licks his arm as he vomits. The contents burn his throat, coming up liquid-y and mostly clear.

He climbs back to his feet when he’s done, flushing the toilet before heading through the kitchen and living room.

He pulls open the heavy wooden front door, letting it thud against the wall, followed by the screen door that he holds open long enough for Rick to pass before it swings loudly shut behind him.

He stumbles to the edge of the porch and plops down, pulling his legs close to his body and crisscrossing them. He runs a hand through his sweat-slick hair, shivering at the chilly breeze that brushes his damp and heated skin.

Rick lays down to the left of him, setting his big head down on Vern’s lap. Vern lets his eyes flutter closed, lashes stuck together with sweat and residual tears, listening to the morning birds chirping and singing away. The rustling of leaves soothes him. The air is thick with morning dew, small clouds of fog drifting along the damp grass. 

He wraps his arms around his own torso, an involuntary sob slipping from his lips as he begins to cry, shaking from more than just the cold now.

He takes in gasping, shuddering breaths, trying his best to fall silent when he hears the floorboards creaking from within the house. 

Hawk coughs and gags, spitting into the sink. There’s the sound of shuffling and ceramic clinking. The gurgling and bubbling of the coffee maker running. The tinkling of the coffee streaming into the pot. 

Vern wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand as Hawk steps through the doorway, metal creaking. He sits down beside Vern with only enough room between them for Hawk to set down one of the coffee mugs, the one with the cardinal painted on it, the other plain mug cupped in Hawk’s right hand. He takes a sip of his dark coffee, then a drag of the cigarette snug between

his left pointer and middle fingers.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Vern quietly sniffling, coffee untouched. A tufted titmouse lands a few feet away from them, hopping around, pecking at unseeable bugs within the damp grass before taking off.

“Bad dream?” Hawk finally speaks, his voice more gruff than usual, scratchy with sleep. His words are thick around the cloud of smoke he exhales.

Vern shrugs, turning his head ever so slightly to stare. His chops are wild and unkempt, long hair knotted and tangled. He looks tired, still trying to wake up. He’s wearing a ratty old band shirt with some stained sweatpants, fluffy slippers pulled on. Vern’s just in his briefs and a tight t-shirt. The condensation on the porch is making his ass wet.

“I don’t remember it,” Vern begins. “Just… that it was...” he exhales, releasing a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping defeatedly. He gestures vaguely, unsure of how to describe it.

Hawk nods, pursing his lips in a tight, ingenuine smile.

“Think you could stomach some breakfast?”

“I don’t know,” Vern shrugs again.

“Could you try? For me, maybe? Just some scrambled eggs, and I got that Texas toast you like from the store yesterday.”

Vern remains quiet for a moment, pulling at a loose thread on the hem of his boxers. He finally lets out a shaky sigh, giving a small nod of his head.

“Good man,” Hawk smiles, scooping up the untouched mug and climbing to his feet. “It’s cold out, lovey, why don’tchu come inside, huh?”

“Alright,” Vern murmurs, shakily standing. Rick rises with him, acting as a support once again. Hawk holds the door open for him as he passes, hobbling into the kitchen nook to collapse into one of the wooden chairs, the seat creaking under his weight. 

He lays his arms on the table, burying his face into them. His stomach is sickenly empty and it growls at the smell of the eggs and toast being cooked. His body is so tired, and he doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until he’s waking up to Hawk soothing his hand through his hair. It’s longer now, past his chin when it’s not slicked back. He hasn’t cut it ever since he came back.

He slowly lifts his head back up, Hawk keeping his warm hand at the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb in little circles. He looks up and Hawk gently smiles.

“Sorry, know you could use the sleep but, food’s done. Need you to eat.”

Vern nods, a little dazed, feeling out of place. 

Hawk sets two plates down, sitting across from Vern as he begins to dig into his food. Vern stares at his own for a moment before picking up a fork with shaky hands. He weakly scoops up a small amount of eggs and shovels them into his mouth, chewing slowly. Hawk watches him eat and smiles again.

Progress.

Vern manages to eat the entirety of his eggs and toast, his stomach luckily settled for the time being. Despite it, the thoughts begin to swell and buzz again as Hawk stands up to wash the two plates. He sets his elbows on the table, pressing the ridge of his palms to his eyes as he cries. 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Hawk urges as he comes back over, placing a big hand on Vern’s shoulder. Vern shakes his head, voice thick with mucus as he speaks, his tone almost petulant.

“M’not tired anymore.”

“Vern, sweetheart,” Hawk sighs. Not disappointed, never disappointed, just… sad. He crouches down beside Vern, pulling at his wrists, urging him to turn sideways in his chair to face him. “Can you look at me, Georgie?”

Vern sniffles, taking a moment before he finally looks up to meet Hawk’s gaze, his own eyes red and puffy, dark circles swelling underneath them.

“Why don’t we play, huh? Would you like that? Try and get you out of your head for a bit,” he presses his hand to the side of Vern’s cheek, smiling when Vern nuzzles into his palm. Vern emits a whine, closer to a squeak, far in the back of his throat as he nods. There are still tears slowly streaming down his face, and Hawk carefully wipes them away as they fall. 

“Alright,” Hawk lets his hands trail down, gently working to slip Vern’s legs free. “Let’s just get these off real quick.”

He gently sets the prosthetics aside, grabbing Vern around his torso to carry him into the living room, Vern clinging tight to him like an ape. It takes some prying to get him off, gently setting him down onto the floor, helping him maneuver until he’s on his knees facing the La-Z-Boy. 

“Good boy,” Hawk praises, scratching at the back of his neck, “Stay.”

Vern takes a deep, shuddering breath, listening to the retreating footsteps of Hawk heading down the hall and into their bedroom. He returns momentarily, the soft sound of metal jingling permeating from behind Vern.

Hawk settles onto his knees with a grunt. He carefully brings the leather collar around, snuggly fitting it around Vern’s neck. He loops it shut, slipping two fingers in between the thick material and Vern’s throat, humming pleasantly at the perfect fit. 

“Just going to pull these down a bit,” Hawk whispers, pressing a kiss to Vern’s shoulder, over one of the many moles that scatter his pale skin. Vern lets out a little gasp at the cold lube pressing against his hole.

Hawk shushes him, his forehead resting between Vern’s shoulder blades. Vern’s careful to keep his hands where they’ve been positioned on his thighs. Hawk’s thick finger slips into him easily. He works Vern open slow and sweet, taking his time to stretch him out on three of his digits, basking in the tiniest little moans and whimpers Vern makes. 

Hawk pushes the sizeable plug past Vern’s stretched and puffy rim, watching how easily he gives to the intrusion. He slides his boxers back up over his ass, picks up the small remote, and steps around Vern to settle into his chair with a relaxed groan.

He flicks the toy onto the lowest setting, smiling at Vern’s shocked gasp, the way his hips involuntarily rock forward as the plug begins to buzz within him. He already looks a little out of it, though Hawk blames it mostly on the lack of sleep.

“Come on, boy,” Hawk urges, patting his thigh, “y’can hump my leg, if you want.”

Vern whines and shuffles forward, carefully straddling Hawk’s foot. His hands grip tight just below Hawk’s knee as he begins to rut his hips forward, mewling at the rough contact to his leaking cock, dampening the front of his briefs. 

Hawk hums approvingly, switching on the TV to idly watch the morning news. He occasionally flickers the speed of the vibrations, bringing it up and down based on how needy Vern’s sounds get, on how close he is to his orgasm. 

He looks down when Vern leans his cheek against the top of his knee, his tongue lolled out as he pants, hips stiltedly working against his calf. Hawk runs his fingers along the expensive black leather of the color, tugging on it ever so slightly to make Vern moan. 

He strokes a hand through Vern’s sweat-slick hair before pulling back to fumble with his sweats, shoving them down enough to pull his cock free. Vern whines, eyes fluttering shut.

“C’mere, boy, just for you,” Hawk urges with a hand at the back of Vern’s head. Vern goes easily, freeing one hand from his grip on Hawk’s leg to hold Hawk’s cock steady as he laps at it, wet and sloppy, occasionally drifting up to suckle at the flushed red tip. Hawk notices Vern’s hips cease moving and gives him a few soft taps to the side of his head. “Keep doing your thing, lovey.”

Vern slowly begins to pick up his pace again, nails digging into the thin cotton of Hawk’s sweatpants as he nears his orgasm, moaning and crying. His eyes are completely glazed over, eyes half-lidded and drool leaking out of his mouth. Hawk’s never seen him so far gone, deciding to take pity on him and put the vibrator on the highest setting.

The toy buzzes incessantly as Vern’s moans get louder and louder, his hips stiltedly bucking and hole clenching tight as he comes, burying his face again Hawk’s skin, where his thighs meet the base of his cock.

Hawk quickly switches the vibe off, running his fingers through Vern’s hair as he comes down. They take a few minutes before Vern is shifting out of Hawk's way so he can tuck his still hard cock back into his sweats. He reaches down, slipping his hand underneath Vern’s briefs to slowly pull the plug free.

Hawk sets the toy aside on the tea table and lifts Vern up into his arms, carrying him to the bathroom. He’s grateful he’s maintained his strength, easily holding Vern in one arm while he begins to run a bath with the other. 

Once the tub fills with hot water he sets Vern down within it, slowly to let him adjust to the temperature. He pulls his wet briefs and shirt off afterward, trying to limit the amount of time they’re separated. He quickly strips and climbs in behind Vern, pulling him tight to his front.

Vern is already half asleep, head lolling forward tiredly. His eyes are still glazed, his mind fuzzy and hazy. Hawk instinctively begins to rub little circles with his palm over Vern’s stomach, slowly applying pressure in a type of massage. It’s something he started doing after Vern came back in an attempt to soothe his consistent stomach aches.

It’s developed into a bit of a fetish for Vern, though, and he moans brokenly as Hawk presses down, digging the heel of his palm into his abdomen.

Hawk lets out a soft, content breath as Vern gently grinds back against his half-hard cock, never having fully softened. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to Vern’s throat as he grips tight at his hips, picking him up out of the water just enough to sit him down on his cock.

His dick slides into him surprisingly easily and Hawk groans low and deep, drowned out by Vern’s desperate mewls as Hawk slowly begins to roll his hips upward, grinding into the tight, wet clutch.

Hawk fumbles with the shampoo dispenser, squirting some into his hand before reaching to wrap around Vern’s cock, coaxing him back to full hardness, his free hand still massaging at the younger’s abdomen.

“That’s my good boy,” Hawk breathes out against Vern’s ear, voice gravelly. Vern sobs in response, his cock giving a hearty twitch in Hawk’s hand. 

Hawk lets himself get lost in the sensation—the warm, wet heat of Vern’s body. The soft noises that escape past Vern’s lips as he rolls his head back against Hawk’s shoulder.

His back suddenly arches as he squeaks out a moan. Hawk strokes him through his orgasm, milking him. Vern clenching down around him is enough to bring him to the brink. He gently bears his teeth against Vern’s flesh as he comes with a rush of air blown through his teeth.

Vern’s body sags forward, going entirely limp. Hawk has to wrap both arms around his torso to keep his face out of the water. Hawk takes a moment to catch his breath before fully pulling Vern back against him, hooking his chin over Vern’s shoulder to look at his face.

He smiles at the sight that greets him; Vernon blissfully asleep. His eyes are peacefully closed, mouth slightly agape as he takes slow, even breaths. The fading flush on his cheeks reveals the dark spatter of freckles against pale skin over the bridge of his nose. 

Hawk pulls the plug on the tub, using the fall bar to help pull himself up, his other arm tediously cradling Vern. He turns him around so he can carry him easier, padding into their bedroom.

He settles Vern onto his side of the bed, pulling the blankets over his curled-up form before moving to the opposite end and crawling in beside him. 

Vern stirs slightly at the movement, eyes fluttering open for a second with a confused whimper.

“Jus’ me, lovey, it’s jus’ me,” Hawk soothes, pressing a chaste, quick little kiss to Vern’s lips, soothing his hand through his hair. 

Vern hums contentedly, quickly falling back into his slumber. Hawk lets out a relieved sigh, wrapping his arms around Vern’s body and pulling him close, more than happy to just sit and hold Vern while he naps.

[debiteful]

Would it be possible to request this?: It's winter, and a naga haven't been able to find shelter in time. A friend of their's, either an anthro!pelican or merperson, came to them and offered them a warm place to stay. The naga couldn't help but chuckle a bit, because how where they supposed to carry something as big and long as a naga? However their friend did end up surprising them. (Contains: Safe vore, same size (possibly larger prey), willing.)

Contains: Safe vore, soft vore, larger willing naga prey, anthro pelican pred, large bulging belly, mild discomfort, protection vore

Normally Nick didn't spend much time where other people were. They were noisy, smelly, and distrustful of nagas like him. However, this winter had been unkind to him so far. The first big snow had come before he expected it and it had collapsed a large part of the roof of his home out in the wilderness. Between the icy shell around everything and the bitter winds, he hadn't been able to find materials to repair it. He had been essentially homeless for a couple days now. His scales were dull and he was shivering constantly; being half warmblooded just wasn't enough with this weather!

He was thankful that his food stash had escaped most of the damage. Being hungry on top of all this would've been awful. However those supplies wouldn't last forever.

Today he was looking forward to a supply drop-off from his favorite mailman, Samoset. The stout pelican wasn't one to chatter on meaninglessly, and was fairly tolerable compared to most people. He always had something good to say and was very serious about his duties. Nick liked to think that they were friends, though the state of their relationship had never been spoken about.

The shivering naga waited all day for his friend to arrive, but he never came. At first he thought the delivery bird might just be running late; it wouldn't be the first time. However, as the day wore on, and there was still no sign of him, Nick began to get frustrated.

As the sun was setting, he decided he had had enough. Sammy just wasn't coming it seemed. Beyond that, the clouds were low and dark, sure signs of a snow storm coming. He didn't want to spend all night in the miserable weather. The Naga slithered out, shivering all the while, intent on getting to town.

Meanwhile, Samoset was having one heck of a day. The intern didn't show up to the mail room so he was left to sort it all out himself, and run deliveries. He got so caught up in the flurry of work that he nearly forgot about his special delivery. By the time he did remember, the sun was low on the horizon. He left the post office in a flustered flurry of feathers, the sled with the building materials for dear Nick trailing along behind.

The narrow forest trail was blanketed in snow, and by the looks of it more was on the way. Sam was thankful for his tall boots and that the wide sled glided on top of the thick snow. He trudged along dutifully, even as the first snow flakes started to fall.

The world became a cool, dark blue as twilight came and the sun went. He was only about half way to his destination, but something up ahead blocked his path. The long, dark form lay along the trail; what an odd way for a tree to fall. Samoset wasn't going to let a little hurdle like that stand in his way, especially when he had come so far.

As he approached, he made out limbs- hair and scales?! He threw the sled's tether back onto his cargo and hurried forward. He fell to his knees near the fallen naga's head. Sure enough, it was Nick, his whole body trembling.

He looked up at Sam with eyelids hanging low. He yawned as best he could despite chattering teeth, "Samoset? Finally."

The pelican chuckled, his empty pouch wobbling as he shook his head wryly; only Nick would be on death's icy doorstep and still gruff as ever. Sam brushed the snow off his friend, "Come on, I gotta get you somewhere safe and warm."

Nick giggled, the sound carrying on far too long and vibrating with his jaw. It was the first time Sam had heard him laugh at all! 

"What is it?" The concerned bird pressed.

"H-how issss a little g-guy like you gonn-na to c-carry a long, heavy fella like me any-where? I'm like- pure muscle and that ain't light-t-t." It took the words much too long to get out given how badly his teeth were chattering. His whole body spammed with each shiver now, leaving him twisted and quivering on the path. 

"Its okay," Sam assured him, "I got you now. Hauling around parcels all day has left me strong," he added with a grin. 

He knew what needed to happen next, but he was reluctant. It could completely alienate Nick. Even as a naga, Sam knew he didn't take live prey often. On top of that, they never were allowed back out.

He shuffled to the end of his friend's tail and picked it up in both hands. Then, he pushed it into his mouth, sending the tip right to the back to be swallowed. Hand over hand he pulls the scaley tail into his maw. With each gulp he picked up speed, the excess sagging into his mouth pouch and making it bulge. Cool scales clacked against his short beak as he devoured his friend.

All the while Nick hardly reacted. The warmth of the postmans body felt like he was being consumed by fire. His whole body burned with light pinpoints as his frozen nerves thawed. Sam could feel the tip of the serpents tail waving inside his gut, but the upper body was still except for the frequent involuntary shivers.

With expert precision Sam tucked Nick's hands into his mouth. The naga wiggled his fingers as they warmed, "Th-th-thanks".

That was the last word Samoset expected, and it brought a warm glow to his cheeks. He smiled and gulped down the last of his naga pal, his head sliding along the bottom of the stretchy mouth pouch.

Once his endangered friend was down, Sam was able to focus on just how full he was. Chill air nipped at his exposed belly through the fluffy layer of feathers that covered his body. His uniform had popped right open, leaving his stretched gut full of Nick sagging out freely. He could see rounded shapes of his friend coiled up into a bundle im his stomach. The tension ached a little, but it was well worth it. 

With work strengthened limbs he supported his massive belly, hands cradling its bulk while legs straightened and carried him back down the trail. When he got to the sled, he let his lumpy load rest upon the building supplies. The sled sank, but not completely. With a pleased grin, Sam pushed off and began the cold walk back into the town.

The streets were devoid of people thankfully. It wouldn't do to have the local postmaster become the talk of the town for eating someone. He pressed on merrily towards his home along the dark roads.

As he warmed up, Nick became more active inside him. Long coils shifted around to expose new areas to the warm, soft flesh that enveloped him. He also squirmed to get comfortable, much preferring the softness of Sam's belly or stomach walls to the firm base of building supplies that the stomach rested on.

When Samoset arrive home he crawled right into bed. He lay on his side with his giant belly cushioned on the mattress beside him. He was unsure how long Nick would need to recover. Hopefully the night was long enough, plus perhaps some warm drinks in the morning. And of course they would need to bring extra when they went to complete the roof repair. Thinking about it, he figured he should really just book the whole day off. Such thoughts filled Samoset's mind as he drifted off to sleep. Nick had already fallen asleep before reaching the house, so comforted and warm was he.

[citialiin]

ooc ; thank u for tagging me in fun memes and stuff! ヽ(　･∀･)ﾉ so i dont flood ppls dashes i just wait until i have a few & put them under readmores.

HORROR ARCHETYPE AESTHETICS tagged by: @ betelguide

GOTHIC HORROR.

gaslights.   corsets.   ballrooms.   candlelight.   mist.   starless nights.   full moons.  cobbled streets.   horse-drawn carriages.   mysterious strangers.   bogs.   moors.  forests.   mountains.   castles.   velvet.   silver.   brass.   gold.   jewels.   domino masks.   the opera.  dangerous romances.   tragic romances.   violins.   roses.   lilies.   empty graves.   crosses.   cemeteries.   snow.   ice.   the gallows.   crows.   milk-white skin.  ambiguous illness.  fangs.   pointed nails.   something howling in the night.   capes.   gloves.   top hats.   straight razors.   lightning.   pipe organs.   underground caverns.   bats.   mice.   rats.   ravens.   cats.   pearls.   attics.   talismans.   axes.   wood.  isolation in a room full of people.   vampires.   werewolves.   ghosts.   coffins.   western europe.   eastern europe.   bones.   churches.   catacombs.   mausoleums.   spiders.   books.

CLASSIC HORROR.

black   &   white.   powder puffs.   red lipstick.   winged eyeliner.   white kitten heels.  black lace lingerie.   icy blue eyes.   rain.   abandoned cars.   skeletons.   acid.  poison.   voyeurism.   switchblades.   strangling.   overcoats.   looking over your shoulder.   trans-atlantic accents.   private detectives.   dinner parties.   haunted mansions.   alcohol in glass decanters.   cobwebs.   perfect blonde curls.   kitchen knives.   shock.   cellars.  dust.  dark alleys.   empty streets.   driving at night.   horn-rimmed glasses.   radiation.  zombies.   serial murder.   paranoia.   the city.   witches.  the devil.   cannibalism.  conspiracies.   amulets.   abject terror.   the american south.   the american northeast.    england.   analog cameras.

SLASHERS.

bloodbaths.   massacres.   wanton nudity.   newspapers.   leather jackets.   letterman jackets.   converse sneakers.   obscured faces.   social unrest.   bonfires.   lakes.  babysitters.   suburbia.   high school.   lockers.   dead leaves in the fall.   jack-o’-lanterns.   outdated television sets.   nightmares.   psychiatrists.   hospitals.  unstoppable forces.   gunfire.   police.   landline telephones.   household objects turned into improvised weapons.   halloween.   secrets.   revelations.   character masks.  scrunchies.   queerness.   wild curls.   morbid humor.   jeering children.  parties.   fire.   swearing.  revulsion.   california.   the american midwest.   ambulances.

PARANORMAL HORROR.

malevolent spirits.   seances.   spells.   missing bodies.   hidden graves.   white noise.   static.   flickering lights.   rings of salt.   demons.   poltergeists.   dark histories.   old buildings.  cold air.   mausoleums.   wells.   urban exploration.   a dog barking at something you can’t see.   black ooze.   old photographs.   faces you can swear you’ve seen before  but can’t for the life of you figure out where.   dark bodies of water.   crucifixes.   priests.   possession.   exorcisms.   dolls.   jump scares.

CRYPTID   &   URBAN LEGEND HORROR.

ALIENS.  blinding light.   dark woods.   driving at night.   claw-marks.   bite-marks.   men in black.   memory loss.  dismembered bodies.   sewers.   flashlights.   cell phones.   video cameras.   cars with tinted windows.   abandoned houses.   unlabeled cassette tapes.  bugs.   big cities.   urban crimes.  clowns.   something rustling outside your window. glowing light.   unsolved mysteries.   suburbia.   mirrors.   the american pacific northwest.   the american midwest.   the american east coast.   hiking   /   backpacking.

THRILLERS.

daylight.   fluorescent lighting.   morgues.   asylums.   unwavering eye contact.  tension.   lit rooms with no one inside them.   a dog digging in the newly-planted flower bed.  steely gazes.   paperwork.   anagrams.   codes.   convicted killers.  missing persons.  law enforcement.   federal agents.  small towns.   suspicion.   paranoia.   subdued terror. dimly-lit parking lots.

CLASSIC NOVELIST AESTHETICS tagged by: @ finestprize

JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets, flowers in the rain, sunlight slipping through clouds,  lazy summer afternoons, the heavy scent of musk, flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books,  fireflies on a cool summer night, being wrapped in fresh bed sheets, the ache of wanting what you can never have, dripping sunlight like gold,  loving someone so exquisite,  soft lips and soft whispers, fingers through hair, names of lovers carved in trees, broken glass,  the insistence of being perpetually dreamy.

F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   crisp winter skies with cold bright stars,  mahogany wood, the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog,  empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room,  bruised arms reaching out into the darkness,  cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol,  a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered, the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment,  your favorite sweater, parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing, the contrast of blood against snow,  a purple split lip oozing blood,  black eyes fading to blue to pale skin,  the butterflies of falling in love for the first time, the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries,  the romanticization of self-destruction.

FRANZ KAFKA.  the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future,  decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there,  the way not even light can escape a black hole, the rich smell of old books, delicate veins in the wrist, ghosts filling lungs,  shattered bones,  raindrops on the tongue,  rusting metal, nostalgia that aches,  the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head.

H.P. LOVECRAFT.   the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave,  pouring rain and mud, a child’s fear of the dark,  thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never-ending ocean,  the silence of three a.m.,  ouija boards and urban legends. (WHO WROTE THIS???? HAVE YOU EVER OBSESSIVELY POURED OVER HP LOVECRAFT LIKE I HAVE??? THIS SUCKS!!! THESE ARE NOT HP LOVECRAFT AT ALL WHERE IS THE SECTION ABOUT CLIMBING UP MOUNTAINS TO SUMMON ELDER GODS AND HOWLING AT THE MOON LIKE A MADMAN AND HAVING A WIZARD BEAT YOU TO DEATH IN YOUR OWN HOUSE)

JACK KEROUAC.   the brisk pine air of being on a mountain,  travels without a destination,  those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory,  screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive,  coffee shops late at night, car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark, naps spent in the sun,  novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins, the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders, ignoring flaws and loving life,  wind through hair,  depression as fog in the brain, impossible ideals, a quiet sunrise,  walks alone, when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe, dazzling people, open lands stretching out into infinity, falling in love with being alive.

EDGAR ALLAN POE.   the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog,  hollow bones,  a preserved heart held in hands,  twinkling stars above an old graveyard,  the way everything turns to dust,  silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom, self-inflicted flames,  perfection depicted as a rotting corpse,  death as bricks in the heart,  lips barely brushing against each other, glassy glazed eyes,  biting into a lemon,  heart-shaped bruises,  rotting flowers on a grave,  dried blood and spilled liquor,  the hush of dusk when it begins raining,  the intimacy of a secret.

LITERARY ARCHETYPE MEME tagged by: @ manenimittliv

HOMERIC EPITHET:  You are THE GREAT TELLER OF TALES

The Greek hero Odysseus had many epithets ascribed to him (others included “much-enduring,” “cunning,” and “man of twists and turns”), and this was one of them, so you’re in good company.

FATAL FLAW: YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH THE IDEA OF A PERSON.

And then I deleted the rest of this because it didn’t really apply to him. Oh well

LITERARY SETTING: GATSBY'S MANSION

You got Gatsby’s mansion! This larger-than-life crib is the perfect place for a party animal like yourself. It’s located on the Long Island Sound (ideal for swimming, lounging, obsessively staring across the water with a LaCroix in your hand and unattainable fantasies on your mind, etc.), but it’s also just a train ride away from New York City (city of dreams and $1 pizza). But let’s not forget the best part: it’s got a library that’ll make you wanna grab a fluffy blanket and a chai latte and literally never see the light of day again.

this is a lot of useless information. steal them if youd like

[alleiradayne]

New Frame of Mind

For @inquisitor-julia‘s 2,000 Follower Giveaway, @geekyblackchic won 2nd Place, which was a 2,000 word one-shot written by yours truly. Congrats to @geekyblackchic! And thank you so much, @inquisitor-julia, for allowing me to participate in your giveaway!

New Frame of Mind

Ora Lavellan receives regular letters from her closest companions, and through their friendship, she finds hope for the future after the events at the Exalted Council.

Word Count: 2,721 (whoops!) Featuring: Ora Lavellan, memories of her companions Dorian, Cassandra, Cole, and Varric. Rating: SFW (some angst, some hope, and lots of coping)

A cool breeze rippled the canvas of Ora's tent, rustling the parchment in her hands and racing gooseflesh along her arms.

Wind. Wind between feathers, lifting, soaring, flying. The horizon stretches, reaching, tilting. You love to drift among the clouds but have forgotten how.

Ora recalled the once forgotten memory with stark clarity, Cole’s words resonating in her heart. Flight. She smiled with fond reverence as she remembered their conversation; Ora had not felt the wind buffet her wings in what had to be an age, a closed chapter in her book.

Difficult enough losing an arm, Ora Lavellan had lost more than that after the events of the Exalted Council. The anchor had exacted a high price, the least of which had been her limb. Fickle thing, magic. And most of all, shapeshifting. Such an intense form of transfiguration. Mages often transformed other objects, but those that mastered the art transformed themselves.

In the weeks following the Exalted Council, Ora struggled. And that struggle stretched for months. No shapeshifting. And no hunting wild game. Unreliable, her standard magic often destroyed most creatures. And failed shapeshifting left her terribly vulnerable. That loss had seeped into the depths of her very soul, leaving her hollow and empty, a shell of her former self.

Her memory continued as her thoughts wandered, manifesting in a cool autumn day not unlike today. Cole had found her alone on the high ramparts of Skyhold. His words resonated in her mind as if she sat there with him once again.

It’s not the arm that matters. The form you take doesn’t care how many arms you have. Spiders have twice as many limbs as us, but mages mimic all sorts of spiders, big and hairy, small and spiny. I like the fluffy ones with big eyes. The Witch's spider scares me…

A full belly laugh filled her tent as she recalled Cole’s cryptic words, but he had spoken the truth. Morrigan’s spider form was the stuff of nightmares.

Another breeze snatched at her letter, and her focus returned to Cole’s most recent letter.

You can have your wings again, soaring and sailing on the currents of the sky. The Fade eats limbs, but it never devours your dreams. It breathes life into your lungs, full and free to be whatever you wish.

Cole’s letters rarely lasted more than a few thoughts, always mysterious but never without purpose. They harkened background to a time when she had needed his wisdom and his compassion most.

I died, alone, cold, and terrified. But I never wanted to die, I wanted to live, to help, to keep others from feeling what I felt as the Fade took me away. Skyhold helped. Old and powerful, sleeping, slumbering, but waking with your presence. A spirit brought me to you and here I remain. To help.

He had helped, and in ways Cole would never understand. He believed in her when few others had, when even Ora doubted herself. And after Solas, after the Viddasala and the Exalted Council, Cole had been a beacon of hope, a sheer force of willpower that pushed her to try harder every time she failed.

Ora considered her missing appendage, now replaced by an ethereal, shimmering limb. Illuminating the canvas of her tent in a faint blue glow and casting sharp shadows in the far corners, she twisted the arm as if it were her own. A marvelous feat of magic. And for the first time, it felt like hers, whole, complete.

Despite the bitter memories, her companion’s letters tugged at her heart, lifting her spirits whenever she wandered lost in a forest of guilt. She shuffled through the papers, sending Cole’s to the back and finding Cassandra’s next.

Inquisitor It will take me an eternity to get used to addressing you without your title. And a part of me will always consider you the Inquisitor, even though the Inquisition no longer exists as it once did. It still pains me to recall the Council, how Ferelden and Orlais treated you. Considering the circumstances, I’d hoped they would see reason. But I shouldn’t be surprised.

I digress. How are you fairing? Have you found anything? I miss our conversations, your company. Maker, to think, the last we saw each other, you had nearly died…

But thanks to Cassandra, she had not. With years of battle under her belt, the Seeker had leapt into action the minute Ora had returned to Halamshiral. Cut off the infection, stop it in its tracks. But that meant losing part of her arm. The alternative was anything but.

I worry about you. I know you’re doing well, but I still ask. And while least important, I know it matters to you: how is your magic behaving?

Always practical, Cassandra broached a subject with less tact than a charging druffalo. But it drew a smile from Ora despite her choice of words, selflessness beyond measure. Cassandra put the needs of others before her own, most of all her friends. And she had put Ora first, above anyone, following the Exalted Council. Though that time had not lasted long, Cassandra’s resilience in the face of defeat proved invaluable.

Think of it as an opportunity. To start over. To learn again. To learn a new way. If Varric has taught me anything these last fifteen years, it’s that there’s always a better way.

And she had been right. The loss of her arm had forced Ora to relearn everything she understood about magic. Though unpleasant, it had been worth every minute she had struggled, for now, Ora’s magic rivaled that of the most powerful mages. And she had Cassandra, as well as Cole, to thank for that.

Not to mention Dorian. The next letter in her stack bore the seal of the Tevinter magister. And to think, not five years prior, any letter with that seal would have instilled fear and panic into any recipient. But in those five years, Magister Pavus had paved the way for a new Tevinter, starting with his humble beginnings in the Inquisition.

My Dearest Ora, I hope this letter finds you, first, and if it does, it finds you well. I appreciate all your work on improving our sending crystals, and when I next see you—most likely not in Tevinter—you’ll have mine for the work it requires.

True, their sending crystals provide futile after several months of use. Ora’s initial investigation revealed attunement issues, the bond between the pair of crystals fading over time. She had made improvements to her own but required Dorian’s to finish the process, permanently linking the two for good.

Which reminds me, you might want to stay away from Tevinter for a time. Locals, including other magisters, have noticed a large grey eagle that they are claiming has graced our skies as some sort of good omen. As pleased as I am to see you back in fighting shape, I worry the magisters are getting the wrong idea. Which isn’t surprising, and it won’t be the last time they take the most far-fetched idea away from something as mundane as a fucking bird. No offense, of course, my dear.

And of course, Ora took none. How could she? Dorian’s strict retraining efforts had been as important, if not more, than his support. Though not trained in the fine art of shapeshifting, Dorian understood the mechanics of magic, the intricacies of balance between not only raw elements, but of power and control as well. Where most mages followed written formulae and studied books, Dorian concocted his own brand of magic with exquisite detail, a creativity Ora found necessary given her physical and mental state after the Exalted Council. Dorian’s words replayed in her mind as if he stood beside her.

I cannot imagine what you’re going through, Ora. Few mages ever face what are staring down at this present moment. All challenges aside, I believe that you are more than capable of relearning all you once knew, and more. But it will take time

What you now lack in physical form must be balanced with mental acuity and power. Your elements are disjointed as well and will require recalibration, but be cautious here. One miscalculation and you could find yourself completely fucked. This will not be easy, but lucky for you, I’ve been fabricating magic most of my life, and there aren’t many better at it than I, if do say so myself. I would one day see you surpass me.

Though that education had lasted only months, Ora learned everything she could. But before long, Tevinter had called and Dorian had left Skyhold. And their brief time together at the Exalted Council fell short of fulfilling by leagues. It had been his final words before departing that had meant more than she had realized in the moment.

You did the right thing, Ora. You always do. Trust yourself. Believe, as we do, in you.

Another smile lingered on her lips before Ora returned to Dorian’s letter. He wrote of change in Tevinter, of subtle plans and less than subtle scheming. And, as always, he left her with another professional piece of advice on redesigning magic for her differently-abled body.

The hand might help you feel whole again, but never forget it is not real. It may feel real, and it may even look real beneath a sleeve and glove. But it is not. And that is okay. Use that to your benefit. Imagine the look on your assailant’s face when he thinks he’s got your wrist but then poof! It’s gone and you’re sprinting down the street.

Leave it to Dorian to think of a practical benefit to lacking a wrist. But he had a point.

Don’t forget, your magic is yours alone. Use it as you see fit.

“I will, Dorian.”

His letter found the bottom of the stack as Ora moved to the next piece of parchment. There, the sigil of House Tethras bound the folded stock, red wax pressed with a neat stamp. She popped the seal free and read.

Hey, Shifty. Been a while. This Viscount nonsense keeps me busy. You knew that already. But it doesn't keep me busy enough that I couldn't write more often. Sorry about that.

He apologized in every letter, never excusing himself or asking for forgiveness. Not that he had done anything that required her forgiveness. He wrote her more often than any of her friends, and at once a week, Ora mused he wished he had the time to write her every day.

I hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary lately. Thought you might have quit searching, gave up. But a rumor cropped up this week and well… life is stranger than fiction, as they say. So, here’s me asking if you’ve been flying around Tevinter the last month or so.

Ora laughed again, relishing Varric’s surprise as another rumor of her grey eagle circling Tevinter reached his ears. Creators, but she’d never meant for the tale to grow so tall. Or long. An eagles’ penchant for circling and excellent eyesight provided the perfect cover for searching. How anyone had blown such a trivial and mundane event so out of proportion never ceased to amaze her.

If so, I’m happy to hear you’re flying again. Nothing pained me more than the months after the Exalted Council. I was of no help. Definitely not with magic. I'm handy with a quip here and there, but even my words failed me. Shit, you’d think I’d be better at it but, I’m terrible. Writing drama was never my strong suit. Forget helping a real person suffering something as difficult as you did.

“Oh, Varric,” Ora started, “you helped in ways you'll never know."

He'd been the first to console her and the last to leave Skyhold. Varric's keen sense of the mortal condition disputed his letter; while his books might contain the utmost contrived of narratives, his words and his company had lifted her from the darkest depths of her fall.

You can't keep sleeping all day, Shifty. Trust me, I've tried. The weeks after Bartrand... had it not been for Hawke, I'm not sure where I'd be right now. Probably crazy as Bartrand.

Most mornings following the Exalted Council had started the same way, Varric climbing the steps to her room and sitting on the chaise until Ora found the drive to get out of bed. Sometimes he brought breakfast, other times sweet pastries. And with each conversation—wherein Varric talked at length and Ora listened—the sun rose a little brighter each morning.

When was the last time you even tried to shapeshift? I know I'm talking out of my ass here, I know shit about magic. But seriously, when was the last time you even tried? How do you know it'll be terrible? And even if it is terrible, so what? Get back on the horse. Just because you fell off doesn't mean you can't get back on it. Granted, missing half an arm might make that a little harder. But you find a new way, right? Instead of getting on from the left side, get on from the right.

That had been the last morning Ora slept in past sunrise. With a newfound sense of determination, she had set out to relearn everything, challenges be damned.

And now, two years past, Ora sat in her tiny canvas tent, the whispering of Harvestmere crisp on the cool dawn breeze. Varric's letter meandered as it so often did, hopping from subject to story to scandal as quick as a frog leaped lily pads. And in closing, he bid her good luck in her search and, as always, to write more often.

With the final letter finished, Ora added them to the growing stack in her leather-bound folder. Secured from the elements, she cherished those messages sent from every corner of Thedas in the capable hands of Leliana's scouts. Alone, they kept her company, and on darker days when her mood sank and her magic still struggled to cooperate, she reread them. There she found courage, willpower. An unmistakable drive to carry on, however wayward she might have become.

As they days grew shorter, Ora spent as much time as possible in the sunlight. But that morning, she had burned enough time on letters she might have otherwise read by candle light. Except on days like these, when the creeping hints of malaise teased the fringe of her subconscious, her mental health took priority over all else.

Ora crawled from her tent, another day of hope and promise ahead of her. A rustle of leaves scattered across her campsite as the wind gathered momentum, building in a sudden rush of gusts and lashes that grasped at her robes. That wind encircled her, pressing closer until a tight swirl of air encased her in a protective shell.

Fear loomed. Doubt reared. Imbalance threatened. Every failed attempt, every botched shape, every crumpled figure since the Crossroads crushed her spirit in that interstitial space between thoughts. She would fail again, as she had so many times before. And she would be left vulnerable, alone with no one to defend her should she need it. The racing thumps of her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs as if to escape, as if to burst from her chest and abandon the terror that pained her so. Creators, why? Why had they abandoned her with such hopelessness? What had she ever done to deserve such a fate? Her vision blurred, tears gathering from the wind or from the alarm bound so tight in her chest, Ora was unsure. Tension grasped every muscle in her body, wrenching and writhing to be free of the trepidation that plagued her. Breath sucked from her lungs in terrified gasps, too much, not enough. Dizzy, spinning, the world tilted, turned, twisted...

It had lasted but a second, the amalgamation of her fears fading to tiny specs in the distance like the trees beneath her beating wings. Higher and higher, Ora climbed for the clouds, the wind racing between her feathers once more. And in that ascent, in that effervescent transcendence, Ora soared.

Fear faded. Doubt receded. Balance restored.

And there, far off in the distance, lay Tevinter. Ready. Waiting.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to reblog!

[readerwinterbarnes]

Come Fly With Me

Bucky x Willow OFC

Summary: Sometimes it takes a new friend, a new discovery, a different adventure to help forget the past and fly towards new beginnings.

Word Count: 1,886

Warnings: Little angst, hurt Bucky, sad, fluff

A/N: I suck at summaries, but I hope you guys like this one. :)

Bucky’s been living in Wakanda for the past year recovering from his ties with Hydra. It wasn’t an easy process and it definitely wasn’t enjoyable. It was painful, having to relive his darkest memories in order to overcome them. But now, having to meet with therapists, training, and meditating with T’Challa was certainly helping.

T’Challa was working with Tony on getting Bucky pardoned of his past actions that were clearly not his doing, but Hydra’s. Trying to give him a clean slate, a fresh start on life. Of course the other Avengers, besides Steve, needed more convincing before they all agreed to have Bucky step onto American soil. And the results weren’t looking so good. T’Challa was more than fine with having Bucky live in his palace, under the protection of his country, even going so far as offering him permanent residence if he so chose. Bucky knew it would kill Steve if he decided to stay there permanently, but it looked like he wasn’t going to be welcomed back anytime soon. Free from Hydra or not, others still managed to hate him.

Thus the reason behind Tony’s and Steve’s visit to the king. They were informed of Bucky’s progress, how it seemed to be slipping, put on hold. He refused to talk to his therapists, his counselors, take part in anything as he started to shut the world out. This was two weeks ago.

T’Challa leads them outside, to the further gardens of the property, but still well within distance if a threat arose. “He’s been there most days, only coming in when he feels most at ease. However, he seems to bond immensely with our other guest as well.” T’Challa pointed towards a figure several feet away from where Bucky was sitting on a rock. The figure was watching as the birds flew in the sky, catching the wind with their wings.

Tony and Steve watch as the figure reach behind her and rub her shoulders, over the long vertical matted protruding scars exposed from her black tank top. Tony instinctively rubbed his chest where his arc reactor was. Even though it was gone, it still was matted with scars. So he could relate entirely, being self-conscious of what was permanently etched into your skin.

“Who’s that?” Steve asked T’Challa, who just gave a small smile before gesturing to an area in the garden where they could still and still observe the two.

“Her name is Willow, I found her in my garden one day watching the birds. She was no threat, but badly damaged in more ways than one. So I offered her shelter and protection.”

“And the scars? What happened there?” It was Tony’s turn to ask. They turned to T’Challa when he sighed heavily.

“That is where the damage starts I’m afraid. Willow is no ordinary human, she is a mutant. From what I gathered and of what she was willing to share with me, she had wings that could carry her through the sky, dance amongst the clouds, and soar through the trees. But her father thought differently.

He wasn’t an admirer of mutants and imagine his surprise when he found out his own offspring was one. He acted out in a deranged anger, cutting away the one thing that made her happy. So she ran, packed only the belongings that held value and never returned to Xavier’s school for gifted children, due to the fact how everyone stared at her and what was once there.” Tony and Steve sat there in mixed emotions of anger, pain, and sadness.

“So the bastard cut off her wings just because she was a mutant?” Steve huffed out angrily, trying his best not to want to hit something.

“From what she is willing to tell me, yes that is true. Though I believe he did much more, I do not wish to cause her more pain. She has been through enough.” The king turned to watch Bucky as he stood up from where he was sitting and slowly made his way towards Willow. This grabbed the king’s attention right away because Bucky has never made this action before. So the three men watched anxiously to see what he would do.

Bucky knew the reason why Tony and Steve were here, knowing that T’Challa informed them of his failing progress. He didn’t mean for his therapists to become frustrated when he refused to talk to them, share his feelings. It’s just some days were worse than others and some nightmares linger and take a hold of you for days on end. So Bucky always found himself drawn to the lush garden in the back of T’Challa’s palace, surrounded by the calming aroma of the flowers. He’d spend all to most of his time here, it wasn’t until last week he noticed he wasn’t alone.

After a while, he managed to gather the courage to walk up and talk to her. He found out her name was Willow, why she was here and why she was fascinated with birds. They met a few times whether inside or outside and just talked when they felt the need. Or when life became too much of a burden. How much physical scars still managed to haunt those who wore them? Completely ignoring the curious eyes, he sat down next to his quiet new friend.

“What does it feel like?” Due to his super hearing, he could hear the shocked gasps from the other three. Just because he’s not talking to them, doesn’t mean he’s not talking at all.

Honey amber eyes locked with his blue-grey ones as Willow turned to face her friend, brushing away her hair when the wind blew it into her face. “What does what feel like?”

“The clouds,” Bucky looked towards the sky where big fluffy clouds lazily floated past. “You told me you used to fly amongst them. Feel the cool droplets on your feathers.” His eyes dropped back down to Willow, watching as a nostalgic smile slipped on her face.

“They feel like a soft mist when they touch your skin. As if you are dreaming on the softest pillow you could ever find. And the air, the air was so clean, so pure. It was nothing I’ve ever felt before, but then I was strong enough to go that high. I felt so free.” Bucky could feel her heart break as she looked to the sky in longing. Desperately wanting to fly with the birds again, feel the wind in her face, see the beauty above all the death and destruction the Earth seemed to be covered in. Nothing but clouds and clear skies.

The three observers watched as Willow dropped her head onto Bucky’s shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to his side. She curled up against him, making herself as small as she could. It was then, that Tony believed he could help Bucky’s friend. He made Bucky a new arm and with the help of Bruce and T’Challa’s finest, Tony believed he could help Willow gain what she lost.

It took time, but Tony and T’Challa were able to come up with a serum based off of her mutant DNA and fix a few strands. In the end, Willow was able to slowly grow out her wings. It wasn’t easy and it was very painful.

They had to make sure they grew out correctly and not crooked. After the damage her father did, they had to plan carefully and with precision. There was no room for error. A few months later, Willow was fully healed from the process. T’Challa, Tony, and Steve stood just outside the door leading to the backyard as they waited for Bucky to bring her outside.

It didn’t take long for the couple to step out the door and once Willow’s wings made contact with the sun, everyone stopped breathing. They were breathtaking, the sun’s rays making each feather shimmer like bronze. They watched as she spread out her wings, ruffling them to catch the sun’s warmth. Well, Bucky was the one that was truly watching. He noticed how the feathers fanned out as if they were trying to reach for the sun. How the muscles in her back moved along her shoulders as she stretched. Her breathing coming out smoothly, calmly, despite having the extra weight behind her.

He smiled fondly at her, as she tilted her head back, rolling her shoulders before looking behind her at them. With a twinkle in her eye, a huge smile on her face, she bolted. Running down the path, her wings moving as one as they pushed against the air. Bucky listened as her laughter echoed as she took off into the sky. Spreading her wings even further, soaring high amongst the clouds.

“Well, looks like she’s going to be just fine,” Tony said with a smile on his face. They watched as she came back down, expertly landing in front of Bucky.

“Come fly with me?” Willow held out her hands towards him, smiling eagerly. Bucky looked shocked, eyes darting between them and the others.

“What? H-How?”

“Come fly with me Bucky,” Willow wrapped his arm around her shoulders, her own wrapping around his waist, “just don’t let go.” With a few strong flaps of her wings, they were off the ground and soaring high up into the sky and way above the clouds. Bucky closed his eyes as he felt the wind blow across his face, as he breathed in the vast amount of fresh air. But wasn’t what made him gasp, it was what she brought him up to see.

His eyes grew wide as he looked across the horizon. Colors of purple, pink, red and orange clashed with blue as the sun began to set. It was remarkable, nothing like he’s ever seen before, not even a camera would be able to capture its beauty. He turned his head back to gaze at Willow, who was watching him contently.

“It’s beautiful. Is this what you saw every time you came up here?”

“Yeah, all the time. Even when a storms coming, I like to come up here and see it.” Bucky nudged his nose against hers, smiling lovingly at his girl.

“Thank you, doll, for sharing this with me.” He pecked her lips, sighing as she kissed back.

“Thank you for helping me, Bucky. For giving me hope and being the air beneath my wings, even though they weren’t there.” He kissed her forehead, settling his eyes back on the drooping sun. They stayed that way until the air became too chilly and Willow’s wings began to tire. As their feet touched solid ground, they were met only by T’Challa and his personal guards.

“Tony and Steve have left for their quarters and would like to share their congratulations. It is nice to see you happy Willow, and James?” Bucky looked questionably at the king.

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“Welcome back.” T’Challa tipped his head out of respect, Bucky returning the gesture before he made farewell and headed back inside. It was good to be back, Willow got her wings back, Bucky found himself again and things were mending. It was very good to be back.

Motionless Tag List:

@marvel-fics  @green-spotlight  @sebs-sugar-cookies  @akm0o  @extraterrestrialsky  @allyp1023 @skeletoresinthebasement

Help Me Tag list:

@believeitseeitdoit  @ellen-reincarnated1967  @suchwildloveisthis  @skeletoresinthebasement  @9erfect-9osts  @loverofthosebands  @xoxoaudreymarie  @dead-silence  @winter-in-wakanda  @azaleawardrobeo  @isaxhorror  @lostinspace33  @musichowler  @callie-swagg1 @capandbuck @sorryidontspeakgrounder-world @everythingintensifies @melconnor2007 @screechinginternetcoffee @hellstempermentalangel

Everything Tag list:

@sebseyesandbuckysthighs @marvelatmytrash @oh-goodness-loki  @jotink78   @foreverlovecaptainswan  @pickylittlebitch  @just-call-me-mrs-captain  @buckyismyaesthetic  @imgettingmarriedtobuckybarnes  @shes-a-little-weird-but-perfect  @anxuanpham  @saladalpaca  @specs15  @morganosborn101  @earinafae  @frolicsomefawkes @chameerah  @sorryidontspeakgrounder-world @the-witching-hours12-3 @unevenpages @midzilla9957 

Some names wouldn’t let me tag you :( 

[hellogreenergrass]

Signy Island - Week Six

18th January

Snowing again. And windy. And generally a bit Polar. Despite these clear signs that today should be an inside day, a day where you hide in your heated laboratory and bask in the technological and mechanical advances that have allowed humans to house themselves on a remote Island in the full force of the Southern Ocean. Wondering if you should put a jumper on, not because you are cold, but because it would make you feel even cosier. Or whether you should treat yourself and put your tea in the thermal mug with the Tardigrade on it that your (very considerate) friends brought you. The advantage being that you could have a large supply of hot tea on your desk without having to strain yourself to go to the kitchen to make another when you inevitably forgot about it and it went cold. Such luxuries are afforded on inside days, all the while the Polar winds whirl outside, forcing the seals into the ocean and birds back to their nests in order to wait it out. This was today.

But I didn’t do any of this. I gamely dragged myself and Iain, to be my field assistant, out into the field to drill 88 soil cores spread over hilly and coastal, weather lashed terrain. Each point to be sampled was 100m away from the other, in a grid nearly a kilometre wide and long. This sounds straight forward enough, especially when planning such things on maps. In reality, one point may be at sea level and another 100m away could well be at the top of the cliff. Or in the case of one point, over the edge of a cliff on a steep and disintegrating bank of moss and scree roughly at an angle of 60 degrees, sometimes more.  I’d set out the grid on my own a few days earlier, and whilst I followed my GPS over the edge of the cliff where it indicated the next point was to be, I wondered if maybe I should go back to base and rope up. I decided not and plunged forth, immediately regretting my decision as I downclimbed what turned out to be an unreversible move. It was later pointed out to me that when one is in a situation where they think, “maybe I should do this thing, like rope up and abseil, or call base and let them know what Im doing”, then that is probably the thing I should do. But I styled it out with an ingracious amount of bum sliding, swearing and a heart rate of at least 250bpm. Safe to say Iain and I found an alternative route, approaching the point from the ground up, rather than giving ourselves over completely to gravity and the God’s of misadventure.

Despite the appalling conditions we had a great day out. Iain is good company and made a dull job brighter, if not the weather. In part because of the large amount of innuendo about large penetrating rods into moist substrate….trust a Glaswegian.

20th Jan

I bum lifted today! No, this was not a crude endeavour you filthy minded so and so you. Nor is it innuendo, (well, sometimes it is around here) but is in fact what we call chick counting when the penguins are still sitting on them. Because you have to lift up penguin bottoms. You see, much more delightful than what you were thinking! I was Stacey’s field assistant for the day and we needed to count the Chinstrap chicks over at Cummings and the Moyes Corrie area on the West Coast of the Island. It’s beautiful around there, and the high winds that still hadn’t dissipated from earlier in the week, only added to the drama. Big waves crashed over icebergs in the bay, the mist continuously rose and lowered it’s skirts, so that every few minutes another part of the view would be teasingly revealed or tucked away. I find that clouds and mists on mountains give a good sense of scale, as if we innately equate a cloud with a certain distance. They belong in the heavens, and we on Earth, and mountains are where they meet. Us tiny specks of biology in comparison to either.Or maybe thats just the romantic in me.

Cummings Cove is also home to the Cummings Hut. A battered and bruised relic of early polar adventures, that was all the lovelier for the brow beatings that Antarctica had furrowed upon its walls. It is essentially a roof planted on short, thick stone walls, with the door attached to the roof and slotted into the allocated space, as if the whole structure came as one piece and just needed a few feet of stone to raise it up for head clearance. It felt very Alpine. The roof has recently been replaced, and just the other week Iain and Matt came out to replace the chimney vent. And on this trip Alex painted the front door to match the fascia. Its now a bright blue (Cuprinol Beach Blue in fact!) and alongside the roof and gables that are ‘BAS Green’, a sort of pale sage, it looks quite fetching. Inside, the hut contains a worktop the length of one side with an array of tinned and dried food stuffs: namely a worrying amount of processed cheese in tins, several butts of drinking water and the Tilley lamps and Primus stoves of yore that furnish all our huts. Along the other side are two bunks with fleece skins over the mattresses for warmth and a mound of down sleeping bags of varying ages, sizes and perfumes. A small Perspex window looks out from the rear gable over the cove and the dozens of fur seals that live there. We stopped briefly, leaving Alex to stock up the first aid kit and finish the paint work, before heading out to count the penguins.

To get to Moyes Corry and the majority of the Chinstrap colonies that we needed to see today, we hiked up the short but steep scree and snow slope that makes the Southern edge of the bay and Cummings area. At the top, the ridge was greener than expected (for a ridge) and on closer inspection showed a multitude of colours and textures in the diverse array of moss and lichen species present. This was Cryptogam Ridge. Naturally. (FYI: Cryptogam is a plant with no true flowers, cryptogram on the other hand is code breaking). Down the cliff from here was our first colony and out of 35 nests this year, only 2 chicks have made it this far. In previous years there have been three colonies at this spot, but today, only one. And this one doesn’t appear to be having a good year. Stacey and her colleagues suspect the combining doom of climate change and the El Nino to be the indirect cause.

Next we had to ascend a small peak and then traverse across its Southern slopes of perilously placed scree, before shuffling our way down the final descent – a 50 degree slide of snow, ice and loose rocks. Remember that here in Antarctica, the South facing slopes are the ones kept shaded and cold, not the North face! A mile more and we arrived at the biggest colony on todays survey list: A few hundred nests of chinstraps. I gloved up, armed with a spray can of blue sheep dye to mark the nests we had checked off, and got lifting! Taking a cluster of nests at a time, I offered my right hand in a distracting  sacrifice to the understandably furious pecks of the parent penguin, whilst lifting its tail up and counting the chicks beneath. Sometimes there was nothing, sometimes an egg, but usually it was a grey fluffy mass  and sprawling wings that stares blankly at you with the blackest little eyes, like beads of onyx dropped into a mound of silvery fuzz. The chicks vary in size, from the recently hatched that are smaller than my palm, to the huge and frankly ridiculous chicks that are near the size of their parents. All the more ridiculous as their parents are still sheltering them, but as they are so big now the parents are lifted clear of the ground and balance atop a massive fluff bundle. So I repeat this process for the best part of 200 times: bend, lift penguin, get pecked and hit (flippers hurt!), shout out the number to Stacey and then spray the rock adjacent blue. Sometimes the nests were at the bottom of the cliff, so I would scramble down to the surging waves, slipping on the rock as my boots – now weighing a few extra Kg with congealed penguin shit – struggled to take grip on the frictionless schist rock. Shit on schist.

At the final colony, we looked down into a wen that was flanked by hundreds of meters of soaring cliff. Stacey pointed out the nests of sea birds that I had overlooked, too distracted by the view of a Moe Island. Moe is essentially a mountain in the sea, and a spectacular feature of Signy. The island stands maybe a mile offshore, perhaps less, and the bulk of it is a mountain peak. Although the whole island cant be more than a kilometre or two in diameter. There is a brief plateau on one side, before the land gives way to a sheer cliff into the sea. Today it was snow capped and what had been huge waves crashing the beach at Cummings, now looked like sloshing ripples lapping at pebbles under the mass of Moe. The cool thing about Antarctica is that latitude has already done the work of altitude. We may live at sea level, but to all intents and purposes it’s the same as being a few thousand meters up in the mountains of Europe. So smaller peaks that we would not even consider a mountain back home, are very Alpine. Both in topography and climate. A hill of 50m above sea level  has more in common with the high mountain plateaus of Northern Norway than anything at the same level back in the UK. Stace and I both stood in silence taking it in: Just beneath us a flock of Cape Petrels floated in the sea, hundreds of them bobbing like black and white flotsam in the swell. Our view stretched to the horizon and it was exhilarating knowing that there was nothing but open ocean for thousands of kilometres, and in fact if we set sail from here and just let the winds take us, we wouldn’t make land fall again until we hit the South Orkneys from the other direction. Such are the currents of the Southern Ocean, circling around and around the continent. I felt so very very lucky to be here.