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camaro-and-smokes · 2 years ago

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Dream a Little Dream of Me

Chapter 3: The Way You Look Tonight

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington Characters: Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Chrissy Cunningham Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Billy Hargrove Lives, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Gay Billy Hargrove, Bisexual Steve Harrington, POV Steve Harrington, POV Billy Hargrove, First Meetings, Dreamsharing, Fluff, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Billy Hargrove, Dreams and Nightmares, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Harringrove, Protective Eddie Munson, Billy Hargrove and Eddie Munson are friends, everyone is grown up, innuendos, Steve Harrington is not so innocent...

Links to other chapters in Chapter one >>

Read on AO3 >>

Summary: Steve takes Billy to a dinner, so naturally Billy is concerned if Steve is ready to take him as he is: something that doesn't fit into a box other than himself.

Author notes: I'm sorry that this story is the only one that comes out right now 🤷♀️ I hope you enjoy it though 😉

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Billy stood in the middle of Eddie's living room with the nicest makeup he'd ever done, his hair on a loose bun with strands of hair on the loose from it, faux feather earrings hanging in his earlobes, rings in his fingers, wearing tight black jeans, a well fitting but tasty black shirt with buckled straps to keep it together, boots with high heels - and looking miserably at Chrissy. "He said to come as I am. But I don't know if he can take me 'as I am'." Chrissy sighed having tried to convince Billy of his looks for the better of a half an hour. "Billy, trust me. You look absolutely stunning. Tell me again why wouldn't he take you the way you are?" "Because I don't fit in a box?" "Why would he want you to fit in a box of any other than your own?" Billy bit his thumbnail. "Because who he is. What he does." Chrissy smiled. "Listen. You go there just as you are, with that lovely makeup, and jewelry, and stunning as always even if you're just wearing such a simple setup, and I'm so jealous of you looking so good just like that, by the way. If he can't take it, then you know at once it wasn't meant to be. That's a good thing." "But what if..." "No what ifs. We're asking a straight guy perspective to this right now. Eddie! Come here!"

Eddie, who had known from experience to steer away when Chrissy gave Billy one of her many pep talks before his dates, walked into the room. "Ok. That's...Hargrove, wow!" Eddie stuttered, and looked Billy from head to toe and smiled. "You look good. And I'm not just saying. He's one lucky guy getting you." Billy raised an eyebrow as he scowled at Eddie, Eddie being one of his few childhood friends, pondering if he should believe his words. "Fine, I believe you," he finally grumbled. Then he looked back at Chrissy, smiling, and they both broke in giggles. "Oh god, I'm actually going on a date with Mr. Big!" he said excited. "I'm so excited for you!" Chrissy replied. "You make sure to text me immediately when you get back, ok? I want to know everything!" “Well, if everything goes well...You might not get a text until morning,” Billy smirked.

-oOo-

Steve called Robin immediately when he stepped into his apartment from the elevator. "I found him," he said excitedly when Robin answered. "Who?" she asked. "The woman from the dream," Steve said as he walked into his walk-in wardrobe, pulling his tie open. "You said he," Robin said confused. Steve went through his shirts and pulled out one of his favorites, a cream one with tiny moss green gears in it. "I know. I was the one who got it wrong. It was a he from the start."

Robin was quiet.

Well, that was a first. Steve stopped going through the rack of black slacks when she remained quiet. "Hey, are you there?" he asked exasperated. "I am! I'm just totally and utterly speechless. It was a man?" "I just said so! He has long blond hair, and the bluest eyes, and longest lashes. When you see him you understand how it was so easy to mistake him for a her." Steve paused what he was doing at the sock drawer, and stared in front of him for a moment, grinning. "And boy, does he love high heels." "Sounds like someone has already fallen quite hard." "I might have taken a jump of sorts..." Steve admitted, his cheeks burning. "Let me guess: the heels sealed the deal?" Robin teased. "Oh, ha ha." "Well, at least you have something in common for sure. So, how did you find him?" "Actually, it was he who found me. He'd had the same dreams as I did." "That is scary." "He'd also had the nightmares, which is even more strange. And some of his acquaintances had had them too. Apparently they went away when they sorted out their lives. Which makes sense."

Robin coughed in the other end. "So, how did he find you?" "He's a writer, he used a photo bank to find me. Then he was just waiting for me to stop by the coffee shop downstairs while he was there. Today it happened." "For once being photographed and having your address freely on the net paid off." "Exactly. Listen, could you do a background check on him for me?" Steve asked as he was going through his belts and settled for a simple Gucci one. Robin was quiet for a moment. "Uh, Steve? You think about being serious with him?" she asked hesitantly. "I wouldn't ask otherwise," Steve said casually, and looked at the row of jackets trying to decide if he should go for something earthy or more colorful. "Steve, then he's not just someone you need to be able to trust. If you want him to become your significant other, he needs to be able to trust you too. If I run a checkup on him, and you can't keep it to yourself - which is very likely knowing you - it'll make a dent to the relationship when he finds out you did that and didn't trust him. It would be so much more better if you did the checking the old fashion way, and just asked him yourself. If he's serious about you too, he'll tell you." Steve sat on the bench in the wardrobe and rubbed his eyes with his hand. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just...uh, I’ve never felt like this. I just want him to really be the one, and everything to happen already."

"Hey, this is a prime opportunity to finally put all that charm of yours to actual good work to help you get somewhere, and not spend it on cheap escorts." "Hey, they're not cheap. Oh, which reminds me: pay the madame and make sure all the girls get a proper tip. I won't be needing their services any more." "Finally a smart move from you, and one I've told you to do for a long time," Robin sighed. "Thank you for the reminder, Robin, head of my security," Steve said sardonically. "You're welcome, Steve, my best friend since teens," Robin replied with a matching tone. "Well, I'm off to the shower, I'm having dinner with him in..." Steve glanced at his watch, "in 15 minutes, shit! I thought I had more time. Fucking Zooms! People keep talking in them as if they don’t have to be anywhere... Eh, could you call the restaurant to ensure that the hostess takes care of him until I get there? Oh, and ask Jim clear me a bigger parking spot in the garage, will you? I'm taking the black Merc out." "Wow." Robin was stunned and silent for a while. "Uh, sure, sure,” she said genuinely surprised. “I'll make the calls. So, what's his name? I have to dig him up now, since you actually seem to be serious with him. You don't show that black beauty just to anyone."

-oOo-

A big, black Mercedes was waiting in front of Billy's apartment building, the driver by the open backdoor, when Billy walked out. The driver didn't say anything during the drive, and Billy didn't mind. He was so anxious about going on an actual date with Steve ‘Mr. Big’ ‘Mr. Fortune500' Harrington, and looking the way he himself wanted to look like every day, but couldn't. Or maybe at this stage it was probably more that he just wasn't brave enough to look like it on a daily basis outside his home. The world no longer minded, and he knew that some mascara, eyeliner and lip gloss wasn't that much. But for him it still was. It had just been few years that he'd properly embraced who he really wanted to be, and with all of that he was still a work in progress.

But he had to do it for Steve. Steve needed, he deserved, to see who he really was, from the very start.

When the car pulled over in front of one of the most prestigious restaurants in Chicago, Billy's heart was pounding in his ears. The driver opened the door, and Billy walked in to the restaurant. He asked for a reservation on Steve's name, and the hostess told him that Steve hadn't yet arrived, but that he'd left a note for her to take care of him until he would. She led Billy into a booth in the quiet back end of the restaurant, and asked what he'd like to drink while he waited. He asked for the house red wine, because what the hell one glass of wine did on the most important date of his life – nothing.

Sometime later Steve parked the black AMG Mercedes Coupé in the garage under the restaurant. He got in the elevator and was soon walking towards his own table in the back of the restaurant. He saw already from afar that Billy was seated at the table, back turned to him, and he stopped for a moment a few tables away to take in the curly blond hair on a loose bun, rings clinking as Billy moved his hand to catch a stray hair and pull it behind his ear.

Steve had waited this for so long, and finally... He almost choked to the thought. It was time for him to stop clinging into the dream and start living it for real. He took a deep sigh to steady his breathing, and walked to the booth.

Billy turned his gaze up from his wine glass at Steve like in slow motion, and smiled a shy smile.

Steve felt breathless. Billy had looked good in the morning, but now he looked simply...otherworldly.

Billy blushed when Steve didn't say anything but just looked at him with a goofy grin. "Hi.” Steve was wearing more casual clothes than in the morning when he'd been on his way to the office, and while Steve's style wasn't what Billy usually went for in his men, he could definitely get used to the well tailored suits and casual Gucci jackets.

"Hi," Steve said his voice a cracking a bit. He cleared his throat. "Uh, hi," he tried again. He took off his coat, and sat across the table. "You look lovely." Thousand butterflies got loose in Billy's stomach. "You sure about that?" he asked his gaze moving back to the wine glass and then back at Steve haltingly. Steve let out a breath and smiled. "No doubt about it." After a while of just staring at the beaut in front of him who was smiling at him so endearingly shyly, he remembered that he should probably do something. “Uh, I see you ordered wine. Do you want more with dinner, or...? I remember you said something about it earlier.” “Yeah, uh, I'm good with just this one. Just sparkling water with food, if it's ok with you?” “Absolutely. Do you want a menu, or would you trust me to order for us both?” “I assume you're paying then, too?” Steve smiled, and beckoned to the waiter, who came to take the order.

When the waiter was gone, Steve looked back at Billy. “You said that you write books.” “You have an excellent memory. Yes, I do.” “When things are important, they stick," Steve said. "So, what kind of books?” “Uh...Well...” Billy looked at his wine glass again and felt the tips of his ears burning. “Something that, eh, pays pretty well.” “Really? Are you a famous thriller writer?" Steve smiled. “Uh, no,” Billy shook his head, chuckling. “Something more for...feminine taste.” Steve looked at Billy for a while before it clicked. “Oh. Right.” “Yeah...” Billy said, blushing. “Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of. So, a nice income then?” Billy shrugged. “Let's just say that I don't have to worry about how to pay bills that much anymore.” “And you have a pretty nice apartment, too, according to the address.” “It's ok. For someone who's single.” “Ah,” Steve said, feeling his cheeks heating up. “Well, if we go there...Then, I, uh...I'm not dating anyone at the moment. Either.” “That's good. It would be embarrassing if you were. Considering where we are,” Billy said, and looked around before looking back at Steve. “People might see and start talking,” Billy teased, and took a sip of his wine, playing with the foot of the glass with his finger once he set it back down. Steve chuckled. He leaned to the table, and reached to Billy's fingers, running his fingers lazily against Billy's. "You know, it's not like I take this kind of precautions for just any other date. It has to mean more for me to do that.” “Oh,” Billy raised his eyebrow. “I must be special then,” he cooed. “Oh, yes. You are,” Steve said, and took Billy’s hand in his. “Very." "Even though I'm not the usual...?" "Who wants usual?" Steve frowned. "You are...an acquired taste. Something I can't get out of my head," he said, smiling. "You're quite a charmer, you know that?" Billy said, and smiled the widest smile, biting the tip of his tongue. Steve shook his head taking a deep breath to try to calm the chills Billy's smile let loose on his skin.

Their discussion was interrupted by the waiter who brought them their food.

“So, maybe we should get the obvious things away from the table?” Steve asked as he cut his steak. “I'm sorry that I'm blunt, but I need to know.” “No, it's ok, don't worry. I appreciate it a lot actually,” Billy replied, and taking another sip, larger one, of his wine. “Makes things easier when you don’t have to guess.” “So...My net worth is somewhere in nine digits. I'm the second founder of the firm I work in, and I live a very nice life. Into which I'd very much would like to find a companion, someone for life. Where are you in life and what do you want from the future?” “Well, I'm pretty happy with my life. I have no idea what my net worth is, but I work enough to make a decent living, I have savings, and I get to do what I love for living. Everything else to that is a bonus.” “What if you face a situation where your life would change drastically from what it is now?” “You mean going from normal to jet set over night? Fast cars, private planes, yachts, holidays in Europe whenever you feel like it? Guarded life inside high fences and bodyguards?” Steve just looked at Billy, not saying a word. For he had already worded everything. Billy took another sip of his wine. “Uh...I haven't really thought about it. It's our first date. But I'm not here because of what you have. I'm here because...how you made me feel. In the dream. Like I said, I would be here even if you were a nobody.” Steve smiled. “I'm here too because of how you made me feel in the dream. I hope we get to that in real life soon, too.” Billy returned the smile, and tried to eat at least something from his plate. A swarm of butterflies was churning in his stomach, and hardly anything else was fitting in there right now. “What about kids?” Steve asked before he took another bite of the steak. “What about them?” Billy asked. Then he raised his gaze from his food to Steve and looked at him wide eyed. “You have kids?” he asked, incredulous. “Oh, no, I don't,” Steve said, understanding how his words had come out. “I'm asking if you want any.” “Uh...well, again a question I haven't really thought about. I haven't really been serious enough with anyone to...to think that far.” Billy set down his fork and knife and thought for a minute. “Yeah. I'd like to have kids, one day. Maybe not right now, not yet.” Steve smiled. “I'd like to have kids too, one day. But not yet.”

They finished their food, and when the empty plates were taken away, Steve managed to convince Billy to have dessert. Billy ordered a piece of cheesecake with a café au lait, and Steve took the same with an espresso.

“No cognac?” Billy asked, cutting the first piece of his cake with a fork and put it in his mouth, savoring the creamy taste, and pulling the fork out of his mouth very slowly. The act kept Steve's eyes locked in Billy's lips, and definitely made things happen in his groin, unintentionally. When the fork was back on the plate, he looked up to Billy's eyes. “I still need to drive tonight.” “Ah, right. What do you drive?” Billy asked taking another bite, again not rushing with the fork. Steve swallowed. Hard. “AMG Mercedes E Coupé.” “Nice. I'm particular to old American muscle cars myself. I had a 70's Camaro for a long time. I had to let it go when I moved to the city. Finding a parking space was a bitch, and there really is no use for a car when you live in the city.” “Well,” Steve said licking his lip, “maybe I can give you a ride home? To give you a glimpse of how the Merc handles.” Billy bit his lower lip, and smiled. “I would very much like to see how... the Merc...performs.”

When they were finished with the food, and Steve had paid it by giving the waiter a pitch black credit card and had told her to give herself a generous tip worth of three digits, he got up to get Billy's jacket from the hook in the wall. As he reached for it, he stopped for a while and smiled, as it was the same brown leather jacket he'd seen in his dream. "You know, I've seen this jacket on you before," he said as he held it for Billy. Billy turned to look at him as he pulled the zipper of the jacket up. "In the dream?" "Yes. You were running in front of me, pulling me after you, laughing that wonderful laughter of yours." "That is so strange, because I remember that dream too. I don't know where we were going though," Billy laughed. "Maybe we'll find out some day? Come, let me lead this time, though," Steve said, and reached his hand out to Billy, who took it. "My car is in the garage."

They walked hand in hand out of the elevator to the parking level where Steve's car was. “This is the only way to get out of here in my car without attracting too much attention, unfortunately,” Steve said as the hall lights turned on from the movement. “You have your very own level in the parking hall?” Billy asked as he didn’t see any other cars in the hall. “I have when I need one. I'm friends with the owner of the building,” Steve said nonchalantly.

A black Mercedes coupé was parked alone on the middle isle. When they got close enough, the car turned its lights on and the engine started purring. "She says hello," Steve joked, even though the car was simply set to start whenever he walked near it with the electric key in his pocket. He opened the passenger door to Billy, who smiled the widest smile as he sat down on the seat.

Steve felt weak in the knees. It wasn't just the feelings from the dream anymore. Just after this one date, he felt incredibly attracted to Billy, and not just physically. While that was a big part of it, the things they'd talked about the future were important to him, and they wanted the same things from it. It was as if they were a perfect match. Steve had learned over the years that he shouldn't jump carelessly into any relationship because of his work, but he couldn't help it with this one. Billy was really the one from his dreams and Steve wanted him fully to himself, right now.

Even though he knew so little of him.

"She's a beauty," Billy said running his hand on the leather covered dashboard when Steve sat on the driver's seat. "How fast?" "4.4 seconds." Billy whistled. "That is fast." "Yeah. She's really nice on the highway, but I usually take her out only on track days. You know, take her out to do what she's bred for." "And to impress dates?" Billy asked as he fastened his seat belt. "Not really, only for special ones." "Has there been many?" "Only one so far," Steve said, and put the car on drive. "This one."

#harringrove #harringrove fanfiction #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove redemption #steve x billy #billy x steve #suometar writes #dream a little dream of me

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ironmandeficiency · 4 years ago

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accidents happen

pairing: kix / mechanic!reader (afab here)

word count: 2163

summary: accidents happen even to the most careful people.

a/n: can be read as part of the kix/mechanic!reader universe i accidentally made (here, here, and here). made some tweaks to the og req but stuck to the general theme. sprinkled in a few of my oc boys for ✨flair✨

warnings: speeder crash, prego!reader

you don’t remember much of the speeder crash. it was a blur of lights, a cacophony of twisting metal and the screams of passersby as they worry about the wellbeing of those involved. that is, until your head slammed too hard against the controls and knocked you out cold.

the sensations of latex icicles checking your pulse roused you from your unconscious state. your eyes struggled against the bright lights of what you knew was the five-oh-first medbay, the foggy yet familiar voices of frantic clones being a dead giveaway. they were worried about many things—your condition after the wreck, whether you would be able to return to field work with them once you recovered, kix’s reaction once he catches wind of what happened...

kix hadn’t kept his cool when your arm was slightly crushed by general skywalker’s delta-7 aethersprite, how was he going to handle his cyare being in a speeder crash?

answer’s simple: he wouldn’t.

kix had just left the operating room when he heard the commotion of a new patient being brought in. jogging to the cot where they lifted the patient, he pushed his way through the unusually tight crowd of vode until he got to the foot of the bed. “alright boys, what do we got?”

“speeder crash just outside of 500 republica, two broken ribs, a—oh we got it taken care of kix, go get some rest-”

“you just left surgery, take a break!”

“this’ll be easy peasy, we got it!”

the voices of his brothers were agitated as the crowd was damn near trying to push him away. with a few well-placed nudges and shoulder bumps, kix realized that they indeed were trying to push him away. this just made him all the more intent on figuring out why they were trying to boot him out. he was a medic for kriff’s sake, bronco had no business trying to shove him out of the way like that!

“easy peasy my shebs, bronco! i…”

it was you.

you were lying unconscious on the bed in front of him, surrounded by brothers on all sides as the other medics, clone and civvie alike, were taking care of you. there was an oozing, bloody gash along your temple and a growing knot that was already grossly discolored.

it was instinct for kix to want to take point on this. it was you, he didn’t want anything to go wrong. and if something did go wrong, he wouldn’t want to have the scapegoat of blaming a vod for anything. it had to be on him, he had to be the one to take care of you.

the protests of several vode immediately follow kix’s insistence, multiple hands starting to pull him from your bedside. he begins to struggle against them and they immediately start to grip him tighter as they guide him towards the exit.

“you can’t do this! i need to-mmph! be here! let me go!”

“you know why we can’t do that, vod.”

“bantha karking shit you can’t! i need to be there, you don’t understand!”

arguments continued and tension mounted in the medbay, kix still fighting to get to you while the others were either treating you or holding him back. all other conscious thought ceased to be, the gut instinct of taking care of you being his only purpose.

then a firm voice booms through the chaos with enough force to wake the dead as he calls the medic’s name.

“leave, kix. that’s an order.”

rex’s heart was being smashed by his own boot as he spoke. he hated having to be the one giving the ultimatum to the frightened medic in front of him, but as captain, the burden fell onto him. kix was clearly not able to separate you from what needs to be done for the patient and he was not going to allow that kind of responsibility on his vod’s shoulders.

not if he was going to be able to sleep tonight.

rex’s eyes betrayed how much it hurt him, but the bristling of his words showed no such emotion. he couldn’t show any of this inner conflict, not as a captain and especially not as ori’vod to nearly every man surrounding your bed. but the men know that their captain isn’t heartless, that he views you as one of the best things to happen to the five-oh-first, that he has a reason for everything he does.

it takes a hell of a lot more convincing (read: sedative) to get kix to back down. rex and fives carried the medic to the barracks, taking care to lay him down gently. the proximity to the younger trooper told rex that a sedated kix was having more of an effect on him than he let on.

even though fives had other duties to take care of while on leave, rex knew that a distracted fives would not be able to complete any of them to his regular standards. so, like a good captain and ori’vod, he excused the younger brother from his tasks.

“you can stay with him,” rex could read the arc trooper like a datapad; fives was tense and afraid, two feelings that only his closest brothers would recognize on him. “he’ll probably feel better if someone’s here when he wakes up.”

“but rex—“

“i know you stayed with him the last time his cyare was injured, fives. he would be grateful to have someone with him during this.” fives nodded his thanks grimly, taking his perch at kix’s bedside.

rex returned to the medbay with haste, hoping against hope that your injuries were mild. his return to the medbay was met with you awake, recounting the story of how you were rammed by a rogue speeder that ran their traffic light.

“we’re just glad you’re okay, gotabor.”

“yeah, no speeder can keep you down.”

a wave of peace rushes over the tired captain and he takes his leave. you were okay, kix would be okay, the five-oh-first would be okay.

queen and starchild continued to praise your resilience (“the toughest mechanic in the gar” is what you’ve been dubbed) before they’re cut off briskly by morticus, whose face was sporting a strangely lighter expression, like some of the burdens he carried were lightened for a moment.

“but we also have some news, gotabor. some that you really should be told in private.”

your first instinct is to tell morticus that you trust these men with your life, that anything he had to say could be said in front of them. but something in his eyes told you that pushing the matter wouldn’t end well. “i’ll be here when you get back, boys,” you give the remaining troopers soft smiles and a gentle squeeze of their hands, reassuring them that you were okay now, that in the hands of the five-oh-first you were the safest you’ve ever been.

they took a reluctant leave, looking over their shoulders one last time as they left the medbay. it wasn’t that they didn’t trust morticus, no not that at all, it just seemed that you had a penchant for getting injured and when brothers were repeatedly injured in increasingly severe ways, they didn’t always stay around much longer.

morticus is quick to say what he needs to, privacy being a very rare luxury in a five-oh-first medbay whether on leave or otherwise. “now that we have some privacy, gotabor, i have some news.” again, there was this happier lilt to his voice that he just didn’t have. morticus was stoic, cynical, even a bit dickish on the right day. to see him smile and sound happy about something was abnormal but pleasant all the same.

“is everything alright?”

“more than alright—you’re expecting.”

your face warped in your confusion, eyebrows crinkled and lips slightly pursed. “expecting what, morti?”

this man laughed—genuinely laughed—at your reply and if you weren’t so distracted by your perplexion, you would have said something about how nice his laugh is.

“a child, gotabor’ika. you’re pregnant.”

a sly grin made an appearance, morticus’s voice slightly teasing. the air was lighter around him than it has been in a long time and he was going to enjoy it with everything he’s got. “i’m going to assume that the baby belongs to kix—“

“of course it’s his, di’kut! but we had been so careful, always using protection! i don’t know how this happened…” racking your brain, you tried to remember a time when the two of you were a little less than careful but came up empty. “we weren’t trying for this, morti. it just happened, it was an accident.”

he patted your thigh with a smile. “sometimes accidents happen to even the most careful people. just take this as a win and keep going.” something to your far left beeped—another brother’s machine—and morticus quickly reverted back to tense medic mode, scrutinizing the readings before taking notes in their datapad and returning to your side.

“you got this, gotabor. you’re made of the stronger stuff.” he flurries around you, making sure you’re as comfortable as possible before telling you to rest and that kix will be with you soon. it didn’t take a seasoned member of the resolute to know that kix was so devoted and bent on protecting you however possible, and you knew that he was probably sedated yet again. he would be here when he’s up, you know he will. you just hoped that he liked what he was waking up to.

rex made sure to stop by kix’s bunk to tell fives that you were conscious and by all accounts, appeared to only be mildly banged up. the way the tension fell from his vodika’s shoulders comforted rex, glad that he could give the arc good news to depart onto the unconscious medic before them, the smile on his face genuine as he departed from the barracks.

it wasn’t very long after rex left that kix began to stir. as predicted by fives and the rest of those aware of the situation, his first waking thoughts and concerns were for you. the arc was quick to console his vod and encouraged him to go to the medbay to see you as if kix could have been stopped. fives had to bargain (and trade some of his favorite candies from his stash) to convince kix to let him walk to the medbay with him, the medic still on shaky legs after being sedated.

everyone with a lick of sense knew to steer clear of kix until he was able to see you again. they made a path for him and fives without hesitation, knowing that all hell would be let loose if any of them tried to stop their advancing to the medbay.

“special delivery for gotabor’ika!” fives shouts as he enters, promptly getting shushed by coric and morticus.

you laugh from your cot when you hear your second favorite trooper before you see him. “over here, fives!” he follows your voice and soon, kix is being deposited on the foot of your bed with a smile.

fives grins and pokes his cheek, signaling for a small peck in return for his services. “now if you’ll just sign here-ow!” honestly he should expect the light slap you deliver to his face instead. “you got him from here, gotabor. get better soon, i don’t trust those kriffing ships without ya!” he leaves with a smile and a wave, comforted to see that you’re truly okay.

kix still hasn’t laid down with you and you’re slightly worried. by now, he’d be wrapped all over you like a tooka to lothnip. you nudge him with your foot to get his attention and when he finally meets your gaze, his eyes are wet. it looks like he’s trying his best to not cry but it’s soon to be a losing battle.

“kix, baby what’s-“

“you’re pregnant.”

the datapad with the reports of your injuries and conditions is cradled in his palms. bloodwork has never lied to him before but every nerve is on edge, like this would all be pulled out from under him the moment he let himself indulge in the what-if’s.

you weren’t sure how he would react to the news and he isn’t exactly giving you any hints as to how he feels about this which slightly worries you; kix has never been one too shy away from telling you his thoughts and the fact he’s doing it now has your stomach in a knot. “honey, what-“

your question can’t even leave your lips before the datapad is tossed on the bed and he’s wrapping his arms around you, face buried into your shoulder and failing to hold back the tears. at least he doesn’t seem to be angry, that’s a plus. “i love you so much, ner gotabor,” he raises his head to meet your eyes, one hand resting on your stomach with a teary smile. “i love both of you.”

kix taglist: @blue-space-porgs @leias-left-hair-bun @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @olluea @catsnkooks @simping-for-fives @captainrexstan @mackstrut @battletales @stardustsunrisekisses @darthadeline @artemis61003 @majorshiraharu @getdookuedon @capricornrabies @jedi-mando @whovianwar @hornystarwarsbisexual @bo-kryze

#kix x reader #kix #clone medic kix #star wars the clone wars #star wars #star wars imagines #star wars reader insert #star wars fanfic #swtcw #clone trooper imagine #captain rex #kix x you #tw pregnancy #pregnant!reader #afab!reader

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sam-and-buck · 4 years ago

Text

At Home With Captain America

Fandom: MCU

Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes

Rating: G

Words: 7.7k

Also on AO3

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

At Home with Captain America

By: Adrien Davis

Published: February 2, 2026, 3:35 PM

To say I’m intimidated by interviewing Captain America in his own home would be an understatement, and I would never have thought to ask if I could do that if he hadn’t personally invited me. Normally, I’d start one of these articles by describing the location, maybe even throw in an anecdote or two about how I got there, but that’s not going to be possible here.

Sam Wilson lives on [REDACTED] in [REDACTED]. It was a windy day.

Here’s what I can tell you: it’s an apartment. A nice one. Two bedroom, two bath.

“Am I allowed to describe the inside of your house?” is one of the first things I say to him, after getting his permission to turn on my recorder.

“Go right ahead,” he laughs, arms crossed over the worn USAF logo on his gray t-shirt. “Just don’t put the street name in there or anything.”

Wilson gives me a moment to poke around. Whoever decorated this place has good taste; it’s no haphazard bachelor pad. There’s an exposed brick wall in the otherwise slate blue living room, several plants (which I assume are fakes—albeit convincing ones—since Wilson is, by his own admission, not home as often as he’d like to be), a sturdy walnut coffee table, and a magnificently squishy-looking red couch.

It’s unmistakably lived in, though. I don’t get the sense that the place has been scrubbed spotless or particularly arranged for my visit. There are two abandoned mugs on coasters sitting on the coffee table, along with several different remote controls, and a stack of half-finished books with dog-eared corners. A pile of mail has been pushed to the side. Next to the door, a wall-mounted coat rack holds several leather jackets in shades of brown and black, and at least as many sweaters, mostly navy blue, charcoal and maroon. The shoe rack underneath houses multiple pairs of black combat boots, worn running shoes, house slippers. And next to that, on the floor, a large, gleaming silver case with red detail that could only contain Wilson’s Falcon wingpack. The legendary shield is propped up against it, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

I’m trying to imagine how it would be to leave the house for him. Got my keys, wings, phone, shield, wallet?

There are pictures on the walls and the mantle above the fireplace, under the television. People who I can only assume are Wilson’s relatives by their similarly gap-toothed smiles. Veterans. Wilson in full air force gear next to a blond man I don’t recognize. Then Captain Steve Rogers, in the 1940s with the Howling Commandos, and in the twenty-first century by himself. Wilson with Rogers, and Natasha Romanoff. One conspicuously empty nail where a large frame would clearly fit.

Scattered among these are several very old, dour black and white photographs of a dark-haired family. The first shows a mother, father and two small children, a boy and girl. The second is the mother and children only, taken some time after, judging by their apparent ages. The third is several years later still; the same children with light eyes and dark hair, but they’re teeangers now, and without parents. They look haunting and out-of-place among the glossy prints of Wilson’s big, happy family in matching 80s colorblocked tracksuits, or Wilson and his sisters in front of a Christmas tree, surrounded by wrapping paper and toys.

There’s also a wood-framed painting that stands out: an idyllic watercolor of a little farmhouse with a green roof and shuttered windows in a field. A small pile of lumber and a white mailbox make up the foreground. The most distinctive feature is the signature at the bottom: S.G.R. I know those initials.

“Captain Rogers painted this?”

“Uh huh,” Wilson nods fondly, hands now in his pockets. “Man of many talents. Maybe every talent. Having a hard time thinking of anything he wasn’t good at.”

I hear the unstated in that. A tough act to follow.

I think, for purposes of journalistic integrity, I should probably insert my bias before we go any further. We had never met before this interview, but I am and have always been enormously supportive of Captain Wilson and the work he’s done, and have written myriad articles and think pieces about him over the past several years. He’s shown himself time and again to be a man of unshakable integrity and endless emotional intelligence, and frankly, I’m more worried about the poor sucker who’s going to have to follow Wilson. Rogers did a lot of great things, but among the best of them was choosing a successor.

I tell him as much and he smiles, looking down at his shoes.

“Yeah, I know that’s how you feel,” he says. “I requested you for this piece, actually, because of that. People are going to accuse me of wanting a softball interview here, and maybe they’re right. For this one, I think that’s what I need.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but he continues before I can ask.

“We should probably do this in the kitchen.” Wilson indicates behind us with his thumb, after I’ve stood silently in his living room for probably way too long. “That couch is too comfortable. I end up falling asleep every time I sit on it.”

The kitchen is, perhaps, a little cramped. There’s a large, dark marble-topped kitchen island that just fits in the center of the room with four bar stools tucked under it. The cabinets are tall, with glass doors showcasing a massive collection of healthy, but non-perishable food. The shelf nearest us holds several well-used bags of pantry supplies: chickpea flour, arrowroot starch, raw sugar. There’s a pasta shelf above it, but no Kraft Mac in sight; everything is lentil-based, chickpea-based, black bean-based.

“Have a seat,” Wilson says, inclining his head towards one of the barstools. “Can I get you something to drink?” He opens the refrigerator.

“We have…” he pauses. “Water. Sorry, just got back from Ecuador this morning. Sparkling or still?”

I accept a glass of still water from Captain America. He sits down on the stool next to mine.

His house, or what I’ve seen of it, is homey in a way I can’t imagine any of the late Tony Stark’s buildings ever were, and I mention this.

“I lived at the Avengers Tower briefly,” Wilson tells me. “Tony liked everything streamlined, really modern. Kinda sparse for my taste. I needed some real furniture when I got out of there, you know? Like, things that were made by human beings. Stuff with ‘character,’ that’s what Steve would call it.”

“So you decorated this place?”

“I think it’s about fifty-fifty,” Wilson says, indicated with vague hand motion.

This is my in.

This interview, as you may have read on the cover description, is actually intended to be an exposé about the working partnership between Wilson and Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, but I didn’t want to be the one who brought him up first.

All I knew going in is that they’re a package deal in the field, a unit. We’ve all seen the footage.

Also, Barnes lives here too, but evidently, he’s not home.

“What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

“I hope he apologized to you for that,” I tell him, because I’m not exactly sure how else to respond.

“Oh yeah, of course he did, even though he knows I don’t blame him for it. He doesn’t remember it at all,” says Wilson. “There are a lot of gaps, to be honest. Most of it is gaps.”

What Wilson is likely referring to here is the decades-long period in which Barnes was under the complete mental and physical influence of the Nazi splinter group known as HYDRA. If you’re unfamiliar with the history of Sergeant Barnes, I’ll list a couple of great articles for you to read at the end of this one. I assure you, it’s worth your time.

Wilson has without a doubt been Barnes’s most ardent supporter. He’s spoken out many times about not judging Barnes based on the actions he couldn’t control, and has masterfully refocused the national conversation towards Barnes’s invaluable contributions in World War II and in the recent war to bring half the universe’s population back into existence. Wilson has been quoted as saying, “The least extraordinary thing about Sergeant Barnes is his vibranium arm.”*

But perhaps Wilson’s most effective act towards building public confidence in Barnes was his decision to designate him as an almost exclusive mission partner. Even if the general populace has been reluctant to trust the Winter Soldier, it is abundantly clear that Captain America does, absolutely. Barnes is a constant in the footage of Wilson’s exploits. The moment he touches down on the ground after a successful arrest or negotiation, Barnes is right there. He’s been sighted treating Wilson’s minor injuries, tightening straps on the Falcon wingsuit before Wilson takes flight, and he stands quietly behind Wilson during almost all of his many public appearances.

Despite his ubiquitous presence in Wilson’s company, Barnes has remained elusive for comment. He has no social media, and the only public statement he’s made to date was in November of 2023, in support of Rogers’s decision to pass on the legacy of Captain America. Barnes expressed his categorical agreement that Wilson is “the best and only choice for this job,” describing him as both “worthy of the honor,” and “equipped for the burden.”**

“Is it fair to say that Sergeant Barnes almost comes with the shield?” I ask.

Wilson makes a face.

“No, it isn’t,” he shakes his head. “The shield is an accessory; my partner is not. I really don’t like it when people lump him in with the shield. It sort of minimizes how Bucky and I have made a series of conscious choices to be the way we are now. Especially because he’s experienced being fully stripped of his personal autonomy—as a veteran, I can say I’ve had a taste of that, but nothing like what he’s been through—and I think it cheapens his choice to do what he does if we imply that he, as a person, is a package deal with my title, you know?”

The therapist in Wilson is showing. In addition to his decorated military history and service as Captain America, he has a background in psychology, and a Masters degree in Social Work with a focus on Veterans’ mental health issues. He’s worked extensively with the VA as a leader in group therapy.

“So Sergeant Barnes is by your side day in and day out because he wants to be?”

This, Wilson has another unequivocal answer for. “Yes. He wants to be there, and I want him there. And here at home.”

“Tell me a little more about that,” I say. “After the...steering-wheel-stealing incident. Once he was more or less himself. Did you two hit it off right away?”

Wilson laughs again. “Not at all,” he says. “I think there was this resentment, kind of, in the beginning. Like I’m Steve’s best friend and no, I’m Steve’s best friend. Real elementary school stuff. He really got on my nerves; just everything about him annoyed me, and the feeling was mutual. Looking back…”

And here Wilson pauses for a moment. He chews on his bottom lip, and I notice all at once how nervous his body language has become. His fingers are drumming on the table, the line of his shoulders is taut, his leg is bouncing. He clears his throat though, and seems determined to continue.

“Looking back, I can see where it was coming from. It wasn’t clear to me at the time, but now I get it. There was this one time, it was during the fight over the Accords. We barely knew each other at this point. Buck and I, we’re fighting Spider-Man—who neither of us had ever even heard of before, like, that afternoon—and he pins us to the floor of this hangar with that goo he shoots out of his wrist. Really gross. I manage to get Redwing [Wilson’s drone] to fling Spider-Man out the window. So we’re just laying there, me and Bucky, stuck. And he goes ‘you couldn’t have done that before?’ And I just turn to him, and I’m like, ‘I hate you.’”

At this, Wilson really starts cracking up. He relaxes visibly, just a little.

“Did you mean it?”

“I sure thought I did,” he says, still chuckling. “Like, I wasn’t about to take it back.”

He continues: “Anyway, so after Steve, you know, passed on the shield to me, that’s when things really changed. Actually, back up a second. After the whole Accords incident, we ended up sending Bucky to Wakanda for like… to hear him describe it, it’s like we sent him for a two-year spa retreat. They unscrambled his brain as best they could—and really, I think it’s a good thing they couldn’t do any more because I wouldn’t wish some of his memories on my worst enemy—and he spent like months meditating in a hut and milking goats and going to therapy every day. When I met up with him again, I barely would’ve recognized him.”

“So that’s kind of when you guys reconciled? The arguing stopped?”

“Oh, it never stopped,” Wilson says with a grin. “We still argue all the time, about all kinds of things. Just ask Rhodey [Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, aka War Machine] or Scott [Lang, Ant-Man] or anybody. But the dynamic shifted a little, I think. Bucky’s got… Like I can’t imagine some of the stuff he’s been through, but he’s just kind of learned to roll with it. He is hands down the most resilient person I have ever met. Easily. It was real hard to keep hating him when he was so dead set on getting me to like him, too.”

“Can you walk me through the process by which you two decided to live together?”

“Yeah,” he says, and the nervousness is back. He smooths his hands on his thighs over his jeans. “So, basically, once I got the shield, we’d just barely come back. Like everyone else who got… I—I still don’t know if this is like an okay question to ask people. Do you mind me asking if you were dusted?”

I don’t mind. “Yeah, I was.”

“So you get it,” Wilson says. “Might be the most vulnerable I’d ever felt. I got nothing. Nowhere to go, just the clothes on my back. Then Steve hands me this shield and this enormous legacy—and I look back and there’s Bucky, standing a couple of yards behind me, nodding like, yeah, it should be you. He was the first person who knew, and he’s been right by my side ever since.”

“So you decided to stick together?”

“The original conversation about it was pretty logistical,” Wilson says, rubbing his beard. “There was so much going on, it’s hard to remember exactly what was said, but I think it was along the lines of him offering to fetch the shield for me while I learned how to throw it, and stuff like that. Just easier to do when we’re together 24/7.”

“So rooming together didn’t actually grow out of field partnerships?”

“It was definitely the other way around,” says Wilson. “Basically, I’d get a call from the powers that be that there was something I had to go check out, and it was easier to just walk across the hall than to pick someone else, try to wake them up, and then have to rendez-vous and strategize.”

“I’ll bet,” I say.

Wilson nods. “Easier and faster. Bucky can go from dead asleep to fully geared up in under three minutes. The first few times were like that, with me just knocking on his bedroom door like ‘hey, I need—’ and he comes barreling out covered in knives thirty seconds later like, ‘where are we going?’ We just… clicked. And I’ll be honest; I was really surprised. He’s got my six, I’ve got his, and I never question it. I started asking for him specifically on all my assignments after that, and Fury [Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.] and everyone caught on quick that that’s how it was gonna be. I don’t have to ask anymore.”

“Do you see this continuing long term?” I ask.

Wilson doesn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Sergeant Barnes now?” I ask. “Clearly you’re partners in the field, and roommates, but…”

Wilson takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking, but he clasps them together in front of him and looks me straight in the eye.

“As of last month,” he says slowly, “Bucky and I are married.”

In the spirit of my interview with Captain America, who stands for honesty and justice and integrity, I think you deserve to know the truth. I want to say that I didn’t drop my recorder, but I did. It clatters to the floor, luckily undamaged.

That startles Wilson into a laugh. For the second it takes me to retrieve my recorder from under my seat, I wonder if he’s kidding.

“Come on,” he says. “Say something. I’m getting nervous.” He’s smiling, but not joking.

“Congratulations,” I blurt out. “I...really?”

“Yeah.” The tension leaves his body in a rush. “We, uh, it’s official.”

I’m struggling for questions at this point. The talking points I was planning on hitting in this interview are all suddenly moot, and I decide to throw out my mental to-do list entirely. I finally settle on, “How long have you two been together?”

“A little over two years,” Wilson answers. “About three months after I took up the shield.”

“How did it happen?”

Wilson grins. “Uh, well. I had sort of been…having feelings about him, you know, for awhile. Actually, it’s more like I had noticed that I was having more-than-friendly feelings in the few weeks leading up to that. I think the main reason we had so much trouble getting along in the beginning is that it took some time to process those feelings as attraction. So in a way, I was interested on some level right from the get go.”

“Even if that person wasn’t...behind the wheel of their own brain, so to speak—” I start, but Wilson interjects.

“I see what you did there.”

“—I think it would take a lot for me to be attracted to someone who had previously tried to kill me.”

“Less than I would’ve expected, that’s for sure,” Wilson says. “But it’s not like I was checking him out while he was busy tearing my wings off my back; I’m talking about once he was mentally present in his body. That was like...two years after the whole steering wheel incident, and I hadn’t seen him at all in the interim. I didn’t even know where he was during that time.”

“So it had at least been awhile since he had tried to kill you?”

“Oh yeah. And plenty of other people tried to kill me in those two years, and they weren’t even sorry about it. You gotta adjust your standards, you know?” he says with a laugh.

“Anyway, if you ask him, he says he’s been all in since the moment he saw me back in Wakanda after his little vacation. Now we’re talking about four years since the steering wheel thing. Me, Steve, Nat and everybody; we landed in Wakanda and Bucky’s there. He and I look at each other over Steve’s shoulder, and like, bam, that was it for him.

“And then there’s five years where neither of us exist. We get back, we fight the monsters, Steve gives me the shield, and while all this is happening, apparently Bucky has come to the conclusion that he’s in love with me. After that, he was just waiting for me to catch up.”

“And he just knew you’d get there? Did you give him any indication that you were interested, or…?”

“I definitely did, but not intentionally,” says Wilson. “He’s very perceptive—like way more than I was giving him credit for—but I think it’s a combination of that and me not being as subtle as I think I am.

“Because, see there’s this invisible line I’ve drawn here—at least that’s how he was thinking about it—and I keep dancing a little closer to that line every day, the line being the no homo line; the point where you can’t take it back. The flirting, I mean. I, of course, think he has no clue and that I’m being slick about it. Actually, lemme ask—how much detail are you looking for here? Like do you want to know the whole story or just—”

“Lay it on me,” I tell him. “Just however you want to tell it.”

“Alright. Where was I? So I’m just there going back and forth on whether or not it’s a good idea to risk this roommate-partner-buddy thing we’ve got going here by trying to make a move that, frankly, I have no clue if he’s gonna be receptive to. You have to remember we’re talking about a guy from the Great Depression here, like that’s the time period he grew up in. I’m no historian, but I think it’s common knowledge that if you were a man who was attracted to men back then, you mostly kept that to yourself. The chances of him bringing up his sexual orientation unprompted are very low. And like, I’m 90% sure I’ve caught him looking before, but that’s never a guarantee, you know?

“So, instead of sitting down and having a mature conversation about my feelings, I keep doing this thing where, for example, say he’s trying something new with his hair, and I’ll say something nice about it. And then I follow up immediately with, ‘Almost makes up for your ugly mug,’ or whatever, which—I mean, he’s such a good-looking guy, like what ugly mug, obviously I don’t mean that. And he’s not stupid, he knows what he looks like. So he picks up on what I’m doing, doesn’t say anything, and lets this go on for months.

“Eventually, there’s one night… We’re on the couch, watching like, I don’t know, Seinfeld or something. Whatever was on. He’s reading a book on my tablet, looking all relaxed and handsome. I can’t have that, so I start egging him on like I usually do, and I guess I got close enough to the line that he just puts the tablet down, turns to me and says, ‘Sam, you know there’s no line, right?’

“And I’m going, okay, what does that mean? Like, is this a conversation I was previously a part of and forgot or...? Where is this ‘line’ thing coming from? And so I ask him—I think I just said, ‘What?’ At that point he looks me right in the eye, and he goes, ‘You can kiss me if you want to.’” So I did, and he was ready for it, like no hesitation. Like I said: waiting for me to catch up.”

This, as you can imagine, is far beyond the level of detail I could have ever imagined I’d get about Captain America’s love life in my wildest dreams. I decide to ask a new question, because I feel like I’d be pushing my luck to delve further when he’s already been so open about this experience.

“Who proposed and when?”

“Ooh,” says Wilson, “I guess technically I did, but I’m gonna go on record saying that one was a group effort.”

“Well, now you’re gonna have to explain that,” I tell him. “What’s a ‘group effort’ proposal look like?”

“Hmm. I backed myself into that one, didn’t I?” he says. “First, I want the record to show that before I called you guys to set up this interview, I specifically asked Bucky if there were any us-related topics or whatever that were off-limits to discuss and he said ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Are you sure?’ and he said ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ and I said, “You better be sure, because whatever I say is gonna be public knowledge after that,” and he said “I know, I get it, Jesus.” Then I dropped it because he sounded like he was getting kinda irritated. If he didn’t want me to tell you any of this stuff, that would’ve been the time to speak up, so here we go:

“We were at… Well, I can’t tell you exactly where we were, but let’s just say we were working. There was nobody else in the room, but we were getting ready to go out in the field; seemed like it was gonna be a pretty...intense situation out there. I had my whole suit on, he was calibrating his arm, and the conversation ended up at living wills. As you can imagine, that’s an important thing to have when you’re in this line of work. So he proceeded to tell me that the last time he’d updated his was never and that his next-of-kin was nobody. And I was like, ‘So what, your grenade launchers are all gonna go to the state? I don’t even get the red one?’ and I’m just giving him a hard time, you know, and he’s like, ‘Sam.’

“And then, my god, he just goes all the way off about how much he loves me and trusts me and I—we don’t usually go there. I mean, we’d been on the same page for a long time as far as, we’ve established that we’re in love, this relationship is going well, but it’s not something that we’d verbalized in any real depth. That’s just a level of like, exposure, vulnerability, I think, that doesn’t come naturally to most people, myself included.

“So he just keeps talking—and I think it’s fair to say he’s not a very talkative guy most of the time—and I’m standing there with my jaw on the floor because he is not holding back, and this is all clearly unrehearsed. Like, this is just how he really feels about me, apparently. By the time he’s finished, I’m crying, he’s crying, it’s a mess. And so I open my mouth, and I have no idea what I’m gonna say to all that, but what comes out is, “Will you marry me?” I wasn’t planning on it, but suddenly I just knew. Best decision I ever made.”

“And you’ve made some very important decisions in your life.”

“That’s right. I know which ones I’m leaving out by saying this was the best, and I stand by it.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the lock clicks, and Sergeant Barnes walks through the front door carrying two very full bags of groceries on his vibranium arm. He tosses a set of car keys into a little dish and locks the door behind him.

“Hey, babe,” Wilson calls out, catching his eye.

“You did it?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah.” Wilson tilts his head up.

Barnes rounds the corner, pecks Wilson on the lips with all the comfort and familiarity of a couple who have done it a thousand times. I hear him murmur, “Proud of you,” under his breath.

Barnes sets the groceries on the counter in front of me as Wilson introduces us.

“Call me Bucky,” says Barnes, reaching out with his right hand to shake mine. There’s a silver band on the fourth finger, and when I look back over at Wilson, he’s slipping his wedding ring out of the pocket of his jeans and putting it back on his left hand.

“Wasn’t sure if I��d be able to go through with all this,” he says, gesturing to me and my notepad. “I took the wedding pictures down in the living room too, before you got here.”

“I knew he could do it,” Barnes tells me. His voice is low, soft, and so quiet, a hint of an old Brooklyn accent underlying his words even now, despite everything he’s been through and everywhere he’s been. He shrugs out of his nondescript hoodie and tosses it on one of the unused stools, grabbing a kettle and putting it on the stove.

“Hibiscus or chamomile?” he asks me, pulling two boxes of tea bags from one of the grocery bags and letting me choose before turning to Wilson. “Bad news, hon. They were out of your whole wheat pita.”

“Again?” says Wilson, with feeling. “Really?”

“They only had the gluten free. I guess I could check the other store tonight, but it’s supposed to rain later, and I kinda don’t feel like going out again,” Barnes says, head buried in the cupboard as he stacks cans. “I was thinking maybe I could just try making ‘em. How does that sound? How hard can it be, right?”

“‘How does homemade pita sound,’ he says,” Wilson repeats, jabbing a thumb towards Barnes. “Can you believe this guy?”

“I honestly can’t.” It’s the truth. My brain refuses to reconcile this man with the supposed playboy I read about in my 11th grade history textbook, nor the internationally feared assassin.

“Is that a yes or no on the experimental homemade pita?” Barnes asks Wilson, still deep in the cupboard. “No promises on quality.”

“That’s a yes, Buck,” says Wilson, then he turns to me. “Don’t listen to him; he’s a great cook.”

The Winter Soldier is a great cook, I write in my notes. And then I realize this is my moment to shine.

“I actually know a good recipe for homemade pita,” I tell them. “It’s whole wheat.” That gets Barnes’s attention.

“You do?” he says, pulling out his phone. “Can you send it to—hmm.” He frowns. “Sam, it’s not showing the thing.”

“What thing?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s phone from his hand. “Oh, yeah, that’s cause it’s set to Contacts Only, Buck, you have to switch it to Allow Everyone.”

Wilson looks at me, smiling. “Bucky here hates technology—”

“—I don’t hate technology—”

“Oh yes you do, you won’t even let me get you an iPad—”

“Yeah, for what? What do I need it for? I wouldn’t even use—”

“You wouldn’t use one, huh? How about I stop letting you borrow mine for a couple of weeks, then we’ll see how you feel.” Wilson turns to me, passing Barnes’s phone back to him. “He should be showing up on your AirDrop now.”

Sure enough, I’m able to send the recipe link to Bucky’s iPhone. He thanks me and starts scrolling right through it, argument apparently totally forgotten.

As Barnes continues to read, periodically checking on the kettle; Wilson excuses himself to help put away the rest of the groceries, which are mostly produce.

“I hope you have like, immediate plans for these,” Wilson says, inspecting the avocados as he pulls them out of the paper bag. “They are ripe, man. Tomorrow’s gonna be too late for them.”

“Yeah I do, I was gonna make grilled chicken and avocado sandwiches for dinner,” Barnes replies. “I got tomatoes, swiss cheese—”

“What’s all this about pita then if we’re having sandwiches?” Wilson asks.

“No, the pita is the bread here,” Barnes explains. “You stuff everything in the pocket. I’m gonna have to get started pretty soon; probably gonna double the rising time since it’s cold out.” Wilson hums in apparent approval of this course of action.

I lose Wilson to the refrigerator for several minutes. He stands back up after arranging things in the crisper to his liking.

“Any chance I could get a peek at those wedding pictures?” I ask.

“Oh,” says Wilson. “That okay with you?” He turns to Barnes, who nods, carefully steeping bags of tea in three steaming mugs, and then leads me back to the living room.

Wilson has stashed two silver-framed pictures in a drawer of the coffee table, apparently in anticipation of my visit, and he pulls them out to show to me. Both are taken in front of a familiar-looking farmhouse, which I struggle with for a moment before placing it as the exact one in Captain Rogers’s watercolor painting that’s hanging to my left. Wilson’s suit in the photo is a matte but brilliant shade of cobalt; Barnes wears black.

One is of just the two of them, arms around one another and foreheads together. It’s almost too intimate to look at; I feel as though I’m intruding on something intensely private, even though Wilson is standing right here offering me a glimpse of it.

He puts that one back up onto the mantle.

The next is them in the center of a large group that consists of some people I recognize and others I don’t. Familiar faces include Dr. Bruce Banner [The Hulk], Clint Barton [Hawkeye], and Maria Hill [Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.]. Also present: King T’Challa of Wakanda and his sister, Princess Shuri. There’s a young girl in a white dress, carrying a flower basket and missing a front tooth, standing in front of [C.E.O. of Stark Industries] Pepper Potts. Next to them is a teenager with floppy brown hair doing an indescribably awkward double thumbs up.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing at him.

Wilson snorts. “Some punk. Family friend.”

That picture gets hung on the empty nail next to Captain Rogers’s painting.

Barnes knocks quietly on the doorway behind us. “Tea’s ready.”

An awkward silence settles in with us once we sit back down in the kitchen, Wilson and Barnes next to one another, and me across from them. I flip through my notes, taking a sip from my mug.. My drink is sweeter than I was expecting, because apparently the Winter Soldier has added agave to the hibiscus tea he made me. It’s delicious.

Barnes eventually breaks. “So whatcha go over so far?”

“How we got together, how we got engaged,” Wilson answers him. “In detail too, so if you don’t want that published, you’re gonna have to grovel at the journalist yourself, because you said—”

“Oh my god,” says Barnes, old-school New York sarcasm dripping from every word. “How dare you tell people about the best thing I ever did, huh? Now they’re gonna think I’m like, a sensitive, good guy, and here I’ve been coasting along on this murder cyborg image. What have you done, you dick?”

Wilson rolls his eyes.

“So...you’re okay with it?” I ask them, absolutely ready to scrub the record if he hesitates.

“You kidding me?” says Barnes. “Every other week comes up some new atrocity I committed against my will in like...the 70s, and you think I’m gonna be upset with people knowing that once in a while I say nice shit to someone I love? Write it. Please. Knock yourself out.”

Okay then. Since Barnes seems willing to talk, I ask them if I can throw them a few questions I have for them as a couple. Barnes looks as though he wasn’t anticipating this.

Wilson turns to him. “You wanna be here for this?”

Barnes nods slowly, hesitantly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“You’re okay?” Wilson asks. “You decide you’re done at any point and I’ll end it. Or you can go hang out in the other room, your call.”

“I’m good for now,” Barnes decides. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” Wilson says to me. “I can’t promise we’ll answer everything, but go ahead and shoot.”

“I guess the first question I have is: what’s the hardest thing about navigating your jobs as a couple? What bothers you the most about that?”

Wilson exhales loudly. “I mean, the obvious answer is the danger,” he says. “The nature of what we do is fundamentally unsafe. I think it goes without saying—I’ll still say it—that we’re always aware that one of us might not make it back from a mission, which is...” Wilson trails off for a moment, shaking his head. “You don’t get used to that feeling. The fear.”

“Mm hmm,” Barnes agrees, from behind his mug.

“And,” continues Wilson, “I’m also aware that by doing this interview, I’m putting Bucky in additional danger. I’m not naive enough to think that the people working against us won’t try to use my relationship with him as leverage against me.”

“That makes sense,” I say, because he’s absolutely right, and pretending that public knowledge of his marriage doesn’t put them both in a new kind of danger seems disingenuous. I face Barnes. “Your turn.”

“Racist assholes,” says Barnes immediately.

Wilson smirks and cocks his head in agreement. “Sometimes I think I’ve talked that subject to death, other times it’s like I could never hope to address it enough. Today feels like the first one.”

A diplomatic, but clear answer. Time to move on.

I’m about to ask the next question when he adds: “Another thing that gets under my skin is how it’s like Bucky’s image in the eyes of the general public is totally dependent on me hyping him up all the time. As far as I’m concerned, he’s proven himself a hundred times over, and yet if I’m not on T.V. reminding people of that every day, it’s suddenly like ‘oh, the Winter Soldier, can we ever really trust him?’

“I just… It bothers me. I want us to come to a collective understanding that everything that happened happened to Bucky, not because of him. It kinda circles back into another of the things I’m passionate about, which is mental health care and awareness. I think if we as a society were better about recognizing and addressing mental illness, and particularly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, I wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation about my husband.”

Barnes’s face is getting pinker and he says nothing, but he’s smiling a little at Wilson, who puts an arm around his shoulders.

“Anyway, we can move on,” says Wilson, his expression going easy again. “Just had to get that out there one more time.”

“Hopefully this one’s a little more pleasant,” I say. “What inspired you to come forward about your relationship? I know you guys—” I gesture between them, ”—have been together for a couple years, so why now?”

“I want to go on a date in public,” says Bucky. “I haven’t been on a date since the 40s.”

“That’s right,” says Wilson. “We’re doing all this so I can take him Denny’s and hold his hand over a $6.99 Super Slam.”

When I finish laughing, Wilson continues. “Part of it’s because we realized it’s gonna get out there whether we like it or not. You already knew when you got here that we lived together, and that’s because that information got leaked to the public last week, so it was always just a matter of time before people found out anyway. I’d rather have some control over that narrative; better you hear it from me and Bucky, how we want to tell it, than in some tabloid.”

He’s right about that: they would undoubtedly have been outed one way or another. Their status as “roommates” was reported by TMZ a week and a half ago, and there was a Buzzfeed piece only yesterday, rife with gifs, entitled 15 Times Captain America and The Winter Soldier Made Us Wish We Were Their Third Roommate, that ended on the note of how Wilson and Barnes are “absolute BFF GOALS.” Wilson continues:

“But I think the biggest reason is that we decided, together, that we actually think it’s good for people to know. I’ve seen firsthand the impact that having a Black Captain America has had on the Black community and on the national topic of race, and we think—we hope—that a Captain America who is a member of the LGBT community will have a similar effect.

“The people who already hate me aren’t going to like me any better or worse for being bisexual, but some bisexual teenager out there is hopefully gonna read this article and feel a little bit better about themselves than they did before. That’s really the impact I want to have here. Got anything to add, Buck?”

“Actually, yeah,” says Barnes, staring at the counter in front of him and fiddling with his wedding ring. “I grew up gay in thirties. The idea of being able to just...tell people, that’s still amazing to me. The fact that I’m sitting here talking about it with a stranger and you’re not screamin’ in my face right now…”

“You do know I’m not straight either, right?” I ask him. I’m not exactly shy about that, it’s the kind of thing most people can tell just by looking at me.

“Even so,” says Barnes, finally looking me in the eye. “You fool around with a fella back in the day—or worse, you make a pass and he turns you down—then he knows about you, and then it’s like, what if he tells someone? Some of the worst shit I ever saw came from people who found out that way. So, other gay guys. Basically you never felt safe.”

“What about Captain Rogers?” I ask. “Did he know?”

“Oh yeah, Steve knew,” says Barnes with a dismissive wave of his hand, like that ought to be obvious. “He wasn’t gonna tell anyone; I got too much dirt on him.“

“Pfft. He’s messing with you,” Wilson interjects, directed at me. “There’s no dirt on Steve anywhere; believe me, I’d know by now if there was.”

“I want you to guess how many times I’ve had to clean up Steve’s puke,” says Barnes in a total deadpan, leaning forward. “Whatever number you think it is, the real answer is higher.

“This again,” says Wilson. “I keep telling you Buck, Steve throwing up on you at Coney Island isn’t the big scandalous story you seem to want it to be.”

“Sam wasn’t there, he didn’t see it,” Barnes insists. “We were with these girls and they just left us standing there by the Cyclone, covered in hot dog chunks. Actually, that part was kind of a relief ‘cause one of ‘em was definitely jonesing for me to kiss her before that, and I really didn’t want to.

“But seriously, after everything we went through together, I knew I could trust Steve with anything. And that made me luckier than most—at least I had one person. Lots of guys had no one.

“Anyway, my reasons for coming out with all this are probably more selfish than Sam’s. You know some of those Nazis—we’re callin’ ‘em something else these days, like ‘alt-right’ or whatever, but I know a Nazi when I see one—they have this crazy idea of what I was like back in the day. They’ve got this fantasy, like a golem of toxic masculinity with my face on it, and I just want to publicly shit on their dreams. Every date I ever went on with a girl was a total sham, and I was scared down to my bones that someone would figure that out. I fight because someone needs to and I’m good at it, but I hate hurting people and I’d much rather be sitting here cuddling on the couch with a man. This man.”

Barnes is grinning big and wide by the time he finishes—a real, genuine smile that brings out the sparkle in his eyes—and suddenly I feel like I’m catching a glimpse of what Wilson must be seeing in him. Wilson himself is laughing.

“I like how you snuck your little buzzword in there, baby,” he says. “Toxic masculinity. That’s one of Bucky’s things he learned about from his Wakandan therapist.

“Obviously super important,” Wilson adds, lest I think he’s making light of something serious.

“I think it’s great that we’re talking about it so openly now, especially with respect to the military.”

Barnes tilts his head in agreement, checking the time on his phone. We’re probably approaching the point at which he wants to get started on that pita bread, and I’m definitely in his way.

“So what’s next for you guys?” I ask.

“Isn’t that always the question?” Wilson asks, taking Barnes’s right hand in his left and resting them, intertwined, on the countertop. “Sometimes it’s aliens. Sometimes not. Who even knows anymore?”

“Hopefully, a whole lot more of this,” says Barnes, looking down at their hands.

Wilson smiles. “Well, that’s a given. That’s always.”

This is when Barnes gets up to pull a stand mixer out of one of the cupboards, and I read that as my cue to take my leave. I end my recording, Wilson thanks me for stopping by, I promise to give him an advance copy of my writing to make sure he’s comfortable with what I said, and I find myself standing back on the sidewalk of [REDACTED] moments later.

I’m not typically in the habit of including as many details about the dinner plans of my article subjects as I have here—and I’m certainly testing the limits of my editor’s patience with the word count—but in the spirit of Wilson’s wishes for what his coming out story will mean to the people of America, I wanted to emphasize how human his marriage is.

Barnes and Wilson have extraordinary jobs that they are undoubtedly uniquely suited for and that most of us will never fully understand, but they are also two people who have been through a lot of hardship and found happiness and peace in one another. And that’s something that most of us do understand: love, the human experience that transcends the divisions we give ourselves.

*From a press conference Wilson gave on May 7, 2025.

**From a statement written by Barnes and issued through a S.H.I.E.L.D. representative on November 1, 2023.

For further reading on Barnes, the author recommends:

1. Greatest Generation X: The Impossible Life of James Buchanan Barnes, by Ariel Guzman, published in 2025.

2. R.Y. Uhlencott’s column “The Wolf of Brooklyn” in the October 2024 issue of Time covers the basic timeline and trajectory of Barnes’s life.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #winterfalcon #mcu #marvel #tfatws #sam(antha) tag #my fanfic tag #fanfic

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showload271 · 3 years ago

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semperintrepida · 4 years ago

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Spark Check

The truck's gas pedal had long been stomped to the floor when Kyra drummed her palms against its steering wheel and tried to coax a little more oomph out of its tired motor. "Come on," she pleaded.

Without her little Toyota, she couldn't have fled Portland and her on-again, off-again relationship with Thal. Their latest blow up had flipped them back to off-again, and this time she had to get away, get out of the city. She was sick of green — she wanted shades of brown: dust and sagebrush as far as her eye could see and sketch and paint. So she'd packed her things and headed for Oregon's high desert, the road taking her southeast into the Cascades, past Mount Hood, and into dense forest dotted with blue lakes.

But it seemed this was as far as her pickup could go, on a long climb up a mountain in the middle of nowhere. The truck had slowed to a crawl, and she pulled over as soon as the roadway widened enough for it to be safe.

"Fuck," she said into the silence.

She jumped out and popped the hood open. The smell of hot rubber and oil surrounded her, and she shook her head at the confusion of belts, cables, and tubing she found inside. Fuck. She'd seen three cars during the hours she'd spent on this road, and when she swiped her phone's screen awake, it showed no signal.

Breathe, Kyra. Think. She was okay for now. She had her backpacking gear, plenty of food and water. She could overnight here just fine. All she had to do was wait. She took another deep breath, then launched a psychic message into the universe: Please send someone to help me.

She glanced around. It was pretty here, at least, with a postcard view of a forested valley from the shoulder of a mountain. The light was decent, if a little harsh, but it wouldn't be long before the sun's angle changed and sent shadows knifing across the road.

All she could do was wait.

A few hours later, she was dozing in the front seat when she heard a far off sound: a deep, loping rumble that grew louder, quickly, into noise that slapped her ears as a dirtbike blew past her without stopping. She slumped back against her seat.

Then brake lights lit up, and the dirtbike made a sharp u-turn in the middle of the road and backtracked closer. Damn, she was kinda hoping for a minivan driven by a soccer mom. She was all by herself out here. But beggars couldn't be choosers, and she got out of the truck and stood by the hood and waited.

Her stomach knotted and her chest tightened as she watched the bike roll to a stop a little ways away. The bike's engine fell silent, and then its rider hopped off and approached her.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, face hidden behind a helmet and mirrored goggles, and his jersey and pants were patterned in brash splotches of black, blue, and yellow. He wore plastic armor slung over his chest, guards over his elbows, and chunky boots. He looked like some futuristic video game warrior.

The boots must have been stiff. He clomped gracelessly towards her while stripping his gloves off to reveal large hands, and then he reached up and unbuckled his helmet. He pulled it free, shook a long dark braid loose over his shoulder, and Kyra froze like a leaf in a cold snap as she realized the rider was a woman.

A fucking hot one, too.

It took Kyra a few moments to recover her poise. "Hi," she said, to keep things simple.

The woman was even hotter when she smiled. "Hey there." Her cheeks and forehead were coated in dust, but it only made the unusual color of her eyes more prominent. 'Brown' and 'hazel' didn't do them justice. They flicked away from Kyra and over to the truck's engine. "Trouble?"

"Yeah. We barely made it up this far."

"Huh. No power?"

Kyra sighed. "Not as much as it should, which isn't much to start with."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Go right ahead."

The woman bent down to put her helmet on the ground, but Kyra held out a hand and said, "Here, give it to me."

It was lighter than Kyra expected, its dusty white shell covered in scratches and scuffs. She placed it carefully in the truck's front seat, and when she circled back to the engine, the woman had already starting taking things apart.

She held a rubbery cable up to her eye, murmuring to herself as she inspected it. "You got a tool kit?"

"No." Kyra's cheeks warmed. Probably not a great idea to be traveling through BFE without a tool box, but her pickup had never let her down before.

"I've got one that might work. And lucky for you, my bike's Japanese too."

Kyra wasn't sure what that had to do with anything, and she mulled it over as she watched the woman walk to her bike and open the small pack strapped across its tail. Maybe the Japanese had a different school of arcane engine knowledge than anyone else.

The woman returned soon enough, and unfurled a canvas roll of tools that reminded Kyra of the paintbrush case that sat with her art supplies in the passenger seat of her truck, a variety of implements lined up in a neat row. Then the woman was plunging the length of a socket into the engine, turning the wrench with strong hands, pulling it out.

A frisson of excitement shivered out from behind Kyra's eyes, down her spine, and into places between her legs. Her cheeks warmed again, and she ducked her head and hoped she'd gone unnoticed.

The woman tapped something out of the socket into the palm of her hand. A spark plug. She plugged it into the cable. "Let's give it a check. Can you start your truck?"

Kyra hurried off, glad to be given something to do. She moved the helmet aside and slid behind the wheel. "Ready?" she called out.

"Yeah. Go for it."

Kyra turned the key. The engine coughed over unhappily.

The woman's voice floated out from under the hood. "That's enough. Come on back."

When Kyra returned to the front of the truck, the woman held up the cable and said, "You've got a bad spark plug wire. And if one's going bad, the others are too."

Kyra winced. "Perfect." Her breath squeezed out from her, as if a load of sandbags had landed on her chest. If she couldn't get the truck running here, she'd have to get it towed — and she didn't have the money for something like that. She'd have to call Thal, beg him for help—

"Well, Detroit Lake's just down the road. Maybe twenty or thirty miles, but it's downhill the whole way. If you want, I can follow you to make sure you make it there, and then we can figure out what to do next."

That we made the weight on Kyra's chest lose a few pounds. "That sounds great," she said. "I really appreciate it."

"Happy to help."

She extended a hand. "I'm Kyra, by the way."

The woman set the wire down and wiped her hands on her jersey, leaving a dark smudge of grease behind. It would stain if someone didn't soak it in detergent first before washing. She shook Kyra's hand with a firm grip. "Kassandra," she said, along with another smile. "Nice to meet you."

She put the truck back together in short order, and then she was pulling on her helmet and saying, "I'll pass you when we get close to town and you can follow me in." Kyra climbed back into her truck, buckled her seat belt, and tried the key. The engine fired up on her third attempt, and Kyra sighed with relief to be moving again with a clear plan ahead.

It took an hour to coast down that narrow and winding road, and once they reached Detroit Lake, Kassandra led her to a rustic-looking resort nestled among giant trees. The dirtbike came to a stop in front of a small cabin, and Kyra parked alongside it.

While Kyra locked her truck and walked to the steps up to the cabin's porch, Kassandra pushed the bike up the porch's ramp and parked it next to the front door. Kyra waited on the steps as Kassandra removed her gloves and helmet.

"Back to civilization, safe and sound," Kassandra said.

Kyra nodded. "And I owe it all to you." She supposed the tiny gas station across the road counted as civilization. It did have a pay phone.

Awkward silence. Kassandra straightened her braid over her shoulder. "Well, then." Her hands played with the straps on her helmet.

"Can I buy you dinner?"

She looked surprised. "You don't have to do that."

Was she being careful for a reason? Maybe she was taken, and there was someone waiting for her in that cabin. But she was too damn gorgeous for Kyra not to try again. "I insist," she said, letting an amused grin sneak across her lips. "I'm starving, anyway, and you did say we'd figure out what to do next."

Kassandra's hesitation was brief. "All right, then," she said. "But let me change out of"— a gesture at herself —"this, first."

When she emerged from the cabin a few minutes later, her face and neck were damp and she was wearing a grey t-shirt and jeans and a worn pair of work boots. The shirt was tight enough to jolt Kyra's clit wide awake: Kassandra had muscles for days, in the long lines of her forearms, the swell of her biceps, and the curve of her shoulders into honest-to-God traps framing her neck. Generous lips smiled and her eyes sparkled with amusement as she asked, "Are you all right?"

Kyra suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss those lips while running her hands over the washboard abs she knew were hiding under that t-shirt. She swallowed hard and tried not to wriggle out of her skin with want. "I'm fine, yeah."

Kassandra eyed her for a moment. "There's a decent place to eat, up the highway a bit," she said.

Kyra gestured for her to lead the way. Far safer than opening her mouth.

The hamlet of Detroit was bigger than Kyra expected. A marina full of houseboats sprawled by the lakeside, and a handful of shops stood in a cluster a short distance from the cars hurtling up and down the highway.

A few minutes later, they arrived at a building that wore the facade of a hunting lodge, with weathered clapboard siding and a dozen chromed-out motorcycles parked in front. There was probably a deer head mounted on the wall inside.

There was a deer's head mounted on the wall inside, a great big rack of antlers spread above the stone fireplace. They sat, ordered drinks — beer for Kyra and a Jack-and-Coke for Kassandra — and fussed with place settings.

"You come in from Estacada?" Kassandra asked her.

"No, I spent last night camping at Timothy Lake."

Kassandra smiled. "I love it up there. It's gorgeous, and the riding's perfect."

"Is that what you're here for?"

"Yeah, I've got a few days between assignments. My crew just got back from three weeks in Tahoe."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a firefighter." Of course she was. Something must have escaped Kyra's expression because Kassandra grinned at her and added, "Wildland, not the firetrucks, ladders, and dalmatians kind. I work on a Hotshot crew based out of Redmond."

"Hotshot?"

"We work the toughest parts of a forest fire, without any other support. And we direct a lot of the action around us. We go where others can't."

"So you're good at what you do, then."

"I'm very good at what I do." And she had the confidence to match.

They were still smirking at each other when the waitress returned with their drinks. They ordered food. Handed over menus. Kyra excused herself to wash up, and when she came back to their table, Kassandra was staring out the window, showing off a profile so perfect it should have been struck on coins like royalty.

"So what do you do?" Kassandra asked her as she sat down.

"I don't, really." Kyra fought back her embarrassment. Very attractive, not having a job. No, she did work at something — it just didn't pay. Yet.

Kassandra's eyebrow raised.

"I'm an artist."

"Oh yeah? What kind?"

"I paint, mostly." She was acutely aware of Kassandra's silent scrutiny. She sipped her beer and kept talking. "Small studies in acrylics, for now. I'm chasing that perfect light."

"Perfect light?"

"Yeah. You know, after sunrise, or before sunset. That golden glow?"

Kassandra nodded.

"It's so perfect it's a cliché. But I'm interested in other kinds of perfection: rays of sunlight moving ahead of a rainstorm, or light passing through ocean waves. Things like that."

"Lots of that around here."

Their eyes met. "Lots of beauty around here, too," Kyra said.

Under the table, Kassandra's leg jerked.

The food arrived just in time to distract them. Kassandra dug into a steak — rare — and an enormous salad. "I eat nothing but processed food and MREs while I'm on assignment," she explained. "The other six months of the year, I eat every vegetable in sight while doing odd jobs to make ends meet. Construction. Fabrication. That sort of thing."

So Kassandra knew about the gig life. "I usually end up finding work as a barista to pay the bills," Kyra said between forkfuls of potatoes au gratin. "I like slinging coffee well enough, but what I really want is to get paid for my paintings."

"A worthy goal."

"I've sold a few here and there, but I can't get my foot in the door of any galleries." She shrugged. "I'm not making the work I want to be, and it shows, I think."

"What's stopping you?"

"Money. Oil paints and canvas get expensive at large scale. I want to paint like J. C. Dahl or Bierstadt did. Huge canvases. Big views. When you look at one of my landscapes, I want you to feel like you could lose yourself in it." She scraped her fork through the remnants of potato on her plate. "But that kind of neo-luminism isn't exactly burning up the auction houses these days. I'd be better off learning how to paint with a spray can and a stencil." She gave Kassandra an apologetic smile. "And look at me, boring you with all this talk about my nonexistent career."

"I'm not bored. It's just that everything I know about art went into the finger paintings I made when I was in grade school."

Kyra laughed. "Well, I don't know a single thing about fighting fire, so I won't hold it against you."

"At least we've got something in common."

"What's that?"

"You make sacrifices to do what you love. You live with the uncertainty, and I bet you know how to make a dollar go a long way." She smiled faintly. "I know... because I do the same."

"Maybe you can give me some tips on dealing with the uncertainty part," Kyra said. That was what was hardest, not having control of her life, not having a plan.

"Ask away, if there's something you want to know."

There were a lot of things about Kassandra that Kyra wanted to know, but she steered the conversation in a lighter direction, and the second round of drinks became a third while their knees kept brushing under the table, and the biker gang peeled out of the parking lot with a cloud of exhaust and noise, and the shadows grew long across the highway.

"Sun's going to set soon," Kassandra said. "Where were you planning to stay tonight?"

"I was hoping to make it to Bend today, but that plan's been shot to hell. And I bet there aren't any vacant hotels around here."

"Not this time of year. I got lucky finding this room — someone bailed on a reservation." She slid her empty glass back and forth on the table in front of her, as if the coaster was a raft she was guiding through rapids.

"Looks like I'm sleeping in the canopy of my truck, then. Wouldn't be the first time."

Kassandra's glass lurched to a stop. "Tell you what. You're welcome to crash in my room tonight. We can take my truck in to Stayton in the morning, find you some new spark plugs and wires. You'll be back on the road well before noon." She'd said it in a rush, as if she'd reached a chute in the rapids and had no choice but to follow it on down.

Kyra breathed in slowly. It wouldn't do to seem too eager. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm grateful for the help."

They bickered gently over the check, when it came; Kyra wanting to pay the whole thing like she'd promised, and Kassandra insisting on covering her share. Kyra sensed her digging in, unwilling to cross some line of propriety she'd set for herself, and so Kyra relented. There were too many hills around her for all of them to be ones to die on.

On the walk back to the cabin, Kassandra told her about a wildfire she'd worked not far from here, felling trees and digging fireline along a ridge in a forest dried-out from years of drought, the flames in the canyon below burning so intensely that the heat had created its own thunderstorm right above it. She'd dug and dug, rain and hail pelting her hard hat while bright blue skies stretched behind her all the way to Mount Hood on the horizon.

"That sounds... beautiful and terrifying," Kyra said as Kassandra opened the door to the cabin and gestured her inside.

"It's often both, yeah."

The room wasn't large, but the bed was. Bed in the singular. Kyra kept her smirk internal.

A small sofa sat across from the bed, a TV hid in the corner, and two doorways led to rooms unknown. Wood paneling on the walls, simple wooden furniture. Kassandra's belongings were organized neatly in an open wardrobe.

Kassandra made a beeline for the sofa. She plopped down onto it, stretched her arms out to both sides. Her arm span was wider than the sofa was. "I'll sleep here." She bounced up and down, ignoring the dire creaking of its springs.

"This is your room."

She shrugged, then leaned forward so her elbows rested on her knees. "So? You're my guest."

"You're six feet tall and that sofa's the size of a postage stamp. I'll sleep on it before you do." Kyra crossed her arms. "But really, there's no reason why we can't share the bed."

Kassandra had started twisting her fingers together; locking them in place, breaking them apart. "I can't have you thinking that I brought you here because I'm wanting something from you, for helping you with your truck. I'll sleep right here. It's fine."

Kyra had to shoot her shot, right now, or she'd end up sleeping in that big bed all alone. "Maybe I'm wanting something from you."

Troubled eyes looked up. God, she was gorgeous. "I... " she started. Stopped. And Kyra's heart sank. This is when Kassandra would tell her she was taken, that she had someone back home to soak those grease stains out of her jersey, to worry about her when she was working a fire, to—

"I was hoping you'd say something like that," Kassandra said softly.

Kyra took her by the hand, pulled her to her feet, and then Kyra slid her palms along the undersides of Kassandra's forearms. Heavy. Solid, like bronze. But that was the color of Kassandra's eyes, and when Kyra kissed her it was like a circuit closing like an arc lamp turning night into day like a quality of light she'd never seen before but knew she'd be chasing the rest of her life.

When they parted, Kyra was breathless, and she tucked her face into the curve of Kassandra's neck, feeling the steady cadence of her breathing. "Kassandra?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm so glad you didn't turn out to be some redneck."

Kassandra's laugh filled the room, and she gathered Kyra's face in her hands and looked at her. "Honestly, when I saw your rig, I was expecting some dried-up gold miner with shaggy hair and missing teeth."

"You thought wrong, Bubba."

Kassandra laughed again. Kissed her again. But when Kyra's hands strayed down to her belt, she pulled away. "Hey, slow down there, forty-niner. I'm pretty sure I have dust in unmentionable places."

"Do you really think I'd let a little dust get in the way of working my claim?" She reached for Kassandra again.

Her paydirt maneuvered away a second time. "I kinda want to take a shower..."

She waited for the rest.

"Think you might like to join me?"

She answered by curling her fingers around Kassandra's belt, and she glanced about the room, considering her doorway options.

"That way," Kassandra murmured along with a tilt of her head.

She pulled Kassandra to the bathroom, each step driving her to even giddier heights. Was this even happening right now?

Kassandra flipped the lights on. Clean, white tile and a matching shower. Nicer than Kyra had expected.

"This could either be really awkward or really hot," Kassandra said.

"You think this'll be awkward?" Kyra smirked and reached for Kassandra. There was no hiding in this light, no place for anything but want and confidence, and Kyra found her confidence in wanting to get Kassandra naked. Kassandra's t-shirt and sports bra ended up getting tossed in a corner, and then Kyra couldn't resist, she just had to kiss Kassandra while her hands found leather and metal to unbuckle, and she pushed fabric down over hips and thighs until Kassandra kicked it all free and stood naked before her in full glory.

Oh my God. Not only did Kassandra have muscles for days, she had them for weeks and months and years. Her proportions were perfect, in the horizontal of her shoulders to hips and the vertical of her torso to legs. Kyra's mouth went dry, her moisture draining to places south of her waist.

Kassandra flashed a rakish grin, then stepped into the shower, turning knobs while Kyra waited. Water jetted against tile with a loud hiss. Kassandra seemed to take a very long time — or maybe that was Kyra's thirst wringing out the clock in its search for droplets of satisfaction — but when Kassandra finally came back, she undressed Kyra with a touch both careful and reverent, her eyes drinking in the sight of Kyra's skin with every slow reveal.

Heat burned between Kyra's legs. Steam filled the bathroom. Her clothes joined the pile in the corner, and Kassandra's hands came to rest on her hips. She reached for Kassandra's braid, untied it, and worked the thick mane loose — along with a puff of dust.

Kassandra truly was covered in it, in streaks running down her steam-dampened skin. Kyra laughed and traced her finger through the grime between Kassandra's breasts, then drew an X on Kassandra's stomach. The hands on her hips shifted, nudging her towards the shower until she stood basking under its pleasantly hot spray.

The pressure was good: in the stream of water and the feel of Kassandra's hands on her skin. Calloused palms scratched and tickled the sides of her breasts, and she wriggled away, prompting an insincere "Sorry" as Kassandra played with her, alternating soft strokes from her fingertips with rougher ones from her palms.

Kyra bit back her want, slipped out of Kassandra's grasp, and said, "Your turn."

As Kassandra stood under the water, Kyra enjoyed the way it beaded over her skin, the way she glistened in the light. Then looking wasn't enough, and Kyra had to sample Kassandra's broad shoulders, the firm planes of her chest, the soft weight of breasts and plump nipples so different than a man. She smelled different too, none of that tang that men always had about them. It had been too long since Kyra had been with a woman, and Kassandra was showing her how foolish that was.

Kyra pulled Kassandra closer, pressed her up against the wall, and kissed her. Wet lips, water in her mouth, soft slick tongue. She was delicious, and Kyra grew greedy, wanting more more more as she ran her hands over sculpted abs and slid them lower—

That earned her hands a playful slap from Kassandra. "Ah, ah, ah. Hands off. I don't want to be distracted," she said, as she snagged the soap from a niche in the shower wall.

She knew exactly what she was doing, making Kyra wait, making Kyra watch as she soaped her skin and scrubbed it into a lather, making Kyra thirst while surrounded by water as she washed her hair. Her shampoo had the fresh, airy smell of citrus. It filled the shower, wrapped Kyra in its enticing steam.

This was a fierce kind of want. She scowled, snatched up the shampoo bottle, washed her hair as Kassandra emerged from the water clean and magnificent. The sight was too much; she turned her back to Kassandra as she rinsed herself. But as the last of the suds swirled down the drain, Kassandra's hands gently turned her around and soaped her from head to toe and she forgot everything except the hand slipping over her belly into the crease of her hip, slipping between her thighs, so close to where she needed, hovering without touching, moving from thigh to thigh—

"Fuck," she gasped.

"Is that what you want?" Kassandra asked. Her smirking grin was an inch away from Kyra's lips.

Kyra stared daggers at her.

"Sorry, you'll have to wait a bit longer," she said, and then she carefully rinsed Kyra clean. It was thorough, and luxurious, and melted Kyra's pique into forgiveness. She closed her eyes and her muscles went soft and pliant under Kassandra's hands, and she felt herself being guided out of the shower. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, waiting. Kassandra moved away. Kassandra came back. She rubbed Kyra down with a fluffy towel, wrapped her in it, then picked her up with breathtaking ease and carried her to the bed.

The length of Kassandra's body settled against hers. Dangerous weight. She could pin Kyra down, crush her with all that muscle. The towel bloomed open. Goosebumps sprouted across damp skin. The only illumination in the room came from the light in the bath. It snuck past the drape of Kassandra's hair and threw shadows across her face, and her eyes captured the sparks of want passing between them.

All that muscle on top of her, mouth at her throat, hands on her hips. Kyra's want buzzed and flickered, like a spotlight warming up. Now, find out now. She fit her thigh up between Kassandra's legs, pressed hard. A gasp from above. Kyra's heartbeat doubled-up, and there was no stopping her leg twining around Kassandra's. "Roll over." A demand, not a question.

Kassandra blinked, tilted her head as she searched Kyra's face. The sparks in her eyes danced. Really?

Yes, really. Kyra shifted her weight, used her leg as a pivot... and felt Kassandra yield.

All that muscle moved beneath her, hips made to be straddled, shadowed curves meant to be explored. Kyra's blood pulsed with an illicit thrill as she leaned forward. Skin pressing together. Breasts nestling together. Damp heat, water turning to sweat.

She kissed Kassandra, tasted her hunger, her soft mouth opening to let Kyra in. No games and no playing hard to get. Her want, Kyra's want, their want speaking in tongues. Kassandra's fingers tangled in her hair. That mouth should be on her clit. Those fingers should be inside her.

Wait. Wait longer. She sucked at Kassandra's lower lip, raked it with her teeth, apologized with her tongue. She pulled her mouth away, smiled as Kassandra groaned and stirred, muscles bunching, eyes burning like carbon filaments, captive and captivated. Kyra moved her mouth lower: the silvery scar on Kassandra's chin, the rapid pulse at her throat, the wings of her collarbones. Lower, until her lips found the soft swell of a breast, the nipple she could persuade to grow harder with teasing lips and tongue. First one, then the other. And Kassandra's back arched: Yes.

How sweet of her to offer. Kyra slid off to the side, surveying the chiaroscuro of the exposed planes of Kassandra's body. Choices, choices. Kassandra's spectacular abs, or the inviting shadows between her thighs?

Both. Kyra was getting greedy again. She ran her tongue along the sculpted grooves of Kassandra's stomach and slid her hand into soft curls. Swollen heat. Desire soaking her fingers, satisfying in a way arousing a man never was. And making this particular woman so wet... She smiled and drifted her mouth lower, tasted her own desire in a trail she'd left on Kassandra's belly, and her clit was bright and burning and her ache went deep, wanting to be fucked, wanting to fuck.

She stroked slick fingers everywhere but the places Kassandra wanted. Hard to be so patient, when every touch felt like it reflected back at her, teasing and being teased. She was dripping. Kassandra was dripping, her body twisting restlessly in a tangle of sheets and towels. Kyra stopped moving. Her fingertips hovered, waiting. And Kassandra's hips lifted: More.

Kyra's mouth was almost too close to Kassandra's clit. It tempted her, nestled in dark, feathery curls, proud and swollen and hard. That was Kyra's doing. She'd made that happen. Hard not to let that surge of power go straight to her clit, and she closed her eyes against the bright flare of her own need.

Focus. Come back. Breathe in air heavy with warm, damp arousal. Breathe it out across Kassandra's sensitive flesh. Kassandra squirmed under her cheek and let out a frustrated moan.

That sound was pleasing, and she dipped the tips of her fingers into silky wetness. The tiniest taste, no more. Kassandra's moans grew louder. Kyra's blood beat in her ears. So easy, capturing Kassandra's full attention in the spotlight of her breath and the smallest movements of her fingertips.

Wait. Move slowly. Kassandra's muscles corded and strained, and Kyra wound them tighter and tighter with every touch. All that strength in thrall to her fingers — the rush lifted Kyra to stratospheric heights. She could glide on it, never come down. She lost all track of time in the artificial, unchanging light. How long had she kept Kassandra like this? How long could she?

Beneath her, Kassandra was panting with her thighs spread wide. She rocked her hips, chasing Kyra's fingers, and Kyra made her fail again and again. Her attempts grew half-hearted. She gave up trying.

This was Kassandra primed like a canvas: body taut beyond trembling, senses tuned to Kyra, clit starved for attention.

Kassandra's sounds devolved into one long, unbroken whimper. And then, finally, Kyra went to work, sucking Kassandra into her mouth and easing her fingers all the way inside.

Nothing fancy: steady strokes, tongue on clit, the way women have been getting each other off since ancient times. She'd already tested Kassandra's patience at least that long.

Kassandra whispered Yes and Fuck to guide her. Kassandra angled her hips just so. Kassandra snapped at the point of release with a sudden growl, her hands grabbing fistfuls of bedsheets as she writhed, lost in pleasure.

Kassandra throbbed against her tongue and pulsed around her fingers and Kyra lay there not moving not wanting to move in the golden glow, wanting it to stay wanting to capture it and keep it.

But it faded, eventually. She slid up the bed and rested her head on Kassandra's shoulder and smiled for a long, long time.

"I'll be damned," Kassandra said quietly, once she caught her breath. "Is that how you always say thank you?"

"When I'm feeling inspired."

"You really are an artist."

Kyra smirked. No matter how the rest of their time together played out, she'd always have the memory of Kassandra writhing around her fingers.

The mattress compressed as Kassandra knelt above her. Kassandra rested a hand on her belly, and though there was no weight behind it, it pinned Kyra right to the bed.

"Well," Kassandra said. "You certainly set the bar high, honey. But it's my turn now."

Kyra opened her arms wide and gave Kassandra her dirtiest come-hither look. "Show me what you've got, hotshot."

Kassandra smiled, and did.

Part of the Heat Index...

#kyssandra #kassandra #ac odyssey #shameless smut #plot what plot #wildland firefighter kassandra #there was only one bed #kyra's on top #tropetacular but i dun curr #heat index #once upon a time #i may have been riding my dirtbike on this road #when i came across a hot lady firefighter with a broken down truck #alas that encounter did not end like this story did #bc i was on my way to meet up with a riding buddy #but man what perfect writing fuel that experience was

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herpronuonsarefemslash · 4 years ago

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Bioweapons and Beef Stew - TEASER

https://www.patreon.com/posts/52994705 Kara's pod goes into the wrong wormhole and she ends up in the Mass Effect universe. (I made it ABO so that everyone's learning new things about their bodies, which I always find fun to write. The setting is middle of the plot of Mass Effect 1 and except for Kara Zor-El, will be largely vanilla.) KUDOS NOTE: Much of the asari culture and most of the words are borrowed with my gratitude from PMC65 of "Thessian Whisper" fame, LogicalPremise's supporting documents for his grimdark "Of Sheep and Battle Chicken" saga, and Joking611, author of "Cari'ssi'mi" stories. ----- Shepard closes the channel, leans back in her chair and pinches the bridge of her nose as hard as she dares. It feels like her sinuses are full of riot foam. Has since they took off from Noveria. "Fuck." She staggers into her cabin's bathroom and splashes cold water on her face, prodding at the rapidly purpling bruise on her right cheek from one of Benezia's wilder attacks. Spinning the clothing rack inside the tiny closet shows she has dress uniforms, her BDUs and a novelty T-Shirt she got on Elysium the night before the Blitz. Somehow it survived all the excitement and arrived by shipping pod a few weeks later, along with a promise to provide her anything in their entire line. If only she wore femme clothes with any regularity. She has a prisoner to visit and traitor or not, Benezia T'Soni requires the utmost respect. In the darkest hour of the asari, when raping, murdering queens from inland laid waste to the grand coastal cities, it was two newly minted paladins who made the midnight raid that struck down the twisted matriarch so fearsome that some claimed she was Athame's punishment. It takes no exaggeration to say that the golden age that rose in the aftermath is the daughter of Kanyru T'Sere and Cellnis T'Soni. Two tiny houses with nothing but a warrior tradition and pair of matriarchs and thousands of years later, both families are so wealthy and influential that their private navies could conquer the Terminus with ease and with a bit of luck, roll the Systems Alliance up like a carpet and lay siege to Earth. Dress uniform it is. Putting it on requires only memory. Button. Straighten. Tug. Adjust medal. Smooth sleeves. Check boots. Polish. Check again. Polish again. ... She was a quicker draw than Ashley, but not by much. Three hollow-bottle electrical rounds from her pistol knocked the matriarch out. They brought Benezia back to the Normandy in cuffs and doped to the gills. Her body blazed through the drugs almost as fast as they could pump more in her biotics working on behalf of her immune system to try to burn out the threat. Evolution doesn't allow weaklings to live to a thousand and four years old. Now, looking at a good marine--one she trained herself--standing dazed and sweaty during an easy duty shift, Shepard wonders if she brought the enemy aboard. Is indoctrination contagious? Seems unlikely that their scanners would detect it in standard decon, no matter how many nano-virus patterns they can check for. "DRAVEN! Are you operational, marine?" Draven nods again, even slower this time. "Yes...wait. No. I think I'm sick, ma'am. Fever, maybe." "I think you might be, yeah. So straight to your sleeping pod and seal yourself in. I'll send the doc." She keeps her hand squeezed tight on Draven's shoulder as she steers her towards the enlisted bunks. The door swishes open and she sees the last thing she would have expected to see: Ashley Williams wearing what looks like a very realistic cybernetic strap-on, pinning Tali's long hands against the bulkhead and rolling her hips, dragging the shaft over the suit between the young engineer's ample thighs. Tali seems to be a willing participant, judging by the way she's clenching her legs together and the lunges she makes when Ash pulls back. "Gunny!" Shepard barks. "Explain yourself." Ashley turns. Her golden skin is dripping with sweat, her curly hair is down to her shoulders, tangled and wild, and her teeth are bared. She leans

forward to cover more of Tali's body with her own and actually growls, like a dog protecting its food bowl. ... After a round of precautionary commands and instructions to Chakwas, who reported that she had already suited up in decon gear and gotten to work, Shepard swallows the last scraps of her pride and approaches the medbay door. She presses her palm to the intercom. "Can I come in, Liara?" Rather than a reply, the door simply opens. Liara's hand is slack at her side, as if lifting her finger to her omni to open the door took everything. Trails of salt granules streak her freckled face. The officer's academy didn't go deeper than 'coastal-dwelling ancestors' but seeing Liara's face streaked by sea salt and lean, delicate body and her long hands folded into a ball makes Shepard think of a mermaid in mourning more than anything. They say asari means 'of the ocean' in the salarian language that lent them their post-spaceflight name. "How is she?" Liara shrugs, looking younger and older at the same instant. "The body will live. The mind..." Something propels her forward, commands her to put her hands on Liara's shoulders. "C'mere." ... It is only a few minutes each time she wakes, so they make careful use of them. The drugs wear off every few hours and Benezia wakes for five or ten minutes as herself, then goes back to ranting. It's a slow process and knowing that Saren is anything but slow in his mad pursuit of this Conduit, it makes Shepard sick to be on a quarantined ship, even if it is with the mother of the girl she's fallen for. With the Normandy idling at a gas giant while they sort out the disease affecting the crew--they caught Draven mounting Gunnery Chief Roberts in the middle of her shift--there's plenty of time for Shepard to catch up on her paperwork from Chakwas' desk. Liara explains about Shepard's vision and gushes about melding and trying to understand it, and Benezia smirks and looks past her daughter to Shepard as if to say 'get on with it'. Shepard promises to keep Liara safe. ... Chakwas' omnitool pings and she glances down at it, says something Liara's omnitool marks as impolite, and then gradually lowers her head onto her desk, raising it and dropping it the last inch three times. "Doctor, are you..." Ill? Delirious? Suicidal? Liara wonders. Then she remembers that Tali has taken to kicking pieces of damaged technology that don't cooperate, a habit she claims she learned from Engineer Daniels. It's not a quarian gesture she's ever seen and Tali sheepishly admitted that the first two times she did it, she stubbed her toe. It's as if human emotions can gather so densely in their bodies that unless they damage themselves physically, they will go mad. "I just received word from the commander that the bioweapon has finished whatever it is doing to her." Liara's tongue feels thick. Clumsy. Too much. Like it might choke her. "Oh?" Chakwas nods. "Apparently her body has taken on masculine characteristics, at least judging by her request for altered duty clothes. I think the asari word for it is akero?" "No, but I can see why you might think that." Chakwas shrugs. "Joker wanted to name the whole mess after some popular concept in human pornography called alpha/beta/omega. All based on a fetish which is itself based on highly suspect research about Earth wolves. I suppose humans associate the dominant and forceful sexual role with the male." Liara hums. "It is a human ship, doctor. Perhaps human terms are appropriate when venturing into the unknown. Is there any way I can help the Commander?"

#mass effect #shiara #female shepard #liara x femshep #abo

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eclecticmuses · 4 years ago

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Learning to Breathe

Author: @eclecticmuses and @mrsleopoldfitz Rating: Explicit Chapter: 28/29 Relationships/Characters: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Bus Team, Antoine Triplett, Lance Hunter, Bobbi Morse, Alphonso Mackenzie, Others Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Season 2 AU, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Fluff, Some Humor Summary: In the wake of being dumped at the bottom of the Atlantic, Leo Fitz faces a long road to recovery. Fortunately, he has Jemma by his side for support. But it won’t always be easy, and forces from both within and outside S.H.I.E.L.D. seem to be conspiring to keep them apart. The line between the oath they swore to the agency and the promises they made to each other is starting to blur, but it may be too late to escape with their lives before they lose each other for good. A season 2 AU and sequel to Begin Again.

Excerpt from Chapter 28:

It felt nice to hold Fitz's hand as they walked down the hall to their bunk, and again on the way to the hangar after Jemma quickly changed into her boots and run a brush through her hair. Hopefully the weather was nice outside and it wouldn’t be a bad evening for a stroll. “Do you have anything in mind?” she asked as she plucked a key fob from the rack near the hangar entrance and handed it to Fitz, then headed for the row of SUVs.

He unlocked the SUV, pausing to open Jemma's door for her before going around to the driver's side. “I'm thinkin’ cold. And preferably chocolate. Do y’ want frozen yogurt or ice cream? I could do either.” Fitz turned the key in the ignition and took them out of the garage, his hand finding Jemma's knee once more as they got onto the road. He steered them in the general direction of the city, but didn't bother to put a destination into the GPS. They could wander for a bit and so when they saw something they wanted.

Read the rest on AO3!

#Fitzsimmons #Leo Fitz #Jemma Simmons #aosficnet2 #fstag #fsfic #Agents of SHIELD #eclecticfic #mrsleopoldfitz #happy Tuesday!

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heretoomuch · 6 years ago

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The What If

I still have a soft spot for Lysander. Even though I’m not playing MCL University Life, I’m still lurking in the tags.

Decided to write my own little drabble for Victorian boy because why not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Note: this is completely self indulgent and obviously AU.

Word count: 3,595

Lysander x Candy

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Life goes on without waiting for anyone. People grow older, events unfold, and the world keeps moving. However for some it feels like the world is moving without us. No matter how fast we run, we can’t keep up. Then when we finally do, everyone and everything has changed. They become unrecognizable.

That’s how Candy felt when Rosa told her what happened with Lysander. They hadn’t kept in contact after she had to move away. At first they talked every night. They talked about everything and nothing. Yet as the months went by and the work started piling on, those daily chats turned into weekly chats. Then monthly.

Then silence.

She couldn’t remember when it happened; when she stopped calling or expecting calls from him. It just seemed to happen. She found herself too absorbed in college life.

When they both agreed to breakup, she felt more devastated than she should have. After all it was an amicable breakup, and they were still friends. Yet, it felt like everything had ended in that moment. And for a while it took time to heal.

There were times when she thought about Lysander. These moments came to her during brief quiet times. The memories attached to him held such strong emotions for her. Yet as suddenly as they would come, they would be gone in the next moment.

Despite the lack of contact, something stopped her from seeing other people. She would have innocent meet ups with other guys, but they wouldn’t go very far. Often times she never saw them again.

Though she didn’t think about what it meant, a small part of her whispered the truth. She focused on the now rather than what ifs in order to continue on.

Time heals all wounds. Or so it is said. Sometimes all the time in the world cannot heal them. Sometimes they scab over and remain as a reminder. A reminder of the past.

—————

The open country road was empty most times. Occasionally a truck would speed past her small car. In those moments, Candy would grip the steering wheel as they went by. Mostly though, she was alone with her thoughts and the stereo blaring her music. With the windows down and the wind whipping her hair, she could almost imagine that this was just another quick trip to somewhere fun.

However as the GPS showed her nearing her destination, a pit was forming in her stomach. Rosa had been supportive of her plan to visit Lysander. She told her it would do them both some good to have closure. Yet, Candy was starting to doubt that this was a good idea.

Maybe he didn’t want to see her. Maybe their mutual understanding about long distance was enough closure. Maybe she was clinging to old memories, and he had moved on. Lysander was always the more mature one.

“You will arrive at your destination, on the right, in 300 yards.” The GPS interrupted her thoughts.

Glancing around, she had driven past a long stretch of fenced in land. The dust from the dirt road flew up in clouds behind her buggy. She spotted a few cows grazing. Pulling into the farm she didn’t know what to expect.

Parking next to a blue pickup truck, she stepped out of her car and surveyed the area. There were a few large barns behind the house painted the standard red and white. She could make out the mooing of the cows, squawks of the chickens and possibly sheep.

The house itself was a simple colonial painted a light shade of yellow. There were baby blue shutters that looked to need a fresh coat of paint. The porch was bare except for two rocking chairs set out.

Walking to the front door, she hesitated to knock. Wiping her palms on her jeans, Candy squared her shoulders. Letting out a deep breath, she knocked a few times. There was no answer. Knocking again, this time a little louder, she listened for any sound.

After waiting a bit, she sighed. “Of course he might not be in. It’s not like he knew you were coming.”

Standing on the porch, she debated on whether to just get back into her car and leave. She could pretend this whole thing never happened. She imagined Rosa’s disappointed look as she scolded her for not trying hard enough.

“Maybe I’ll wait for a bit,” she mumbled. Taking a seat in one of the rockers, she allowed herself to relax. Listening to the distant animal sounds and feeling the warm breeze, she found herself slowly nodding off.

She woke with a start. Sitting up she looked around, not sure what woke her. The sun was now lower in the sky.

“Great, I fell asleep and now it’s getting late.” Standing, she yawned and stretched. It seemed Lysander hadn’t come back at all. Glancing at her watch it was a bit past three. “I napped for two hours?!”

Fumbling in her bag for keys, Candy rushed off the porch to her car. Looking in her bag she collided with another person. Stumbling back, she was saved from falling when a firm but gentle hand gripped her upper arm.

“Candy?” Lysander stared at the woman in surprise. She returned the look despite having come all this way to see him.

His hair got longer, she mused. It was pulled back into a ponytail. Gone were the Victorian style clothes she remembered him in. Instead he wore dusty jeans, work boots, and a worn white shirt. Thick brown gloves adorned his hands.

He released his hold on her. “I….what are you doing here?”

At least he doesn’t sound upset to see me, she thought. “Sorry I came here unannounced. I just….got back in town. Rosa told me what happened. And I….” she trailed off. Whatever she wanted to say was lost.

Standing outside awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Would you like to come in?”

Nodding mutely, she followed him inside. He kicked off his boots and placed them in a shoe rack. Candy followed suit and toed off her sneakers. The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet.

The inside of the house was just as quaint as the outside. A cozy kitchen/dining area was off to the left of the entrance. The rest of the floor looked to be a living area. Stair led up to what she assumed was the bedroom.

Taking a seat at the table, Lysander busied himself in the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? I have tea or lemonade.”

“Lemonade would be nice.” Taking it all in, she took note of the pictures on the fridge. There was a small vase of wildflowers on the table. A window over the sink gave a view of the front porch.

Setting a glass in front of her, he sat across from her. Candy sipped the drink; the tartness coated her tongue but was quickly chased by a lingering sweetness.

They were silent as they drank their lemonade. Candy couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He didn’t seem to want to make eye contact either. The tension in the air was almost suffocating.

“I wanted to see you!” she blurted out. Lysander blinked owlishly. “I mean….I heard from Rosa what happened. I’m so sorry.”

“...thank you.” He paused before continuing, “How have you been?”

“Okay. I decided to move back here for my last year of university. They have a program that I wanted to take.”

He let out a breath. “So you’ll be staying for awhile?”

“Yeah. I’ll be here for the year. Then, I don’t really know what I’ll do.” She squeezes the glass. “How are you doing with everything?”

“I’m doing fine. Taking each day one step at a time.” He placed his empty glass down. “I’ve come to appreciate the countryside.”

“Do you care for the farm by yourself?” Imagining him taking care of everything on his own was something Candy couldn’t wrap her head around. Sure Leigh stopped by according to Rosa, but it was different when one lived there the entire time.

He was quiet for a moment, then, “I have some helpers who come during the day to help with the animals. It’s not too much work for me most days. I’ve gotten used to it.”

Hands in her lap, they curled into fists. “But are you happy?” He shouldn’t have to be used to living on the farm if it wasn’t what he wanted.

Lysander sighed. “I’m as happy as I can get. I still write in my spare time. It’s enough.” He sounded tired.

Looking at his face, he had changed in the four years. He looked just as tired as he sounded. There was a hard look in his eyes that wasn’t there before. His face was more angular and the set of his jaw more defined. He had changed.

“Why are you here?” he asked; his voice calm and gentle. There was no accusation in his tone.

“I just wanted to say ‘hi’ since I’m here,” she replied. A very lame excuse. It was half true.

She wanted to see him ever since Rosa mentioned him. If she was honest, she had wanted to see him since returning. The old memories and feelings that she thought she put away had swelled up. Even now seeing him again after four year her heart pounded in her chest. Her stomach was a knot of butterflies.

“If I had known you were coming, I wouldn’t have been away for so long. I was out tending to the animals.” His apology was unnecessary.

Draining the last of the lemonade, Candy shook her head. “I think if I had told you, I might have chickened out. It’s been so long and I wasn’t sure how…” she looked away “...you would feel after all this time. I wanted to come.”

Collecting her cup, he stood up and went over to the sink. “I’m glad you did. It’s great to see you again.”

Cheeks warming, she hummed in response. She had been worried that Lysander wouldn’t want to see her. A part of her feared he might want her to leave. Silly as it was, those thoughts had crossed her mind multiple times while driving.

“Do you want to stay for dinner? I have a chicken pot pie that just needs to be put in the oven.” Ever the hospitable one.

Her stomach grumbled in response. “Dinner would be nice.”

“While I get it ready, the bathroom is down the hall to the right if you need it.” He was already starting to prepare.

Heading to the bathroom, she paused to take a look at a few pictures hanging in the hall. Most were old photos of Lysander and Leigh. One was of a young Lysander with a bunny in his lap. Another was of the two brothers playing. A few were of their parents.

Once in the bathroom, Candy let out a deep breath. Things had gone much smoother in her head. She imagined they would chat a bit before saying goodbye. She’d be on her way back to campus. Dinner with Lysander was not part of the plan, but it wasn’t completely unwelcome.

Eyeing herself on the mirror, she patted her cheeks. “You can do this. It’s just dinner between friends. He’s just be a gentleman. Like always.”

After she was done, she went back to the kitchen. The oven was on and Lysander was setting the table. “Do you need help? I could make a salad,” she offered.

He set plates down. “You’re the guest. I don’t want to make you work.”

Candy chuckled. “Please, let me help. I need something to do or I feel useless.”

After some more nudging, he finally allowed her to help make a salad. The two worked together in comfortable silence. Though in a foreign kitchen, she was able to navigate around it fairly easily. Everything came together quickly and the two took a seat.

“It’s smells wonderful,” she commented. Having missed lunch, she was ravenous.

“I’m decent in the kitchen. I’ve also been trying new recipes since eating the same things is rather unappealing.”

It had been awhile since she last had a home cooked meal. University food was good, but nothing could beat home cooked. She nearly wolfed down half her plate.

“What are you studying?” His sudden question caught her mid-bite.

Swallowing with water, she cleared her throat. “Art History. I wasn’t really sure what to do at first; I was even considering something else. But Patrick convinced me to stick with it. The job in the field is really interesting too.”

He smiled. “It sounds like you’re really enjoying it.”

Poking at her dish, she gave a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, when I start talking about it, I kind of lose myself.”

“It’s good to be passionate about something like that,” he pointed out.

“Hmm, I guess you’re right. What about you? You said you’re still writing, right?”

The smile fell a bit. “I still write, though it’s only when I have time. Taking care of the farm takes most of my time.”

“What about Castiel. Do you two still talk?” Rosa had mentioned that Castiel was often away. Still he and Castiel had been close friends in high school and before then.

“We do text. As hard as it might be to believe, I do get cell reception here. He’ll send a postcard if he’s in a different country,” he said fondly.

“Wh….do you also get internet?” She bit her cheek from asking her real question. Why did he not join Castiel in his band? Because he decided to take care of the farm after losing nothing his parents.

“I do have WiFi. I might not be the best with technology, but even I can get internet service out here.”

The rest of the conversation was filled with light chatter and banter. Unlike before, Candy found herself easily conversing with him. They didn’t dwell on anything too serious. It was as if neither wanted to shatter the delicate peace between them.

By the time they finished it was pitch black out. Candy eyed the dark road that was barely lit. Driving back would be an ordeal. Lysander seemed to read her thoughts.

“You can stay the night. I have a spare room for guests.”

“I-I don’t want to impose…” When was the last time she stayed the night alone with another male?

He shook his head. “The road will be hard to navigate. I would feel better if I knew you were safe. You can leave in the morning with the sun.”

“I guess you’re right. I…. thank you, Lysander.” She was grateful that he was so thoughtful. That and she knew she could trust him.

Coughing, he quickly turned to the stairs. “I might have some spare clothes for you to sleep in. The bedroom used to be my room.” The upper level consisted of four doors. “Clean towels are in the closet in the bathroom.”

The bedroom was small with a single bed, dresser, and a trunk at the foot of the bed. A window overlooked one of the barns. Clean but bare.

“Thanks again for letting me stay,” she mumbled. “Where are you sleeping? I mean….not that you need to tell me, but I don’t want to be taking your room.” Embarrassment crept up her cheeks.

“If you need me, I’ll be here.” He pointed to the door furthest down the hall. “Let me get you something to sleep in.”

Taking a peek in the next room, it was just as bare as the first. Perhaps this was Leigh’s room once, she thought. Candy was bursting with curiosity on what Lysander’s room looked like. Was it anything like his apartment from before?

“Here I just did laundry, so these are clean. The shorts are Rosa’s from when she and Leigh stayed here.” He handed her a plain white button down and the bottoms. “I’ll let you get comfortable. Good night.” With one last look, he retreated into his room.

Sighing Candy hustled to the bathroom. A nice long shower was what her body needed. Her mind wandered to their light conversation during dinner. There were topics neither of them approached. Though she wanted to talk about their relationship, she lost her nerve.

Why discuss something from the past? Wasn’t she the one who tried to move on? Though she dated other people, none could compare to Lysander. It wasn’t like she was trying to compare them to him. There were times where memories of them would pop into her head. Reminders of what had been.

“It’s time to move on, Candy. No use holding on to the past.” With a huff, she finished her shower and dressed.

His shirt was too long, so she rolled the sleeves up. Folding her clothes, she left them on top of the trunk. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she didn’t feel like sleeping.

There was not much else she could do. Laying down she closed her eyes and attempted to fall asleep. She counted backwards from one hundred but lost count. It was quiet. Too quiet.

As the hours dragged on, Candy was wide awake. Finally checking the time, almost twelve, she rolled out of bed. Tiptoeing down the hall, she paused at his door. She knocked lightly but there was no answer.

“What am I doing?” Shaking her head, she dropped her hand. Turning she started making her way back to the guest room when the door swung open.

“Candy?” Lysander yawned. He seemed to be half awake as he peered at her.

Twisting the hem of the shirt, she turned to him. “Uh….sorry I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

Finding her feet much more interesting, she mumbled, “I couldn’t sleep. I just thought….I want to….sorry I’m just going to go back and pretend this didn’t happen.”

“Wait.” She stopped halfway between running away. “Do you want to talk? We can head downstairs. I can make you some tea too.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Your not. Come on, the tea might help you sleep.” Passing by her, he headed downstairs. She slowly followed behind.

Going into the living area, she sat down on the couch. She wrapped the throw around her as she waited. He returned with two cups of tea.

“I put some honey in them.” Handing her a cup, he took a seat on the couch at the edge.

They drank in silence. Looking at him from the corner of her eye, he seemed content with just sitting there. He had a faraway look on his face. Placing the cup on the coffee table, she turned to him.

“I wasn’t completely truthful on why I came. I think a part of me felt horrible for what happened between us.” She twisted a lock of her hair. “I know it was mutual, but I never could move on. I tried dating other people, but they never lasted for more than a month.”

Finally meeting his eyes, she found herself smiling a bit. “When Rosa told me what happened, I wanted to come here to apologize. And to see if….if I still felt it.”

“Felt it?” His face was a blank mask.

“Felt the same feelings I had when we were together. The butterflies. You always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. You were patient with me. Even when we first started, you were fine with keeping us a secret.”

Her fingers picked at the blanket. “Seeing you again after all this time has reminded me why I fell in love. I’m not asking you to feel the same. I just want you to know the whole truth.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she sighed. Once out there a weight had been lifted. “Rosa thought it would help if I saw you in person. That I wouldn’t feel like I had any regrets.”

His head tilted to the side. “Do you? Have any regrets?”

“No. Well….maybe one. It’s silly really.” She lowered her head. “I sometimes wonder about the what if’s. What if we stayed together despite the distance. What if I had never moved away in the first place.”

“I sometimes wonder those things too.” He reached forward and gently took a hand in his. “I never expected to see you again. Even if you did come back, I thought you would have moved on. The idea never upset me because I only wanted you to be happy.”

His other hand came to brush a few strands of hair away and lingered. Candy found herself leaning into his touch. It felt familiar but different. It felt like the old Lysander. Yet it felt like a new person entirely.

“I just want you to be happy, Candy. Everything else doesn’t matter.” His eyes were filled with emotions.

She let out a breathy laugh. “I think I want to try again. We’re both older and wiser. If you’re willing, I want to be with you.”

He answered her by pulling her into his arms. Leaning into his chest, Candy felt a sense of ease. Oh how she had missed him. He rested his chin on the top of her head. Fingers intertwined and they both relaxed.

They would see where this what if went. Whether it broke them apart or kept them together, they would take it in stride.

#mcl #mclul #my candy love #my candy love university life #mcl university life #mcl lysander #i miss my lysbaby #and i saw some art of him #the nostalgia hit hard and so did an idea #my writing

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ptwtools · 8 months ago

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nemesisbinxartifactseries · 5 years ago

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Artifact Series J

J. Allen Hynek's Telescope

J. Edgar Hoover's Tie

J. McCullough's Golf Ball

J. Templer's Wind-Up Tin Rooster *

J. C. Agajanian’s Stetson

J.T. Saylors's Overalls

J.M. Barrie’s Swiss Trychels

J.M.W. Turner's Rain, Steam and Speed-The Great Western Railway *

J.R.R. Tolken's Ring

Jack-in-the-Box

Jack's Magic Beanstalk

Jack Daniel's Original Whisky Bottle

Jack Dawson's Art Kit

Jack Duncan's Spur *

Jack Frost's Staff

Jack Kerouac's Typewriter

Jack Ketch's Axe

Jack LaLanne's Stationary Bike *

Jack London's Dog Collar

Jack Parson's Rocket Engine

Jack Sheppard's Hammer

Jack Sparrow's Compass

Jack Torrance's Croquet Mallet

Jack the Ripper's Lantern *

Jackie Robinson's Baseball

Jackson Pollock's "No. 5, 1948"

Jackson Pollock's Pack of Cigarettes

Jackson Pollock's Paint Cans

Jack's Regisword

Jack Vettriano's "The Singing Butler"

Jack's Wrench

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm's Kinder- und Hausmarchen

Jacob "Jack" Kevorkian's Otoscope

Jacob Kurtzberg's Belt *

Jacqueline Cochran's Brooch

Jacques Aymar-Vernay’s Dowsing Rod

Jacques Cousteau's Goggles

Jacques Cousteau's Diving Suit

Jacques-Louis David's Napoleon Crossing the Alps *

Jade Butterfly

Jadeite Cabbage

Jalal-ud-Din Muhammad Akbar's Smoke Pipe

Jamaica Ginger Bottle

Jaleel White's Hosting Chair

James Abbot McNeill Whistler's Whistler's Mother *

James Allen's Memoir

James Bartley's Britches

James Ben Ali Haggin's Leaky Fountain Pen

James Bert Garner’s Gas Mask

James Bett's Cupboard Handle

James Braid's Chair *

James Brown's Shoes

James Bulger's Sweater

James Buzzanell's Painting "Grief and Pain"

James Buzzanell’s Survey Books

James C. McReynolds’ Judicial Robe

James Chadwick's Nobel Prize

James Clerk Maxwell's Camera Lens

James Colnett's Otter Pelt

James Condliff's Skeleton Clock

James Cook's Mahiole and Feather Cloak

James Craik's Spring Lancet

James Dean's 1955 Prosche 550 Spyder, aka "Little Bastard"

James Dean's UCLA Varsity Jacket

James Dinsmoor's Dinner Bell

James Eads How’s Bindle

James Earl Ray's Rifle

James Fenimore Cooper's Arrow Heads

James Gandolfini's Jukebox

James Hadfield’s Glass Bottle of Water

James Hall III’s Shopping Bags

James Henry Atkinson's Mouse Trap

James Henry Pullen’s Mannequin

James Hoban's Drawing Utensils

James Holman’s Cane

James Hutton's Overcoat

James Joyce’s Eyepatch

James M. Barrie's Grandfather Clock

James M. Barrie's Suitcase

James Murrell's Witch Bottle

James Philip’s Riata

James Prescott Joule's Thermodynamic Generator

James Smithson's Money

James Tilly Matthews’ Air Loom

James Warren and Willoughby Monzani's Piece of Wood

James Watt's Steam Condenser

James Watt's Weather Vane

James W. Marshall’s Jar

Jan Baalsrud’s Stretcher

Jan Baptist van Helmont's Willow Tree

Jane Austen's Carriage

Jane Austen's Gloves

Jane Austen's Quill

Jane Bartholomew's "Lady Columbia" Torch

Jane Pierce's Veil

Janet Leigh's Shower Curtain

Janine Charrat's Ballet Slippers

Jan Janzoon's Boomerang *

Janis Joplin's Backstage Pass from Woodstock *

Jan Karski's Passport

Janus Coin *

Jan van Eyck’s Chaperon

Jan van Speyk's Flag of the Netherlands

Jan Wnęk's Angel Figurine

Jan Žižka's Wagenburg Wagons

The Japanese Nightingale

Jar of Dust from the Mount Asama Eruption

Jar of Greek Funeral Beans

Jar of Marbles

Jar of Molasses from The Boston Molasses Disaster

Jar of Sand

Jar of Semper Augustus Bulbs

Jar of Shiva

Jar of Sugar Plums

Jascha Heifetz's Violin Bow

Jason Voorhese's Machete

Javed Iqbal's Barrel of Acid

Jay Maynard's Tron Suit

Jean II Le Maingre's Gauntlets

Jean Baptiste Charbonneau’s Cradleboard

Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin's Bubble Pipe

Jean Chastel's Silver Gun

Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin's Pocket Watch

Jean Fleury's Aztec Gold Coins

Jean-François Champollion’s Ideographic Dictionary

Jean Froissart's Mirror *

Jean-Frédéric Peugeot's Pepper Mill

Jean Hilliard’s Earmuffs

Jean Parisot de Valette’s Sword Sheath

Jean-Paul Marat's Bathtub

Jean Paul-Satre’s Paper Cutter

Jean-Pierre Christin's Thermometer

Jean Senebier's Bundle of Swiss Alpine Flowers

Jean Valnet's Aromatherapy Statue

Jean Vrolicq’s Scrimshaw

Jeanne Baret's Hat

Jeanne de Clisson's Black Fleet

Jeanne Villepreux-Power's Aquarium

Jeannette Piccard's Sandbag

Jeff Dunham's First Ventriloquist Box

Jefferson Davis' Boots

Jefferson Randolph Smith's Soap Bar

Jeffrey Dahmer's Handkerchief

Jeffrey Dahmer's Pick-Up Sticks

Jemmy Hirst's Carriage Wheel

Jenny Lind's Stage Makeup

Jeopardy! Contestant Podiums

Jerome Monroe Smucker's Canning Jars

Jerry Andrus’ Organ

Jerry Garcia's Blackbulb *

Jerry Siegel's Sketchbook

Jesse James' Saddle

Jesse James' Pistol

Jesse Owens' Hitler Oak

Jesse Owens' Running Shoes

Jesse Pomeroy's Ribbon and Spool

Jester's Mask

Jesus of Nazareth's Whip

Jesús García's Brake Wheel

Jet Engine from the Gimli Glider

Jet Glass Cicada Button

Jethro Tull's Hoe

Jeweled Scabbard of Sforza

Jiang Shunfu’s Mandarin Square

Jim Davis' Pet Carrier

Jim Fixx's Shorts

Jim Henson's Talking Food Muppets

Jim Jones' Sunglasses

Jim Londos' Overalls

Jim Robinson's Army Bag

Jim Thorpe's Shoulder Pads

Jim Ward's Piercing Samples

Jimi Hendrix's Bandana

Jimi Hendrix's Bong

Jimi Hendrix's Guitars *

Jimmie Rodgers Rail Brake

Jimmy Durante's Cigar

Jimmy Gibb Jr's Stock Car

Jimmy Hoffa's Comb

Jin Dynasty Chainwhip

Jingle Harness

Joan II, Duchess of Berry's Dress

Joan of Arc's Chain Mail

Joan of Arc's Helmet (canon)

Joan Feynman's Ski Pole

Joanna of Castile's Vase

Joan Rivers' Carpet Steamer

Joan Rivers' Red Carpet

Joe Ades's Potato Peeler

Joe Girard’s Keys

Joe Rosenthal's Camera Lens

Joel Brand's Playing Cards

Joséphine de Beauharnais' Engagement Ring

Johan Alfred Ander’s Piece of Porcelain

Johann Baptist Isenring’s Acacia Tree

Johann Bartholomaeus Adam Beringer's Lying Stones

Johann Blumhardt's Rosary

Johann Dzierzon’s Beehive Frame

Johann Georg Elser's Postcard

Johann Maelzel's Metronome *

Johann Rall's Poker Cards

Johann Tetzel's Indulgence

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's Prism

Johannes Brahms' Coffee Creamer

Johannes Diderik van der Waals' Gloves

Johannes Fabricius' Camera Obscura

Johannes Gutenburg's Memory Paper *

Johannes Gutenburg's Printing Press *

Johannes Gutenberg's Printing Press Keys

Johannes Kepler's Planetary Model

Johannes Kepler's Telescope Lense

Johannes Kjarval’s Landscape Painting

John A. Macready's Ray-Bans *

John A. Roebling's Steel Cable

John A.F. Maitland's Musical Brainnumber *

John André’s Stocking

John Anthony Walker's Minox

John Axon's Footplate

John Babbacombe Lee’s Trapdoor

John Bardeen's Radio

John Bodkin Adams’ Stethoscope

John Brown's Body *

John Brown's Machete

John C. Koss SP3 Stereophones

John C. Lilly's Isolation Tank Valve

John Cabot's Map

John Carl Wilcke's Rug *

John Crawley's Painting

John Croghan's Limestone Brick

John Dalton's Weather Vane

John Dee's Golden Talisman

John Dee's Obsidian Crystal Ball

John Dee’s Seal of God

John DeLorean's Drawing Table

John Dickson Carr's Driving Gloves

John Dillinger's Pistol *

John D. Grady’s Satchel

John D. Rockefeller's Bible

John D. Rockefeller, Sr. and Jr.'s Top Hats

John Dwight's Hammer

John F. Kennedy's Coconut

John F. Kennedy's Presidental Limousine

John F. Kennedy's Tie Clip *

John Flaxman's Casting Molds

Sir John Franklin's Scarf

John Gay's Shilling

John Gillespie Magee, Jr.'s Pen

John H. Kellogg's Bowl

John H. Kellogg's Corn Flakes

John H. Lawrence's Pacifier

John Hancock's Quill

John Harrison’s Longcase Clock

John Hawkwood’s Lance

John Hendrix's Bible

John Henry Moore's White Banner

John Henry's Sledge Hammer

John Hetherington's Top Hat

John Holland, 2nd Duke of Exeter's Torture Rack

John Holmes Pump *

John Hopoate's Cleats

John Howard Griffin's Bus Fare

John Hunter's Stitching Wire

John Hunter's Surgical Sutures

John J. Pershing's Boots

John Jacob Astor's Beaver Pelt

John Jervis’ Ship

John Joshua Webb’s Rock Chippings

John Kay's Needle

John Keat's Grecian Urn *

John, King of England's Throne

John L. Sullivan's Boots

John Langdon Down's Stencils

John Lawson's Mannequin Legs

John Lennon's Glasses

John "Liver-Eating" Johnson's Axe

John Logie Baird's Scanning Disk *

John M. Allegro's Fly Amanita

John Macpherson's Ladle

John Malcolm's Chunk of Skin

John Malcolm's Skin Wallet

John McEnroe's Tennis Racket *

John Milner's Yellow '32 Ford Deuce Coupe

John Moore-Brabazon’s Waste Basket

John Morales' McGruff Suit

John Mytton’s Carriage

John Pasche's Rolling Stones Poster Design

John Paul Jones's Sword

John Pemberton's Tasting Spoon

John Philip Sousa's Sousaphone

John Rambo's Composite Bow

John Rykener's Ring

John Shore's Tuning Fork

John Simon's Mouthwash

John Simon Ritchie's Padlock Necklace

John Smith of Jamestown's Sword

John Snow's Dot Map

John Snow’s Pump Handle

John Stapp’s Rocket Sled

John Steinbeck's Luger

John Sutcliffe's Camera

John Sutter's Pickaxe

John Tunstall's Horse Saddle

John Trumbull's "Painting of George Washington"

John von Neumann's Abacus

John Walker's Walking Stick

John Wayne Gacy's Clown Painting *

John Wayne Gacy's Facepaint

John Wesley Hardin's Rosewood Grip Pistol

John Wesley Powell's Canoe

John Wesley Powell’s Canteen

John Wilkes Booth's Boot *

John Wilkes Booth Wanted Poster

John William Polidori's Bookcase

Johnny Ace's Gun

Johnny Appleseed's Tin Pot *

Johnny Campbell's University of Minnesota Sweater

Johnny Depp's Scissor Gloves

Johnny Smith's Steering Wheel

Johnny Weismuller's Loincloth *

Joker's BANG! Revolver

Jon Stewart's Tie

Jonathan Coulton's Guitar

Jonathan R. Davis' Bowie Knife

Jonathan Shay's Copy of Iliad/Odyssey

Jonestown Water Cooler

Jorge Luis Borges' Scrapbook

José Abad Santos' Pebble

José Delgado’s Transmitter

Jose Enrique de la Pena's Chest Piece

Jōsei Toda’s Gohonzon Butsudan

Josef Frings’ Ferraiolo

Josef Mengele's Scalpel

Josef Stefan's Light Bulbs

Joseph of Arimathea's Tomb Rock

Joseph of Cupertino's Medallion *

Joseph Day's Sickle

Joseph Ducreux's Cane

Joseph Dunninger's Pocket Watch

Joseph Dunningers’ Props

Joseph E. Johnston Confederate Flag

Joseph Force Crater's Briefcases

Joseph Fourier's Pocket Knife

Joseph Glidden’s Barbed Wire

Joseph Goebbels' Radio *

Joseph Jacquard's Analytical Loom

Joseph Bolitho Johns’ Axe

Joseph Kittinger's Parachute

Joseph Lister's Padding

Joseph McCarthy's List of Communists

Joseph Merrick's Hood

Joseph-Michel Montgolfier's Wicker Basket

Joseph Moir’s Token

Joseph Pilate's Resistance Bands *

Joseph Polchinski’s Billiard Ball

Joseph Stalin's Gold Star Medal *

Joseph Stalin's Sleep Mask *

Joseph Swan's Electric Light

Joseph Vacher's Accordion

Joseph Vacher's Dog Skull

Joseph Valachi's '58 Chevrolet Impala

Josephus' Papyrus

Joseph Wolpe's Glasses

Josephine Cochrane's Dishwasher

Joshua's Trumpet *

Josiah S. Carberry's Cracked Pot

Joshua Vicks' Original Batch of Vicks Vapor Rub

Josiah Wedgewood's Medallion

Jost Burgi's Armillary Sphere *

Jovan Vladimir's Cross

Juana the Mad of Castiles' Crown

Juan Luis Vives' Quill Set

Juan Moreira’s Facón

Juan Pounce de Leon's Chalice

Juan Ponce de León's Helmet

Juan Seguin's Bandolier

Jubilee Grand Poker Chip *

Judah Loew ben Belazel's Amulet *

Judas Iscariot’s Thirty Silver Coins

Judson Laipply's Shoes

Jules Baillarger's Decanter

Jules Leotard's Trapeze Net

Jules Verne's Original Manuscripts

Julia Agrippa's Chalice

Julia Child's Apron *

Julia Child's Whisk

Julian Assange’s Flash Drive

Julie d’Aubigny's Sabre

Julius and Ethel Rosenberg's Wedding Rings

Julius Asclepiodotus’ Shield Boss

Julius Caesar's Wreath

Julius Wilbrand's Lab Coat Buttons *

Jumanji

Jumper Cables

Junji Koyama’s Vegetables

Jure Sterk's Ballpoint Pen

Jürgen Wattenberg's Leather Provision Bag

Justa Grata Honoria’s Engagement Ring

Justin Bieber's Guitar

Justinian I's Chariot Wheel

Justin O. Schmidt's Wasp Mask

Justus von Liebig's Fertilizer Sack

Justus von Liebig's Mirror

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girlafraidinacoma · 6 years ago

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In The Lap of the Gods: Chapter Five - "Yes, I’m gonna be a star!”

Summary: What do you get when you mix a tight-knit art community, young, hot-blooded twenty-something university students and good old-fashioned British Rock & Roll? Probably the next best hope for art and music that generation has to offer. With her friends’ band skyrocketing to fame, what exactly does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself sitting in the lap of the gods? The answer: do the only thing she can do, rise to the occasion of course!

Pairing: Gwilym Lee!Brian May x Original Female Character

Author’s Note: *IMPORTANT UPDATE* I edited the previous chapters slightly just to finally give the story a proper timeline and a sense of consistency :) If you want to see the revisions, please check out the Ao3 link, if not, that’s cool too (08/05/19).

Kind of AU, contains both elements from real life and the Bo Rhap universe, so imagine whoever you prefer whether they be the real thing or the Bo Rhap Boys–be free.

[Link to the Ao3 fic!]

Chapter Playlist:

Child of the Universe - The Byrds

Crimson and Clover - Tommy James & The Shondells

Drive My Car - The Beatles

Chapter Five - “Yes, I’m gonna be a star!”

South Kensington, November 1969 .

The night had proven to be eventful, so much so that Wyn, Freddie, Brian and Roger thought it would be a wonderful idea to stay out until the wee hours of the morning or until they were physically ejected from the uni bar’s premises, whichever came first. That was how the four of them found themselves laughing and shouting maniacally; roving about London side-streets at around three a.m. on a Saturday morning. Currently, they were making their way back to Freddie and Roger’s place at a happy meandering pace that only drunks could manage. Yet, despite their various states of inebriation, they were managing to navigate the sprawling city with ease, dodging other revellers of the night along the way.

Roger had left his locked van at the university, deeming all of them too pissed to drive. He would come back for it later, he reminded himself. Brian, however, insisted on carrying his irreplaceable Red Special with them on their adventure home, heavy as the case may be, and ignored the others’ suggestion of leaving it at the bar or in the van with their other equipment. He would not be assuaged in the matter.

They had walked down from the Art College and caught the Tube from Ealing Broadway to South Kensington. The decision, which was suggested by Brian, had shaved off hours from their travel time had they humoured Roger’s massively over-confident ramblings about walking the whole way, saying how he’d ‘done it before’ when he was seeing a girl at the Performing Arts School. Perhaps Roger had walked the walk once, but the majority of the group had agreed that they would not be walking the nearly seven mile route to the flat, ‘no matter how many times you’ve done it before Roger, thank you very much’ . Wyn supposed that she could have walked home to her dorm, she lived in Ealing after all, but Freddie had been so insistent that they spend more time together and quite frankly, she wasn’t keen on their night being over yet.

Electricity surged through them as they walked their winding path over cobblestones, concrete and asphalt. They scorched a path through the nervous system of their town, feeling as vital as the blood that flowed in its veins. They felt as most do at that certain point in their lives, invincible, young and alive. Nothing but sheer will and the promise of a sweeter tomorrow propelled them, blindly, towards the future. As was the disease of youth.

At some stage during their journey, Freddie had linked his arm with Wyn’s and proceeded to lead the four of them in an impromptu skip-step interlude a la Dorothy Gale and company. Though the others tried to match Freddie in exuberance, their merry troupe only succeeded in nearly face-planting on the road with tripping feet and tangled limbs like some giant spider only just discovering its legs. Thankfully Brian, who had his arm snaked with Wyn’s on her left, had caught her before she fell. Freddie and Roger weren’t so lucky, but they were so drunk they probably wouldn’t feel it until the morning.

Wyn for one was grateful for his quick reflexes, even if it was his dastardly long legs which made her lose her balance in the first place. Well, that and the collective lack of physical coordination within the group in general. She was surprised that he even caught her at all, with far too many drinks between them and the case in his hand clunky as anything. But Brian held tight, and she knew that both she and “Red Spesh”, were in safe hands.

Their little stumble had left them cackling wildly, like it was the best joke they’d shared all evening; trudging on along, the blunder was soon forgotten. As Freddie and Roger forged ahead, determined to perfect the rapid skip-step change, she and Brian fell behind, chatting aimlessly about the colour shift of starlight, Edward Robert Hughes’ watercolours and Led Zeppelin II.

Wyn couldn’t help but note how Brian’s hold never faltered. The weight of his arm around her shoulders was pleasant, further remarking to him that there were certainly less uneven pavers underfoot now that he was doing the steering for them. He held on to her all the way home, perhaps even a little tighter.

About seven hours later, Wyn awoke from a deep sleep to the feeling of sunlight on her face and exposed arms. In her alcoholic haze, she had neglected to draw the curtains on the window before she turned in, and now the mid-morning light flooded Freddie’s narrow room, indicating the lateness of the hour. As she chased the remnants of sleep away, she recalled that ever the gentleman, Freddie had gallantly offered her his modest bed when they had arrived at the flat.

Rising, she quietly and neatly made up Freddie’s bed and fluffed his pillows. Having slept in only her crocheted camisole, and a pair of cotton knickers, she picked up her discarded denim skirt and socks from by the foot of the bed and slipped them on. She suddenly regretted wearing only so little, perhaps last night at the bar the alcohol and the closely packed bodies of her peers were enough to stave off the cold, but that was not the case this morning as the winter chill set in. Raiding the bombsite that called itself Freddie’s closet, she took out a thick woolen jumper and pulled it over her head, hoping Fred won’t mind her borrowing them for the time being. With her shoes nowhere to be seen, she went out of the room, curious as to where the rest of the boys were.

Padding to the next room, she knocked quietly on Roger’s bedroom door. When she received no answer she stuck her head in and peered inside. What she saw there gave her no shortage of delight, and left the incriminating scene silent as a mouse.

In the living area she found Brian’s guitar case sitting prettily on the armchair and its owner lying awkwardly on the ratty old couch. Her eyes quickly zoned in on the appearance of her missing boots at the foot of the couch that Brian was sleeping on. Vaguely, Wyn remembers her drunk and uncoordinated self struggling to pry them off her feet and Brian helping her with what seemed to be an insurmountable task at the time. He had voiced his worries that she would fall and split her head open when he had offered his assistance.

Somewhat more clearly now, Wyn remembers her body being racked with giggles as she tried not to sway so much with the alcohol in her system. She remembers standing above Brian who was seated on the couch, and holding onto his bony shoulders for support. A blush rises to her face at the memory of the guitarist’s long fingers slowly skimming her legs as he had gingerly slipped the shoes off of her feet with care. Impure thoughts about the curly-haired boy suddenly flowered in her head and Wyn, in no uncertain terms, and to her credit, aggressively chastised herself for having them about her new friend. Someone she had only known for a handful of hours.

Stop it, stop that! No! Bad Wyn!

At the moment, said friend was still asleep on the boys’ sunken couch. What was immediately obvious was that Brian was much too tall for it, his legs left dangling off at the end. The home-made throw he clutched to him barely grazed his ankles. He looked cute, though uncomfortable. His neck was bent at such an awkward angle that she frowned at the sight. Thinking to spare him from later pain, she gently shook him awake.

“Brian, Brian love, wake up.” She tried not to lean too close to him, wary of terrifying the poor man with her morning breath.

“Hnngh? Wyn, what is it?” Confusion settled over his tired features, his eyes blinking lazily as they tried to get accustomed to the light, the flutter of his eyelids were like the wings of a butterfly. He dragged a hand down his face and scratched his wild mane of curls.

“You need to see this,” She beckoned. A devilish glint was in her eye as she tugged slightly on the collar of his t-shirt. Brian rose to his feet, clutching the knitted throw tightly around him like a cape and together they tiptoed to Roger’s bedroom.

Brian’s eyes widened to the size of saucers when Wyn opened the door. Crowded together on the double bed were his bandmates fast asleep. The picture was both equal parts adorable and comical. At some time during their kip, Freddie and Roger had drawn nearer each other until they were sleeping literally one on top of the other. Roger’s head was cushioned comfortably on Freddie’s chest, a stream of drool ran from his mouth and down the line of his chin until it created a small pool on the older man's shirt. Freddie meanwhile had an arm hooked securely around the drummer’s waist, one of his legs poking out of the covers as his wide-mouthed snores were muffled by a sizeable lock of Roger’s blonde hair stuck between his lips.

A girlish giggle came from Wyn. “They look so sweet.” She said in wonder and amusement.

“If only they could stay like this.” Brian stifles his laughter with a hand. “I wish I had my camera.”

“Me too.”

“It would be so easy, you know?”

“What would?” She queried.

“Smothering Roger.” He said without a pause.

It was her turn to keep her laughter down as she rolled her eyes, “You don’t mean that. Besides, then you’ll need a bassist and a drummer for Smile.”

“You have a point,” Brian said, closing the door. They leaned on the wall outside the bedroom, continuing their conversation, the floor cool on their bare feet. “As much as Roger’s been a pain, I don’t know, truth is, Roger’s been like a brother to me ever since we started Smile.”

“Brother? I would have guessed old married couple.” Wyn stated dryly. “But you know, being a pain, it’s what siblings do best.”

“I mean I always wanted one, a brother. It was lonely sometimes you know, being an only child and having no brothers or sisters to play with.” He averted her gaze, looking a little embarrassed, picking at the yarn on his improvised cape. He really wasn’t sure where he thought this conversation was going.

If Wyn noticed his hesitation, she did not say anything of it, opting instead to keep their chat going. She sighed, suddenly struck sad at the thought of a smaller version of Brian playing all alone. She squeezed his forearm reassuringly. “I can’t imagine growing up without my brother. Yes, he lorded the eight years he had on me like it was his birthright to annoy me at every turn, but it’s a give and take too,” Wyn wanted to alleviate his embarrassment; though they only really properly began to talk just that last night, she wanted to be a good friend. She liked the sensitive, yet bumbling guitarist. She liked his thoughtful eyes, and the quiet, reserved way in which he spoke. It didn’t even bother her now, the mis-step of their first meeting, not when he showed himself to be someone who was quick to ask for her forgiveness.

“Sam, my older brother, liked to tease me constantly. Then I’d throw a tantrum and force him into my tea parties.” She said with mischief in her smile. “I’d lost count how many times he’d make me bawl my eyes out. Still, it wasn’t all bad, sometimes after school he would bring home a bag of sweets. He’d buy it with the pocket money he’d saved then share it with me. He’d even have Sherbet Lemons, though he never ate them, Sam would get them just for me, because he knew they were my favourite.” It was her turn now to feel embarrassed, she hadn’t meant to talk Brian’s ear off about Sam, but that flash of embarrassment couldn’t compare to the warmth kindling in her chest as she thought about her brother.

“Where is he now?” He asked, looking more relaxed. He had been listening to her story with a peaceful expression, the throw around his shoulder slipping.

“Oh, somewhere in the Atlantic most like, he’s a trainee pilot on a cargo ship.” Brian noticed how little Wyn’s voice became as she spoke about her brother, though there was an affectionate smile on her face. “It’s hard, we don’t get to see him a lot.”

“It sounds exciting.” He said kindly.

“Sam’s happy. Mum and dad are proud.” Wyn offered. There was a beat and then she turned to face him, looking sagely. “By the way, I’m sure Roger knows.” She said, less than masterfully steering the conversation.

“Knows what?” His brows furrowed.

“How well you think of him.” Wyn provided, breaking into a grin. “Though trust me from experience when I say, he’d be over the moon if you actually told him. Once or twice a year will do.”

Bringing his fingers to his chin, Brian considered it with great amusement. “Yeah, maybe. But it will have to be on special occasions. Can’t let it get to his head.”

“God, no.” She concurred. “But you know what else, if you and Roger are as close as you say, then I have no doubt that he’d do anything for you, when it came down to it.” Brian fell silent as she looked at him evenly.

The guitarist looked different in the morning light, gone was the tension in his shoulders, or the seemingly permanent furrow of his brow, instead he felt serene.

“What would you do? For Sam?” Brian asked with some curiosity.

Wyn gave a drawn-out exhale, mulling it over. “Hmmmm…probably kill for him? Yeah, I would kill for him.” She expressed decidedly. “Then he’d dispatch of the body, and we’ll share this deep, dark, unconscionable secret, written in blood, never to be spoken of again.”

“Right.” He replied, as if she were only talking about the weather. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah.”

Brian let out a hearty laugh at that, the sound was warm just like him.

“Are you hungry?” She asked, apropos of nothing. Praying to some deity that her face would not betray her fanciful thoughts.

“Starving.”

“Well then you can escort me to the shops. We’ll actually need ingredients if we’re going to cook us a proper breakfast. We’d be lucky if Fred or Roger had anything other than spoiled milk in the fridge.” She received no reply from Brian who merely looked at her as if he was weighing something in his mind. “Bri?”

The man in question suddenly came towards her from the spot he was leaning against the wall and stood only about a hand’s breadth away. He was looking down at her, god he was so tall, and she could feel his breath on her cheekbone. Wyn didn’t dare move. She seemed to be caught in a spell, and he too appeared in a trance of his own. Slowly, his hand reached up and carefully smoothed down an errant patch of hair that stuck out from her tresses, mussed from sleep.

She felt the material of his blanket brush her neck as he tucked her hair behind her ear. He smiled at his handiwork; his blue gaze was soft. “Lead the way.”

A short trip to Tesco's and forty minutes later, Brian and Wyn return to the apartment, the sound of murmured voices alerting them that Freddie and Roger were now up and about.

“Oh there you are, we'd thought you'd left without saying goodbye!” Fred greeted them when he opened the door. Though he wore a robe, he had not bothered to put trousers on. It was a very ‘Freddie’ look.

“Like a thief in the night.” Added Roger. His body had sunk into the armchair, almost parallel to the ground.

“Don't be silly, Roger.” Freddie said. Roger simply scoffed at his roommate as the dark-haired man continued to speak. “Not like we'd have anything worth stealing, we took the coffee table from the skip!” Freddie reminded him pleasantly.

Brian with an armful of shopping, made his way to the kitchen island to lay it down, “Technically, we all got here in the morning, and if we would have left, it still would have been morning. We wouldn’t have been thieves in the night.”

Roger just groaned in response.

Freddie pointedly looked at his taller comrade. “Go easy on him Brian, he's nursing a bitch of a hangover.”

“Is that why he's wearing sunglasses indoors?” Chirped Wyn.

“Well yes, but he does it all the time regardless.” Freddie divulged before tilting his head to the side. “Is that my top?”

Wyn looked down at the orange jumper she wore, she smiled, feeling sheepish. “Yeah, sorry. Was a little cold this morning.” Objectively speaking, she looked a bit silly, the jumper drowned her figure and the colour of the yarn was so bright she would never have the fear of getting lost in a crowd as it was so immediately recognisable it practically screamed ‘Here I am!’ . There was also the pointed feeling she had that she resembled something of a giant pumpkin. But the jumper was also very warm and so she liked it very much.

“Think no more of it darling, I’m glad you had the sense to rug up before going outside.” Her friend replied with a broad smile. Truth be told, the jumper had been overly large on Freddie too whenever he wore it, but it served him well in the past and kept him warm through many a cold day especially when they couldn’t afford the heating bills.

“I'm impressed you're up and about this morning Fred, you've had just as much as the rest of us.”

“True,” Freddie admitted, rather perkily. “But I guess I'm just excited. Can you believe it, you're looking at the new lead singer for Smile!”

Wyn laughed to herself. “I can Fred, and I do. We were there when it happened.”

“Where have you two been away?” Roger questioned rubbing at his eyes then shortly pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Wyn thought we might like to have a ‘proper breakfast’. Been to the shops, haven't we?” Brian explained, beginning to take out the groceries.

The girl clapped once, causing Roger to wince. “Yes, now anyone who doesn't help, doesn't eat.” She announced, pulling the blonde up from his seat and joining the others in the kitchen to set them all to work.

Divvying the tasks amongst themselves, they actually made short work of the breakfast preparations. Before long, she was whisking pancake batter contentedly as Roger watched their bacon sizzling away in the pan, still with his sunnies on. Brian was setting the table when he heard Freddie rummaging for something until a needle dropped and a record started to play.

The opening guitar chords was at once very familiar. A rousing cheer from Brian, Roger and Wyn complimented Freddie on his music choice. The domestic scene was immediately energized with the same excited electricity from the night before, and all four of them began to move animatedly.

Surprising them, it was Wyn who beat the three of them to it and first belted out the lyrics. Her voice was loud, and off-key but she made up for it with her unbridled joy. Her head nodded up and down and she brought her whisk up and used it as a mic, not caring for the bit of batter splattering on the island. “Asked a girl what she wanted to be, she said baby, can't you see? I want to be famous, a star on the screen, but you can do something in between.”

“Baby you can drive my car!” Sang Roger, quickly shutting of the burner and bounding to Wyn’s side to share her mic.

“Yes, Roger!” The girl shouted, happy for him to join her game.

“Yes I'm gonna be a star! Baby you can drive my car, and maybe I'll love you.” Roger gave her a wink and his signature flirtatious smirk, then picked up a wooden spoon, and with the spatula in the other hand, he began to play on the countertop, drumming to Ringo’s beat.

Wyn and Roger began to sing in unison, both thinking that they were going to put Lennon and McCartney to shame, “I told a girl that my prospects were good, and she said baby, it's understood. Working for peanuts is all very fine, but I can show you a better time! Baby you can drive my car,”

“Yes I’m gonna be a star!” Exclaimed Freddie from his spot, with gusto. His arms spread wide.

“Sing it, Freddie!” Roger cried.

Fred sauntered his way over to the duo and spun the girl quickly and without warning several times. Wyn laughed as he continued the verse, “Baby you can drive my car,”

“And Baby THEY’LL love you!” Interjected Roger as he and Wyn pointed at Fred.

“Beep beep'm beep beep yeah!” The trio burst out rowdily, shooting their hands up in the air.

From the ratty couch came a bluesy twang of strings. Brian, having taken his baby from its case, played his rendition George Harrison’s lively guitar lick. The three of them were cheering for him, practically giddy as he joined in their fun. Fred stood in front of him with a wide grin, mimicking Brian’s movements on his own air guitar, making his motions as big as possible. The view from his seat was pretty spectacular, and as Brian watched his friends dancing spiritedly around the kitchen and living area, he silently ponders if it will always be like this; whether it was his destiny to be the observer, playing for the dancers, satisfied with being on the outside and always looking in, or if he too will one day join them. He ponders if one day he will have the courage to dance for a change, to set his instrument aside without worry and have Love twirl in his arms. The guitarist continued to play for them, even when the song changes, he was happy to observe, content for now.

It was a Saturday morning, and though the couch was well worn, the coffee table a salvage job, and all four of them relatively penniless students, they laughed without a care in the world. Here, among friends, the four of them basked in a piece of heaven of their own making, nestled in the heart of London.

#bo rhap #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody movie #itlotg fic #brian may #brian may x original character #freddie mercury #roger taylor #gwilym lee

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adoremel-blog · 6 years ago

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2019's Latest Men's Business Fashion Trends

2019 is really a twelve months of gent's business fashion style evolution. There's a lot to choose from, and if you're trying to find cutting edge possible choices, you might want to consider the following promising trends. You can find options aplenty to ensure you look fantastic for work. You are likely to to begin with like to take a look at your rucksack. The backpack that you wore in class, in university, and in many cases tried to pass off while at work, is no longer a wise choice for you. Swap it with something a lot more fashionable. There's 2 fashion and style options that are popular now. You will find that you are able to say goodbye to the backpack and buy something a little more fancy, such as a leather made one, a fabulous courier bag, or perhaps a briefcase. Regardless which you finally choose makes no difference, just ditch the backpack. It's very fashionable at present to vary ones shoe styles. Don't just concentrate on gents brown oxfords or possibly gents black colored lace-up shoes however think about low top running shoes along with sneakers. Give a fresh lease of life to your shoe rack but steer clear of trainers. Select diversity, and don't simply wear the same pair day after day. Chelsea boots are a great shoe option, and in terms of the correct colour for business, choose mens black leather boots above all. The Versatile Suit - The next matter you must exploit is the all-aroundness of suits. A suit has options - dress it up or right down. For instance, vary the ties you've got, and change up the shirts you dress yourself in to complement the coat. Tailor the pants, use soft colour changes for the pockets, button things up and unbutton things likewise. Suits are excellent, and are usually adaptable, however you will have to choose sensibly to get something which works well with every day formal wear, and also converts effectively in to more sociable situations. Guys are now dressing up and dressing down with simply one particular suit, which is not that tough a thing to try and do. You can discover much more about mens work clothing here.

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Right now, the long sleeved polo is rather a la mode with men in the know. 3 buttoned, long sleeved mens polo shirts are perfect, and help you get the most out of everyday wear and more without having to sacrifice style. The long sleeve polo will provide you with everything you need - suitability and also edgy fashion. The long sleeved polo option is likely to pay back dividends, and is one of the best ways to enhance any wardrobe for the business office. Experimenting with various coloured polos might give you additional differentiation. These represent the most recent fads for 2018 which are giving office clothing new advantages. Trendy today, simple tomorrow.

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luninosity · 7 years ago

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Starting something new that’s going to be for a “Dark & Stormy Night” themed call for submissions...want to read the beginning? I literally wrote a lot of this just now, so it’s very rough draft writing. :-)

The night stormed. The dark got darker.

Safely inside and snug and dry, Dan tossed a grin at the tempest. The rain made long silvery ribbons across his windows in wild cheerful answer. New York City shimmered beyond glass, a watercolor painting of lights and dazzle and color, blurred and gleaming and lovely as a whole kaleidoscope of stories. He’d always loved storms; he got breathless at the crackle of lightning through the air, electric and vivid. Thunder snagged his pulse and tantalized his heartbeat.

He’d fallen in love with this apartment in part for the windows, too. They stretched upward in glorious towering panes; they offered up the world for his gazing. So many stories. Lots of history in this building. Old bones and new. Turn-of-the-century and renovated tales side by side.

Stories; and he sighed, left the storm alone, glared at his laptop. Writing. The next novel. Increasingly improbable spy-related thrills. Action and adventure and decently large royalty checks, not earthshattering but more than enough for comfort. His name, Daniel Rose, in shiny silver on book covers. Assuming he could come up with the next plot.

He pondered whether the spy team could fight a villain with weather-controlling satellite technology. They could have a battle in the rain. On rooftops. Calling and avoiding lightning strikes. Or localized hurricanes. Miniature personal ones.

The rain decided this was hilarious. Got harder, chattering away.

His laptop waited, screen unhelpfully blank.

“Yes, fine,” Dan said to it, “someday soon I’ll replace you, see if I don’t,” and tipped his chair back, balancing on two legs, leaning in the direction of noise and clamor and tumbling sheets of exultant water.

A knock bounced off his front door. Rattled through the apartment and down his spine. Startled all the rain.

Dan and his chair nearly fell over, got entangled, separated themselves. Rubbing a knee, he managed to arrive at the door before the second knock.

He did peek out before opening up. The building kept residents secure, and he wasn’t that famous, but he wasn’t expecting anyone; might as well be sure.

He blinked. Looked again. Thunder crashed.

He knew the young man on the other side, for a given value of knew. The young man had, in fact, moved into the building the previous week; they’d progressed to the stage of nodding amiably at each other downstairs. Dan usually flushed pink and forgot how to talk on those occasions, because the young man smiled like sunrise and had soft stylishly wavy brown hair and generally dressed like a rainbow that’d collided with a trendy coffee-shop, all pink belts and blue leather jackets and much-loved boots, and also had a tendency to grin at his mail and his neighbors and the world as if they’d made him personally happy. Dan found this unbearably adorable, and never unearthed any good conversational openings through the clouds of vague rose-hued embarrassment.

And the young man was currently leaning on his doorframe, wearing plaid pajama pants and an orange long-sleeved shirt that should absolutely not’ve made any fashion sense and, oh god, sock-clad toes peeking out. He tipped his head to one side, and crossed arms, and lounged, evidently comfortable propping up Dan’s door; he might’ve been a slim and cuddly James Dean, a lazy kittenish rock and roll star, a stray bit of celebrity come over to pop pink bubble-gum and experimentally nudge the door with one sock-foot.

He looked tired, Dan thought, and then wondered why he’d had the thought. Weariness in that posture? In the slump of those shoulders against the doorframe’s support? In the faint lines around pale eyes, the smudges under them like bruises threatening opals? In the glance back down the hall, and a defeated sort of shift of weight?

He became abruptly aware that he’d been staring creepily through his own peephole for far too long.

He swore at himself. He yanked the door open. Too fast, too fast and clumsy, though those pretty grey eyes didn’t even flinch—

“Hey,” said all that insouciance, tossing a brilliant tired smile his way, not moving, “you wouldn’t happen to have any feverfew or curry leaves, that’s the plant not the spice, or at least some cumin or garlic, would you?”

“What?”

“It’d be really awesome if you did. I’m kind of out of everything, my fault, I didn’t realize how much I’d need in this building. And I’ve got the universe’s worst headache.”

“Are…you…cooking something? Come in,” he added belatedly, “I mean, um, I probably have aspirin or something? Somewhere? I think I have garlic. Um. Hi. Seriously please come in. What was that about this building?”

“Let’s say I said yes to the cooking question. Is that a spice rack? Can I look through it? Oh, wow, that’s totally a picture of you with Tom Sloane, right? Is that from the film premiere of Stone Heart? He’s absolutely a perfect Johnny Stone action hero, with those shoulders. Are those proper steel knives? Can I borrow one?”

“…what,” Dan said again, helplessly trailing cheerful worn-out excitement into his own kitchen. His young man moved as if even breathing required energy and occasionally paused to rub a temple, wincing, but apparently was one of those people for whom exhaustion transformed into rambling. Either that or some amazing drugs were in play, which was a distinct possibility.

Somehow he didn’t think so, though. Those eyes were tired, but sharp and focused. Those fingers now investigating his spice rack—he’d barely looked through it, some housewarming gift from his agent, who occasionally tried to get him to be an adult—were swift and steady. “Oh, good, you do have cumin…and rosemary, awesome…dried, but that’s okay, I can work with that…”

“I do? What did you mean, let’s say yes about the cooking?”

“You do, and now I do.” Thin graceful fingers paused, holding glass jars; one hip settled against Dan’s kitchen counter, casual and comfortable and completely at home. One eyebrow, forest-brown over glinting frayed grey oceans, tilted at him. “Thanks. I’m Sterling, by the way. And I love your taste in countertops. This one’s really nice. Good support.”

“Is that a name or an adjective? Oh, just sit down,” he added, because the now-named Sterling had just wobbled slightly and the hand on the countertop wasn’t for show. “Here—”

He got his visitor steered over to the sofa. Sterling went without protest and flopped down across cushions—he managed to make even near-collapse graceful, in the awkward way of baby colts and first steps—and shut both eyes, nearly dropping spices and a knife on his own foot. Dan, heart in his throat, fumbled around and caught everything. Thunder rumbled. Rain sang.

He got down on the rug, equally awkward but less charming, and peeked tentatively at his visitor. “Um…are you okay? And also I’m, um, Dan.”

“Yeah,” Sterling said, and opened one eye and then the other, and grinned at him, “I know. Daniel Rose. Famous. I’ve read all the Johnny Stone novels. Kind of ridiculous, but in a fun way. You had him win a fistfight with a henchman who had actual shark teeth. Which, I mean, I can see how someone could do it, I could, that’s just partial animal transformation, but why?”

“Partial what—? I know it was ridiculous! It’s not exactly realism! When did you even pick up my knife?”

#dark and stormy night #fic in progress #my fic #original fic #sterling's a witch #if you hadn't guessed

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americanxsin · 8 years ago

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A Cycle Replicated �� † [Jacob/Dane] †

@offoxesandotherstrangeanimals

The image of it was seared into his mind. When Dane shut his eyes, instead of black, he saw that. Like a silent film, mouths opened without sound. Dane didn’t know why he had watched until he had been caught by the dark featured stranger. His father had been too consumed in lust, in the throes of passion, his eyes had been scrunched closed like when he prayed up on stage. It was the same face, actually, as when he was inside of that strange man, pounding away like he was nailing Jesus right up to the cross, but for why? What sins would be resolved now? Now, the garage attached right to their home where Isaac slept with his mother next to him, where Dane slept in the privacy of the spacious upstairs, surrounded by empty rooms where siblings had slept until they were grown enough to get far, far away from dear old dad. Dear old dad who in that garage, in his man cave, in his private space, fucked men. That was what it was used for. That was why it was off limits. That was why it was his father’s mecca. It was his fuck palace.

All those times when Dad got mad, snarled about how Dane’s hair made him look like a homo, all those times made sense now. It had never been about Dane, about his secret shame, his secret want that had only been explored in the occasional, quickly history scrubbed Google search, or the occasional peek in a gym room shower to ‘compare’, or even the occasional shame filled wet dream that would have him slaving over laundry at four am. And yet, that, right there, whatever that was had been the closest Dane had gotten to real, ball smacking, dirty, rough, loud, fast, sex.

He had a girlfriend once that let him slip his hand up her dress here and there. They’d be at some Disney movie in the back row, or in science class, or just sitting on the couch, and she’d grab him by the wrist and he’d massage and penetrate and practice with his fingers until a flood came. And she’d kiss him, thank him, and leave. She never was keen to return the favor, and Dane was always left frustrated, taking an extra long shower with that magical body of bottle of wash. But that hadn’t been dirty. That had been sweet, just an exploration, just a testing of waters, and of how far a human could stretch. He had never been forceful, nor had he been rough. And whatever that was, looked rough, painful, and loud, even if Dane couldn’t hear it from his place in the yard, peeking in the one window that looked out upon the garden, and upon the tall, white picket fence that separated the Hokes from the rest of the universe.

Dane waited now. His guts empty. He had vomited up the two corn dogs he had scarfed down at the mall food court, courtesy of his mom. Knowing her, she’d lose track of time in Macy’s or JCPenney’s, or maybe even Dillard’s if they had a sale on. She’d forget that she had incubated him for nine months, that he existed at all. All that would matter was that top with this skirt with these boots and they Goddamn better have fringe on them, too. All that would matter would be filling another closet in another abandoned room with last season’s clothes, tucked away like last season’s memories, caught in time only by their yearly holiday card, which was always to say the least, concise. He sat in his mother’s big, white, impending Range Rover. And he waited, and waited, and waited, silently, not counting seconds, losing track of minutes, like his mother did when she found a clearance rack. Time didn’t exist when vengeance was the only thing fixed in Dane’s young, impulsive head. He squeezed the leather steering wheel tight, until his knuckles were all white, cracked from the weather, skin chapped from the indecisiveness of it.

Eventually, the fag would be through with his father. Eventually, the fag would pay.

#offoxesandotherstrangeanimals #gay rp #smut rp #gay starter #smut starter #closed #daneclosed #dane

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ecotone99 · 5 years ago

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[SF] Mercy, and Peace

For a hundred years they had blown stars out like candles. Turned planets to ashen rock. Lit the lightless void with dazzling rays of death. There would be no recovery for them. Their homeworlds were dust. Their fleets shattered metal wrecks.

They had effectively warred themselves into extinction.

The Knight knew this as they trailed the stars after one last Target. One last Foe.

The Knight knew from the tactical readout, their Enemy had no guidance or control of their ship. They were descending to a remote planet to a remote star, far from the battlefields filled with the dead of their races.

With a quick brush of their fingers across their display, the Knight had been informed by numbers and letters that they would not be landing anywhere near their foe. The Enemy would crash in the Mountains, maybe five hundred or so miles from the landing site the Computer had pegged as ‘safe’.

Did it matter? Outside of a Power Armor for too long and the radiation from the star would kill them in a few days time. There was no telling what the native food would do to their digestive tract, and all they had left to eat had been the supply of protein paste that would more than likely rot long after the Knight had passed on to see kin.

To see kin, and kinfolk, loved ones and even the ones they hated.

Soon, The Knight thought to themselves. Soon.

The descent and landing had been smooth, the automated defenses registered no immediate threats pinging the ship, though warned of lethal exposure to the very Radiation the Knight had seen on their scanning screens.

It did not take long to program a timer to the ship. It did not take long to walk through the vessel, passing empty quarters and workstations. Passing by weapon lockers, racks for armor, all barren of ordinance and of protection, yet neat and clean, ready for use.

Soon booted feet touched the hangar to the only suit of power armor left within. It had been three times the Knight’s height, sleek in build, jet black with red flame highlighting the edges. The armor plating gleamed in the artificial light of the hangar, shined to a near mirror finish without a single sign of wear or damage.

There were mounted weapons on the armor, missiles, slug throwers, even laser edged blades within the vambraces. They too shared the same meticulous care and shine, though there were hints of carbon scarring at the business ends, foretelling of their extensive use.

The Knight crawled into the cradle, booting systems and waiting for the Armor to encompass them within an environmental cocoon that could withstand the nightmarish conditions of Space.

Satisfied with the green lights that flickered within their visor, the Knight forced the armor to stand, and yet, paused before marching to a descending ramp.

One more look at the empty bays. One more look on the sealed airlock between the hangar the rest of the ship.

The look lingered more than it should, but the Knight allowed it anyway. Minutes passed on, and finally, with reluctance, the Knight walked down to the end of the ramp and cleared themselves from the ship that had been their home.

They did not look back as the black ship rose with the roar of engines, nor heard the scream of it as it streaked into the atmosphere and disappeared back into the starry void. The ship’s final journey would trace itself back to the wrecked homeworld, and one day crash there, its energy reserves long been spent.

The Knight had sent their steed to die at its birthplace. It deserved that much at least.

For the Knight, however, had been born on the battlefield, and they will die on one. They had never seen this home that had been murdered. They, of course, had heard the stories, read the histories. Had seen the stills and the videos and heard the audio of the birds.

But never once had the Knight seen the birthplace of their race with their own, natural eyes.

This planet had grass. Vibrant and crimson. The trees were lily white with violet leaves. The mountains were gray, capped with snow and trails winding here and there. It reminded the Knight of the stills they had seen. Opening the outside auditory, they could hear what passed for birds sing their alien songs.

Turning on their glide engines, the Knight rose from the ground and started their flight in the direction of the Enemy. They calculated the route, the energy needed. Not even half a day’s flight.

Plenty of time. No rush.

Yet as they strove ever in the direction of the last known position of where the Enemy had landed, the visor indicated smoke from a source within their path.

As the Knight progressed, the smoke rose from a thatched roof of a primitive stone building, with planet’s inhabitants rushing too and fro, obviously trying to stop the blaze with water from a well.

The beings were squat creatures, four armed, dark hair cupping their faces and covered some of their upper torso. They wore fabrics of vibrant colors, tattered and soiled from the fields that spread about them, or the ash of the building that was ablaze.

For a few moments, the Aliens did not take notice of the Knight as it approached them. They were frantic, scans showed life signs hidden away within the flames. They rushed about not only throwing water, but chains to pull burning planks from their path.

And then they saw the Power Armor. The terror had been plain enough on their Alien faces. Fear had always been a universal emotion, something the Knight and the Enemy knew of, instilling and feeling it even now near the end of their once ceaseless turmoil.

Cutting the glide engine, the Knight landed easily at the edge of the field at a jog, and slowed themselves to a casual walk.

Primitive weapons, bows, were notched with arrows of metal and sent in the Knight’s direction a mere heartbeat after.

They bounced off harmlessly, revealing to the Knight that these poor things were not a threat. Yet the Knight advanced on them anyway. They had stopped their work and formed the familiar sight of battle lines, with more arrows being sent the Knight’s way with the same effect.

The things were armed with farming tools, yet as the Knight came closer, they backed away, seeing as their missile weapons did little in slowing it down.

To the fire the Knight went, the building in question came up to the Knight’s visor. Reaching for the very edges of the roof, metal fingers delicately braced flaming wood. Hydraulics pulsed with spinning gears beneath high-density alloys and armor, allowing the Knight to pry the roof off like a lid to a barrel. Stepping away, they toss the flaming roof into the dirty field before looming over the stone wall to peer inside.

Smaller versions of these creatures, children, all huddled to one corner, Between them and escape had been obstruction of fire at the stairs. There was a groan within the walls, apparently pulling the roof off had caused far more structural damage than intended. Scooping up a carpet within the room, the Knight gently guided the creatures unto it before pulling them up, and placing them down at their feet.

All the while, it seemed, the Aliens banged on the Knight’s legs with their primitive weaponry to no avail. Yet as they placed the carpet down, realization dawned that this strange metal thing had come to render assistance.

Regarding the group, their garb and their weapons, the onboard AI chirped an explanation to the Knight. It seemed that the Aliens of this world were reaching a time similar to the feudal age, of metal weapons and armor. Ironically, there had been an off chance of Knights on Mounts, which garnered a soft chuckle from the Armor’s occupant.

The building started to collapse, the Aliens scattered but again, the Knight came to their rescue by forcing the falling wall away and inward, keeping much of the debris from scattering into the crowd.

After the stones started to settle, the Knight turned their visor again towards the distant horizon. With careful step around the crowd, the Knight simply raised their hand in farewell at the stunned Aliens. Once they were clear of the field, they returned to a gliding flight, and coasted over the ground, once more on the path to the end.

Maybe halfway? Yes. It had been halfway, and a field of color caught the Knight’s eye. It was off the beaten path per se, and they would have to steer towards it.

Why not?

Turning towards the colorful trees in the distance, once more the Knight diverted themselves from their doom. This time as they cut the flight, they ended the jog near the tree line. Flowers of blue electrum with golden stems came from red spotted trees that filled the Knight’s visual for as far as the camera could see.

They were simply gorgeous, and the Knight admired them in this moment of peace.

Which had been rudely interrupted.

The Computer detected the presence of others nearby, and the Knight wanted to ignore them. Four armed, on the back of some sort of shaggy gray creature with metal stretched across the vitals parts on both.

The Knight found themselves in the presence of a Knight. Again the irony had not been lost, yet they were too interested in the flowers to care that the Alien thrust lance in their direction, still being some distance off.

Knowing it was being ignored, the Alien Knight spurred its mount forward, lowering its a two-handed lance in the direction of the Power Armor’s Knee.

Now taking some mild interest, the Knight in Power Armor regarded the Primitive variation with a hint of contempt. Adjusting their knee at the last moment, it turned it inward and then outward just before the lance would strike the reinforced armored plating, and with their free hand snatched the Alien Knight fully off their mount.

The Shaggy thing kept going before it slowed, and the Alien, now finding itself mostly engulfed by the giant metal hand of the Knight, panicked.

It kicked and squirmed, even clasped at a sword, smashing with fist and blade against the Knight’s armored vambrace and hand. They swore, and spat and fidgeted, trying to get loose from their rather embarrassing predicament. Yet now that they had their primitive counterpart out of the way, the Knight ignored them again and turned attention to the flowers.

They were arrayed in layers, possibly fruit bearing if they could hazard a guess. The Knight reached up and gently shifted one to get a view of the underside. Such had been the control of the Knight over their Power Armor that they left the flowers undamaged while touching them with one extended armored finger.

Sighing, and knowing they had to press on, the Knight once more turned to the nuisance that lay within their other palm. They were heavy enough to register on the arm’s scale, and they had fire in their Alien blood it seemed. They still flailed, angry they observed, and even broke their blade down to the very hilt.

Lowering the creature further to the ground, the Knight dropped it on its hind end. Before it could scramble backward, the Knight snatched the Alien’s helmet, revealing the flushed, hairy face of the four armed creature beneath. With ease, the Knight crushed the helmet between two of their fingers, before reaching out to drop it at their counterparts feet.

With message delivered that the Knight did not take too kindly to the rude interruption, they stepped around the flustered Alien and cleared the Orchard before igniting their glide engines once again. There. It did not take long for their sensors to detect the Enemy. And soon, there had been no need for the sensors. The ship of theirs lay in smoldering ruin at the top of the Mountain. It had been small, a shuttle rushing from the hellstorm that had been the last confrontation between forces now little more than stardust.

It rested at the top of an impossible peak, only accessible by the flight of the Power Armor. The Enemy’s landing had been rough, the crevice it left deep and smoldering, with snow having sent speeding to the trees below.

As the Knight drew closer, they could see the ship had been set to flame. The insides where charred black, the cockpit ruined beyond any hope of repair. And then there had been the hangar. Fit for one Power Armor.

Just One. And it was Empty.

Setting to scan the area, the Computer surveyed the location, but weapon’s fire had been detected during the onset of the scan.

The Enemy was fighting someone. Fighting someone within the sector.

Walking beyond the wreckage of the ship, the Knight cut the glide mode to allow the full weight of the armor on the compact snow. They sank some, up to the knee servos, yet they lowered their emissions and electronic signature to a scout setting.

There, in the distance. A fortress of some kind, erected of stone on an adjacent mountainside. There had been an army surrounding it. Aliens’ in their metal armor with metal weapons, clambering about between a sea of tents, launching rocks from crude siege engines towards the stone walls.

Setting the visor to enhance what lay before the Knight, there were different banners on the Fortress and in the Camps. It did not take much to realize what had been happening before the Knight, yet as stone turned end over end, some were picked off by weapon’s fire from the very gate.

Others smashed harmlessly wide or landed near, with few actually striking the walls. Yet there were no primitives on the walls. No archers or retaliation raining down on the Army.

There. Power Armor. It matched the Knight’s own with scant differences in the layout. The color had been a deep purple with decorative markings of teal along the arms and legs. Yet a scan told the Knight that the armor had been damaged. One of the legs showered the stone with sparks, and even here, the Knight could see the gold fluid of hydraulics leaking against the armored thigh.

Turning on their active sensors, the Knight scanned the Enemy, getting a detailed readout of a battered Warmachine. The flight pack had been blackened out, the arms were marred by an explosion. Yet despite the crash, and being battered as it had been, they still had a fully active weapons platform, complete with ammunition.

And Working Sensors of their own. It had been then, the Enemy noticed the Knight.

The Knight could tell it acquired a weapon’s lock on them. There had been a soft klaxon in warning Yet no missiles streaked across towards them. No bolts of plasma or molten slugs.

The Enemy did nothing. It waited to see what the Knight would do.

The Knight turned on their glide mode again and descended the side of the Mountain. With indication of a finger across the image before them, the Knight locked the positions of the siege engines in their system. When they reached the mountain’s base, they ended the glide mode, but this time in a headlong run and did not slow as they approached the Army’s encampment.

Firing, the Knight felt the shuddering of the suit as missiles erupted from their silos, arching upward into the sky. Onboard computers told them exactly where to go, coming down on the engines as the Army scattered away on the sheer instinct of danger.

The Archer’s fired their arrows, oblivious to the ineffectiveness of it, and braver Aliens than the Farmers charged the Knight head on.

Weapons fire roared from the guns mounted on the chest, shoulders and arms of the Warmachine, yet the Knight kept the shots well over their heads, startling the things who faltered in their charge and nearly fell over each other to get out of the way. The Knight continued to come at them, spending their magazines before extending the laser-edged blades from their vambraces.

Slowing so they would not step on the Aliens, the Knight met their blades with their own, leaving behind cleft and burned metal in their wake, yet so skilled they had been with their strokes that they left no a single drop of Alien blood.

It did not take long for the things to scatter. Rushing away from the duo of metal golems that thwarted them so. The camp became empty within a matter of moments, and the Knight did not watch them flee.

Instead, they turned slowly towards the Enemy and walked towards them. As they approached the stone bridge that led to the gate, the Knight ejected magazines from their ports, yet did not move to refresh them. They retracted one of the blades back into its place, and spread their arms out before them. The Knight did not stop until they were in the middle of the bridge, and quite frankly, at the Enemy’s mercy.

The Enemy watched. They waited and watched the Knight. When the Knight halted their advance, the Enemy halted the missile lock on their foe and limped their way back into the Fortress.

Following, the Knight entered the Courtyard cut into the very mountain, and against the walls had been more of those Aliens. Yet they were in robes, tattered clothes, with many more wounded from a battle they were obviously not equipped to handle.

They were Priests. Scholars perhaps. The Army that had been attacking may have been raiders of the lowest order, seeking to plunder the riches of this Fortress of Learning.

The Enemy turned, facing the Knight, yet addressed the crowd. They scattered, giving both the towering goliaths in their armor plenty of room. Then the Enemy took the same stance as the Knight had done on the bridge. One blade, and both arms outstretched.

The Knight saluted the Enemy, and they returned it.

And then the Power Armored Foes closed.

The Enemy had been skilled, even in that damaged suit. They turned, thrust, parried and punched, yet the Knight’s own armor had been fresh, virtually unscathed. With every turn the Knight turned as well, matching their Enemy in a dance. And as they danced they hardly moved from the Center of the Courtyard. It had been clear, however, even as the thrust, even at the parry and punch, the Knight had been the better.

The Enemy could not keep up. They could not stop the onslaught and the systematic dismemberment of their already damaged Power Armor. Soon the Enemy gave into frustration and rage, their attacks becoming wilder, and they even summoned their second blade, yet the Knight did not.

Perhaps it had been Honor, or perhaps they were taunting their Foe. None but the Knight knew at the time. Yet the Knight continued to fight on with their single blade.

And it was because of this, the Enemy finally landed a blow at the Knight’s midsection. It had been deep, and the Knight jerked from it in pain. It had been then they brought out their second blade, and finished their Enemy’s Power Armor with two ringing blows.

The Enemy slumped and fell backward with a dull sound of churning gears. They all heard the power faltering within the Enemy’s system, yet they did not know what it had meant.

All were still and quiet, as the Enemy seemed to have mentioned that this had been a matter of Honor and they should not be involved.

It had been the Knight’s Armor that opened first. Out they came, with their blood at their hip, staining the armor they had worn beneath. They inspected their wound first, before limping towards their downed foe, pulling off their visored helm and dropping it as they approached.

The Knight’s skin was a soft tan, their hair white as the trees of this world. Their eyes as blue as the flowers that bloomed in those trees. There were wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, the Knight was old.

“I know you have power,” the Knight said, opening a panel at their Enemy’s side, near where their cockpit would have been “Open up or I will open it for you,”

“Female,” the Enemy rattled off, though the voice had been weak. “Let me delete in peace,”

“Then for you,” the Knight sighed, and pulled hard on cabling until they snapped from the faintly lit boards.

“Why?” the Enemy questioned as the canopy opened for them. “You have defeated the last of the Viirn,”

“Yes, yes I have,” the Knight grunted, and crawled up on the armor to peer down at her Enemy. “How much power do you have left?”

“Why?”

What croaked the question had been a self-proclaimed Viirn. Where the Human’s skin had a soft tan, theirs had been a putrid white. What had been hair were thick, black dreads of silicon and its eyes were green and glowing. Yet the glow faded, hinting at its demise.

“Because I asked you a question,”

“Not enough to watch you delete, human,”

“Veria,” the Knight said, crouching down to be closer. “I am Veria, and you killed, erased I should say, my species too,”

“I know.” the Viirn observed. There had been no malice in its voice. It had been monotone, logical even as it lay dying before her. “We deleted each other it seems. Pity.”

“Pity?”

“I did not want to be erased,” the Viirn noted, and swallowed, the eyes moving off of Veria.

“A Computer afraid to die,” Veria whistled down at the Viirn, “I have never thought I’d see a calculator wanting to live,”

“Not fully-,” the Viirn started to correct Veria.

“-I know, techno-organic,” Veria did it for the Viirn, “Doesn’t matter really, since we will both be dead soon. Do you have a name?”

“What?”

“A name? Something someone would call you in private.”

The Viirn swallowed, looking from one side of its cockpit to the other, obviously lost. Their visual processors had shut down.

“Brother. I had been once called, Brother,”

Veria slowly nodded, not commenting on the rather odd name, and looked the Viirn, Brother, over. The Viirn had been directly connected to the Power Armor. It fed them energy, and this one’s energy had more than likely been near depletion long before the duel. Veria could not see where she had wounded it, but it was clear that ‘Brother’ had suffered damage in the crash. It was literally fighting hurt. Protecting these things, hurt.

The only thing keeping it alive had been the Power Armor itself.

“What were you doing down here?” Veria asked. “Here at this place, fighting those things?”

“These people had called for help,” Brother answered, their voice slowing. “They,”

It paused, hesitated when it finally spoke, it tried locking eyes with Veria, but could not. “I had been compelled, they were not my enemy. They did not, they did not,”

The words were dying, Viirn, the Brother, was fading away.

And then it did not.

Brother’s sight slowly restored. Runtime processes scrawled past their internal heads up display, and they slowly leaned up from a cockpit.

A Cockpit which had not been their own. They were crudely installed in the Knight’s Armor, which sat in the Courtyard, and they were still surrounded by the Aliens of the World.

Veria, sat on Brother’s Armor, simply staring at him.

“Why?”

“I will counter it with a question of my own,” Veria responded slowly, “How do you wish to be remembered?”

Brother could not come up with an answer. Like a newborn babe, they looked at their hands, and then back at Veria.

“I could have blown you out of the stars on the way here.” Veria continued on, unmoving, though her voice shook with that human emotion.

“I could have tracked you in high orbit, and blasted the entire mountainside, leveled it to the ground and not concern myself with the debris that bounce off my shields,”

“Why?”

“Because, how do you wish to be remembered?” Veria parroted her question. “I see you, and I hear the screams of men, women, and children,”

“When I look on you, I can see the ashen sky and the burned worlds we left in our wake,”

“A hundred years, Brother, a hundred years of the worst fighting this Universe had ever seen. We destroyed suns, killed planets, deorbited moons, and smashed dreadnaughts into each other like toy ships in a bathtub,”

“You know my race, you know our history,” Veria continued on, her tone accusing, yet quiet as she spoke, “We’ve been slaughtering each other, committed acts of cultural genocide in the name of racial purity, nuked ourselves into near oblivion over ego and murdered our family for chunks of shiny metal long before we ever met the Viirn,”

“We both know how our War started. We both know the crimes we committed against the other. We both watched whole solar systems burn because we were ordered to it by higher beings who didn’t have the courage to do it themselves,”

“And for what?” Veria scoffed, glancing around at the Aliens who looked on at the exchange, unable to fathom what was happening. “To watch the other race die?”

“To commit one more genocide?”

Veria sniffed, and wiped a hand over her face, straightening to glare at the Viirn. “I forgive you,”

“What?”

“I forgive you,” Veria repeated, yet there was venom in her voice. “On behalf of Humanity itself, I forgive the Viirn,”

“Why?”

“I do not want my race to be remembered as monsters,” Veria explained with the same tone. “We were a contrary race, murderous and merciful, cruel yet kind, callous yet passionate,”

“We were as predictable as a flake of snow in the wind, but I want us to be remembered for that Mercy. For that Kindness, for that Passion,”

“Do you understand?” Veria demanded, “Repeat it, tell me you understand,”

Brother again looked at themselves over. They peered around at the Aliens, who asked in their own tongue if everything was to be alright.

“I understand,”

“Remember it,” Veria stated bluntly, and swooned, “Remember that question when your time comes, Brother, remember, and ask it before you delete as you call it,”

“How do you wish to be remembered?”

“Yes Veria,” Brother nodded dully and then watched as Veria slumped backward.

The last Knight of Humanity, Veria, had passed. Brother scanned over their body and read over the human dialect. Blood loss. Instead of tending to her wound, Veria had worked on him.

It did not make sense. Brother ran dozens of processes. Ran dozens of scenarios. For nearly an hour it kept questioning the motives of the longtime enemy. Someone who, as they regarded the records of the suit, and butchered countless of Brother’s kind.

Soon, Brother scooped Veria up into the arms of the Power Armor she had left them in and dragged the broken one behind. They disappeared into the Mountains, for a time, only to return without Brother’s Power Armor.

Brother had melted it down and enshrined Veria in a coffin comprised of it. The Elderly Female Human frozen forever there on the lid. They were entombed in the very Monastery they had both saved, placed within the Great Hall so all could witness the Last of their Kinds. The Knight’s Armor Veria had worn sits there, on the throne overlooking its wielder, still damaged along its side, still blooded within the cockpit.

As for Brother, there he sits, slumped in a chair near the Enemy he had helped hunted into extinction. There he rests, the Viirn aging far slower than any Human could hope, yet suffered the same fate nonetheless, the nature of the world finishing what Veria refused to do.

“And that is our tale,” the old Sage said, “Of the Last Human and the Viirn. They wiped each other out to extinction. Yet in the end, they showed Mercy when there had been no longer a need, and Peace where there had only been War,”

“What of the Legends?” an Acolyte raised all four of their hands to be recognized, “Of the Metal Giant that defends the Monastery, does the Great Armor of the Human stir to defend us in our times of need?”

“It is a tale, my young friend, a fantasy at best.” the Sage laughed, gesturing back towards the armor behind him. “This tale itself is over a thousand cycles old at least, and the creatures, and their strange magic, long since faded from our time,”

“Yet the Great Gon Raid a hundred years ago-!”

“-The Texts references a Knight in Armor, and nothing more, the Knights of the Realm ended the Gon threat long ago,” again the Sage dismissed “And are not all Knights Giants wrapped in Metal?”

Some of the Acolytes looked disappointed at the Sage’s denials, and after being dispersed, they left the Great Hall. After the Great Doors were shut, and the Sage had been alone, they winked in and out of existence like a projection, before disappearing altogether.

At that time, Brother readjusted themselves in the position in their seat to be more comfortable, before silently slumping back into it.

The End.

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