#whose fics just like scratch that little brain itch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

branmuffins22 · 9 months ago

Note

13, 26, 35, 39, 44 from this ask game

Ooo, that's a lotta questions!

13. Do you outline your fics? How much of a headache would someone get if they just looked at an outline of yours without reading the fic?

The short answer? NOT EXACTLY BUT I REALLY REALLY SHOULD

The longer answer?

Technically, I have almost every major plot point written down in some form or another before I write a thing. That said, they usually aren't in any sensible order, and are buried in a mess of a channel in my private discord server, where ALL my brainrot goes.

When I write, I mostly just pick a starting point from one of my notes, and walk it forward from there. I tried properly outlining for one of my fics, and it got me... somewhere, but for the most part, my brain just doesn't work that way. An outline becomes a task list, and I can't stand task lists.

My current system is kinda horrid, but I'd be more worried about someone getting bored sifting through all my scattered notes than getting a headache from them.

26. What’s your biggest distraction when writing?

That one's... probably a tossup between a lot of things. Bodily needs, background streamers mentioning something I actually have an opinion on, my mother barging in with shame and deadlines for cyclical tasks (man, I need out of this house), my twin having something funny to show me... basically just ~Life~, lmao.

I guess part of the problem with my current life situation is that I don't have a lot of time that's truly, unequivocally my own, so I get pushed and pulled around by whatever or whoever calls my attention loudest.

...Or maybe that's just the adhd talking.

35. How much has writing fic changed your life?

SIGNIFICANTLY.

Now, I've been known to struggle with feelings of situational/emotional permanence, so I could be a little biased by the fact that it's my current biggest hobby, but at this point, around half of my social life happens in fandom/fanfiction circles, which wasn't the case a year or two ago.

Two years ago, I didn't read for fun. Like, full stop. I only started doing that after Thanks to Them released, when the hiatus brainrot got me seeking content and community from more than just the show itself and the friend who got me into it. I think the very first fanfic I read was a oneshot someone cross-posted to tumblr, which somehow convinced me to join both tumblr (technically rejoin tumblr) and Ao3 around the same time. Well. maybe a month or so apart, because of the weird account-creation queue thing Ao3 has goin' on. But still.

I don't think I started to consider writing my own fanfiction until I read A Blight on Bonesborough, by GeminiAlchemist, and got a bunch of ideas from the way they expanded upon the lore and magic system and characters and all that of the Owl House.

From there, it kinda took over my life completely, lmao.

I wanted to write about Luz's experiments with glyphs, and some potential avenues of missed opportunity brought to my attention by The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled, by IdeaHunter, and that eventually turned into the Artificer|Overthinker AU (to this day i still haven't picked the name).

Later, I wanted a story about Luz experiencing human high school again after all the dust settled, and after reading a fun fic whose premise was great but whose execution didn't quite scratch the itch (Luz Noceda and the mysterious case of her imaginary girlfriend, by Imkindagayyk), that slowly evolved into Masha and the Very Normal Nocedas (which I actually started writing over a year ago, and still haven't gotten to a postable state with even a single chapter, lmao).

Ever since, I've pretty much been rotating some fic idea or another in my head 24/7.

Nowadays, I wake up and check ao3 for fic updates/new fics, I read while I cook and eat breakfast, I browse tumblr for new stuff from my faves and mutuals, I check ao3 again every few hours, sometimes (but not often) I find the motivation and such to actually write, and I kinda keep up like that all day.

It's maybe a little excessive/obsessive/destructive/etc, but fanfiction kinda defines all the intentional parts of my life right now.

39. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

Voice and gimmicks.

The most prominent examples I can think of are the various literary tropes I try to imbue certain characters and such with. I usually write in 3rd-person limited perspective, so the characters' voices influence not just the way I write their dialog, but the way I write entire scenes.

There aren't any good examples of it in either of the fics I've actually posted so far, so you'll kinda just have to trust me on this, but a great example is the way I establish the POV character of a given scene.

It's easier for some characters than others, and I haven't come up with a gimmick for every character yet, but I try to open each scene with a literary trope that emphasizes some aspect of the POV character's voice.

For example, scenes written from Luz's point of view always start with speech, either hers or directed at her. Luz is a rambunctious, chatty, and kinda awkward character, who tends to exert herself on every situation she comes across, so I figure an unconventional (and arguably obnoxious, according to some people) opener works great for her.

Hunter is an outwardly-cocky character with some deep-seated self-worth problems (and a very slanted worldview besides), so his scenes always start with a self-affirmation of some kind, usually followed by a contradiction. Often, he's either intentionally or subconsciously trying to convince himself of something, or to do whatever it is he's about to be doing in the scene.

Vee is a bit of a special case. Like Luz, her scenes start in media res, but she tends to borrow the gimmicks of characters around her. She's a shapeshifter, and learned about life in the outside world as a doppelganger, so she has a tendency for mimicry, intentional or not. She also has a secondary gimmick, one that's a bit more her own, in that narration about her often finds itself filled with alliteration, especially involving the letter S (since she's sort of a snake, and snakes hisssss (and doing it with the letter V was too hard lmao)). It started as a running gag she played on Masha in MatVNN, but then I couldn't stop using it, so it's kinda everywhere now.

Masha is a superstitious (though slightly apathetic) character with a keen eye (and no attention span with which to wield it). They tend to seek out meaning even where there isn't any, and thus often completely miss the broader details in favor of the little things. Their scenes start with an isolated excerpt, usually a tarot reading. In an ideal world, the readings would foreshadow both the events of the scene and at least one of the ways they've misinterpreted them, but unfortunately, I haven't yet actually learned enough tarot to do that. It's a big part of why Masha and the Very Normal Nocedas is taking so long to get to a postable state 😅.

That's pretty much all the opening gimmicks I've worked out so far, but another one I'd like to mention has to do with the way magic is written.

Whenever a spell is cast, I whip out my thesaurus and try to sprinkle in a few words nearby that relate to the kind of spell being cast. For instance, I might say that when Willow casts a wall of vines, she first "plants her feet on the ground", or "stifles her budding anger". Before Luz casts an invisibility spell, she might think about "hiding the cards she was dealt" or maybe "her hands disappear into her pockets". Stuff like that.

The way I imagine it, magic taps straight into the caster's homonculus (broadly, the part of their brain that decides and understands what encompasses "the body") in such a way that the caster becomes part of the spell just as much as the spell becomes part of the caster.

Luz in particular, having the knack for magic that she does, tends to start this process of "becoming the spell" as soon as she decides to cast it, not just at the moment she actually casts it. It's like working yourself into the headspace of a thing, before sitting down and doing it. I've got a whole huge segment in one of my more dramatic fics that's basically an entire page of this kind of thing, with Luz preparing to cast a really big spell (or, well. technically a pair of big spells (TECHNICALLY technicaly it's one normal spell being used to prepare to cast the two massive spells. it's a whole thing)). It honestly might be the highlight of my writing portfolio, which is a huge shame because it's a MASSIVE spoiler.

Anyways, uhhh yeah. I really like gimmicks.

44. Rant about something writing related.

WELL SHITDAMNFUCK, IF ONLY I READ ALL THESE QUESTIONS AHEAD OF TIME! I COULD'VE SPARED SOME OF THOSE PRIOR RANTS FOR HERE!

Well. Guess I aughtta find something else to write about.

How about the ultimate enemy, the scourge of our people, the cornerstone of suffering itself, the dreaded and feared, the great and terrible:

Writer's Block.

It may come as a surprise to the ignorant among us (hehe, amogus), but I, too, suffer from Writer's Block from time to time! In fact, I'm even suffering from it right now! And I have been for the past... oh goodness, over 2 months now.

I had one good day of writing, in all that time, which only came about because I nearly fell asleep in the tub. I somehow daydreamed my way into a really good turn of phrase that I just HAD to put into context for Backlight and Bitrot.

So far, that singular scene, set (the equivalent of) several seasons into the story, remains both the only thing I've written for that fic, and the only thing I've written at all since January.

It's infuriating! I have all these ideas, all these things I WANT to write, all these people I want to share these ideas with, all this time, all this passion, all this brainrot, and yet I Just! Can't! Write!

AUGH!

It would be one thing if I'd simply run out of ideas; I could call this whole thing something pretty like a "dreaming phase" or a "break in order to recharge" or whatever. But I've been dreaming for ages! This break has been in no way relieving! I'm just wallowing in my inability to do the things i love, while the world moves on around me!

You've had an excellent way of phrasing this for yourself, recently: "The executives are on vacation."

It's not some pleasure cruise for me! Those darn jerks (basic brain functions) who dictate every little thing that goes on around here just fucked off to who-knows-where! Completely blind to the consequences (stagnation, suffering, shame) of their absence, and how those affect their employees (me)! I just work here, man! Lemme do my job! I wanna do my job, but I can't if you don't let me! Ugh.

I want to write so goddamn bad. I've got all these projects to write for, all these brainrot spores to spread. I've got so much I want to accomplish, and yet my dumb bitch brain can't seem to get the memo. Work phone is powered off, I suppose.

It's gotten to the point lately that even those random notes to myself have slowed down. I'm having less new ideas than before. I'm picking old ideas out and polishing them less than before.

I'm worried I might end up having to find a way to cater my writing to the dumb mammal part of my brain somehow, in order to bring some momentum back. Write about something crude and easy and filled with every instantly-gratifying fantasy I can imagine.

No more of this 'careful thought' and 'consideration for themes' junk, we want it LOUD and we want it NOW.

Ugh.

Writer's Block is the worst.

What a bummer to end on. Oh well, I'm gettin' kinda sleepy, and I'm out of questions anyways. Thanks for the ask!

#ask games #thanks for the ask!

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scarrunner05 · 2 years ago

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Fics are all well and good until suddenly you’ve spent a year and a half with an obsession with a ship that exists exclusively in a million word crossover fic. And it gets worse when suddenly, no other pairing with those characters are sufficient anymore because this oc x canon decided to be so insane and scratch all the itches in your brain.

How many times will this happen to me?? What have I don’t to deserve this (actively encouraged it every time). Like it’s Worth It but also screaming crying sobbing on the ground.

There’s like opposite problems with two of these characters too, one of them is a background character whose constantly forgotten about and has little content, and all the other ships with him are all Icks to me. The other is a big character with a big ship that’s nice sure but never stood out to me, it just never rattled my skull correctly, and instead I looked at this oc from this fic and went “yeah this is the one” and now even that relatively good ship is insufficient it does not spark the insanity like this one does.

It’s like brain why ya gotta imprint on these rare pairs why ya gotta get me obsessed over these losers

#All with complete love for the fic and characters #I want to be able to enjoy the normal fandom ships but dirkthree just had to be insane #Halsaph are the only hal ship I can actually tolerate though so that’s better actually #also every time I think about the dfth and hopes chains characters in general I feel like this #(This entire ramble is positive #I’m complaining but about a good thing that I enjoy)#dirkthree #halsaph #Erishu #bloody knife #that one gets to be in here too #ultimate rarepair my beloved #ignore me I’m rambling into the void

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nikki-writes-stuff · 5 years ago

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

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

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

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

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

No one but you could know your secret.

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

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

James Buchanan Barnes

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

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

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

Or at least…that was what you told yourself.

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

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

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

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

And you swore that your heart stopped beating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s you,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked in surprise, and Bucky rolled his eyes.

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

“Then why-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t want either-“

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

“Fine,” he groaned. “But you owe me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck it, I can’t wait anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no, wait-“

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

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

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

“Shut up, jerk,” he grunted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Fuck.”

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

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

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

#stucky #stucky x reader #stucky imagine #steve rogers #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #steven grant rogers #captain america #the winter soldier #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #dark!bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes x reader

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bakugoukatsuki-rising · 4 years ago

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Black Balloon

Enjoy the pain my dudes, this fic is also up on my Ao3

WARNING: Character Death

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At first everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

The lack of sound felt like suffocation, and then there was a soft sound. Something that couldn’t be made out at first, it was so gentle, seeming to run off every time he tried to focus on it. Then it grew a bit louder, and louder, and louder, until it was directly in his ear. A steady beeping.

Beep……..beep……..beep………beep

Then it faded again, and suddenly there was pain.

He hadn’t been aware that pain could have a sound, but this pain was audible. It rang viciously in his ears, popping off like static from an overused television. As he managed to pull his eyes open to see unfamiliar fluorescent lights and off-white ceilings that left him feeling lost, he just barely managed to turn his head to try and figure out where he was; eventually concluding it must be a hospital. He was plugged into what felt like dozens of machines, and he couldn’t really feel anything below his neck.

It was like he was a head floating without a body, just resting in this hospital bed without a hope to become something more than a pile of wreckage.

There wasn’t much time to focus on surroundings though, as the static in his ears piercing through his skull and felt like it shattered his jaw. His eyes snapped shut as quickly as they opened, and he let out a howling cry. It felt like there were sharp blades slowly penetrating through his skull, ripping his brain clean in half. It was torture, and despite no feeling in his body, he could tell he was thrashing. He thrashed until there was force keeping him down against the bed.

“………….doctor! ………….the tranquilizer………..his arms………..he’ll end up worse if we don’t hurry up!”

Hot, fresh tears bubbled at the corners of his eyes as he screamed through the searing pain that sent spikes of agony through his mangled body. It felt like this was going to be endless. Like this would be what he experienced for the rest of his life, and he would just have to suffer through it.

For a moment, he even begged for death.

This couldn’t be what his life amounted to. All the work he had put in, he couldn’t let this be it. Despite the torture his body was putting him through, he could single out a small prick of pain in his arm against the pressure of the nurses and doctor’s bodies that kept him to the bed, and though it felt like years to him, within about 30 seconds, things began to subside. The pain was still quite unbearable, but he was able to think a little clearer. The static in his ears hushed slightly, and gradually he could put things together.

The war.

Shigaraki.

All for One.

….Kacchan.

Tears fell steady down his hospital sanitized cheeks now, and he at the same time he was able to deduce that the onslaught of pain was probably caused by Danger Sense, and there was so much happening that he couldn’t do anything about. Helpless. Powerless. Useless.

Despite the tranquilizer he was given, the pain evened out, but didn’t go away. It was more like an aggressive nagging in the back of his head now. Like he had a terrible itch he would never be able to scratch, and it burned in the back of his skull and made his eyes roll for a second like he was attempting to get to it, but it was all in vain. Until the danger was handled, he just assumed this was something he’d have to deal with. There wasn’t information given to him about Danger Sense for him to know the ins and outs about it, he just knew the 4th stayed far away from other people, and as he lay there incapacitated and unmoving, he understood why.

No one should suffer through such horrendous pain, even in the name of saving others.

The weight around his body eventually subsided as the nurses and doctors checked their machines to make sure he was stable, before leaving him alone once again. When he opened his eyes for the second time, he was by himself. The emptiness felt huge. It felt like, even though the room was no bigger than his bedroom at home, like he was all alone in the middle of a gigantic space with nothing around him. The feeling of suffocation was pressing against his throat again, and the tears were relentless.

He hiccupped and whined like a child, wishing for anyone to come be with him so he wasn’t smothered by this immense loneliness inside of his chest.

Kacchan.

A sob ripped through his throat as he thought of him again and remembered what happened before everything went black. The last thing he remembered was facing Shigaraki and then there were sharp spike like objects hurdling toward him, and then…Kacchan. Then there was Kacchan and then he was falling, and then everything went black.

The rattle of the hospital door snapped him from his misery for a second and as he looked to the door, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. In a hospital gown like his own, bandages evident beneath the cloth, a disheveled mess of blonde hair and scorching crimson eyes, the only person he actually wanted to see was slipping into his hospital room like he had heard the wish from down the hall, despite Deku never saying a word.

“..Ka..” His throat felt like a thousand needles that had been coated in flame stabbed into it simultaneously, and he winced. Talking didn’t seem like an option, and it left him feeling even more lost. How could he not even be able to speak to the other? There was so much he had to say! But as Bakugou approached the bed, and he looked into the other’s eyes, he didn’t feel the need to talk anymore. Something in his expression made him feel like words wouldn’t matter, anyway. It left such a thick, weighted feeling inside of his heart. The blonde boy didn’t say a word as he moved to the bed and then shifted to climb on top of it, and then rest himself next to the smaller teen; their bodies pressed against one another.

Bakugou shifted an arm around Deku’s mid-section and rest with the side of his face on the pillow so he was looking at the freckled teen, who could just barely turn his head enough to make eye contact with his friend. Unlike the doctors, there wasn’t weight with this body. It felt warm, but there was no presence to it. Like there was just a comforting pocket of air enveloping his body and easing the pain inside of him.

The tears that had been endless till now, settled. The pain spreading throughout his broken body, settled. It was like he was in a bubble where nothing could affect him, and he couldn’t look away from the smoldering red of Bakugou’s eyes.

His eyes eventually shifted to Bakugou’s mouth as it moved, but he couldn’t hear anything. At first, he wondered if it was from the pain or if something was wrong with his hearing, but the incessant beeping from the machines alerted him that it wasn’t anything like that at all; Bakugou wasn’t speaking, but he knew what he was saying even without hearing anything. The way his lips moved mimicked the sound of his voice, and Deku could play the sound in his head from memory.

“You aren’t alone, you stupid nerd. Stop trying to do everything by yourself, and let the others help you. As for me, don’t even waste your damn time worrying about it when you have bigger things to focus on. We’ll meet again, eventually, and I’ll apologize to you for real.”

As the words settled inside of him and he connected the dots, another sob racked his frame and he let out a wail of desperation unlike any other. Like a child whose entire world had been ripped from their hands, like he lost his entire world.

“Deku, don’t fucking let me down, I’ll be watching you, nerd.”

Another sob, and soon warm arms were holding him, the voice of his mother filling his ears as she rushed into the room and took him into her grasp. All he could do was wail like an infant. Speech was unrecognizable to him, as was movement, and he was reverted to a helpless child, whose entire world was crumbling down around him.

Meanwhile, 2 rooms down in the same corridor sat Mitsuki and Masaru, holding each other and mimicking those wails that tore through their son’s childhood friend.

This hospital room didn’t echo with repeated beeping, instead, there was one steady, harrowing beep that signified the loss of a life. On the hospital bed just a foot or two away from his parents lay Bakugou, bandaged and irreparable from the damage done to his body. His expression was calm, almost serene, and his eyes rest closed, never to open again.

Even in death, he wouldn’t have lost the opportunity to give one last smartass remark to the one person he should have given all of himself to when he had the chance.

#bnha #mha #bkdk #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #bakudeku #kacchan #deku #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #writing #bnha fic #bkdk fic #bnha angst #bkdk angst #character death

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thetomorrowshow · 5 years ago

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Slower Than Words Ch. 1

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

A/N: Welcome to my latest fic! I’m projecting about 10 chapters for this. If you’d like to be tagged, just leave a comment or shoot me an ask or send a request by falcon or w/e, I’m not picky!

Just to preface, I'd like to warn that there will be cult content in this work. I am in no way endorsing cults, nor am I criticizing anyone's religion. The intent of this work is to entertain, so please enjoy!

CW: Food, inflicted blindness, imprisonment

Virgil wasn’t expecting a roommate.

He’d only been here for a month or so, but he’d been alone for a while. He’d been quarantined for the past twenty days, and experimented on before that—Virgil didn’t want to think about that.

He hadn't known he had a roommate until someone brushed up against him as he curled up on the cold floor. He couldn't find the bed, otherwise that was where he'd lie. But something touched him and he reared back, ready to attack.

Whatever it was didn't touch him again, and Virgil slowly let himself relax. The sudden movement had sent a migraine to pound at the walls of his head. He groaned and let his head rest on the cold floor beneath him, before hearing some rustling. He jerked right back up, flinching again when something heavy fell on him. A blanket.

“Hello?” he ventured. No answer. For a moment, Virgil was certain he was making it all up, that he had gotten the blanket himself but had forgotten. Then another noise—a scuffle, the sound of someone sitting nearby. A hand touched his shoulder, and Virgil did everything in his power to not draw back.

“Who's there?” he asked, his voice quivering. “I can't—I can't see. I can't see you.”

Even after they'd taken the bandages off his eyes, Virgil had been unable to see anything. The first week, his eyes had burned and itched. He'd restrained himself from scratching, but now he wasn't sure if it would have made a difference. He had lost his sight, and with it his whole world.

The hand didn't leave his shoulder, and Virgil reached out cautiously. His hands met something solid—a person? Yes, a person, and Virgil's hands clutched desperately at their shirt. He hadn't had safe human contact in so long. . . . The person seemed to understand that, and gently placed his arms around Virgil. Virgil let himself be wrapped in the hug, arms awkwardly against his chest. The person smelled like soap and dust and immediately warmed him. Virgil relished the fiery contact, pushing his head up into the person's shoulder and sighing. For the first time in weeks, he felt safe.

The person pulled back and Virgil floundered, reaching again into the empty air. A hand caught his and held it still. Virgil frowned, confused. What was happening? Were they not supposed to know about each other? Was the person about to lead him back into that room, the bright one where they leaned over him and—

Virgil wrenched his brain away from that train of thought. He needed to focus on the here and now, not the terrifying past. Starting with who the other person in the room was. Said other person suddenly let go off his hand and pulled him close again. Virgil decided to not worry about who they were or why they were both here, and melted into the person's chest.

When Virgil woke up, he blinked blearily before remembering that he couldn't see. Someone—the person from the previous day—was still holding him, but his slow breathing indicated that he was asleep. At some point, they'd moved to a bed. It was nice, all things considered. He wasn't alone, he was in a soft bed with a soft person, and he had no need to go anywhere anytime soon.

A loud clang! interrupted his drowsy thoughts and he jerked up, feeling the person beside him stir in their sleep.

“Hello?” Virgil said, his voice shaking. No answer. His roommate sat up beside him and placed a gentle hand on his back, calm and reassuring. Then the person slid out of bed and seemingly vanished—Virgil could no longer reach them, no matter how far he stretched out his arms. He whimpered unwillingly, then covered his mouth. No use seeming weak. A little voice in his head reminded him that he'd certainly done worse than whimper when they'd taken his sight.

A terrifying moment later, a hand was on his arm and guiding him into a standing position. Virgil stumbled a bit, but allowed himself to be led across the room until the person eased him to the ground.

As it turned out, there was food there, laid out on a tray. Virgil felt his way around the tray before lifting what he was certain was a spoon, letting the other person place a bowl on his lap. It was full of instant mashed potatoes, Virgil soon discovered. He hadn't really been focusing on his stomach, but he realized some sustenance would be nice. While he ate, the other person traced seemingly random patterns on his wrist.

The bowl with mashed potatoes was pulled away from him, then returned but filled with canned beans. Virgil grimaced: he'd never been one for beans, but at least they were warm. It struck him as he ate that he had no idea what time it was. Was this an odd breakfast, or a poor dinner? It reminded him of something his dorm mate might have made—and just like that, tears were forming and his nose was burning.

Why did they take him? Out of every twenty-something person they could've kidnapped to fulfill their sick desires of blinding someone, why him? Virgil missed home, he missed school, he missed his obnoxious dorm mate, he missed his terrible paying job making terrible pizzas—

The bowl was gently pulled from him and Virgil willingly fell into the person's arms. He sobbed into their shoulder, lost and sad and homesick. How many times had he cried alone in the past month? How many times had he longed for human contact only to wrap his arms around himself? Now he cuddled closer into the warm weight of another human being, gripping as tight as he could.

The other person lightly placed a kiss into Virgil's hair and Virgil felt safe, and warm, and still so so awful but also okay.

Virgil pulled back and fumbled around for the bowl again, still sniffling as he took another bite. The person continued to trace the patterns into his wrist, slow and soft. Over and over. Familiar, like they had no meaning yet every meaning simultaneously. Over and over and over. . . .

That was—repetition? Did the pattern start over? Virgil set down the bowl and placed his hand on the other person's, who immediately stilled.

“Come on, do it again,” Virgil croaked. He gestured at his wrist, trying to get his meaning across. “I wanna feel it.”

Slowly, the patterns started up again, and Virgil traced along with them.

a . . . b . . . c . . . d. . . .

The alphabet. The person hadn't spoken at all thus far, and Virgil felt unbelievably ecstatic about this form of communication. He pushed his hand into the other person's, food forgotten in the giddy anticipation of someone talking to him. Old Virgil would have scoffed, unimpressed at his thirst for human contact. Old Virgil wanted to be alone. Old Virgil hadn't spent weeks alone in darkness.

Virgil could pick out some of the letters the person traced, but the rest felt like random scribbling. He definitely felt an 'a', and an 'o', and then an 'n', but the rest was unclear. He shrugged, then put his hand over theirs again.

This time he could feel the letters more clearly, as the other person carefully guided his hand.

P-a-t-t-o-n.

V-i-r-g-i-l, Virgil spelled. V-i-r-g-i-l.

V . . . i . . . n . . . y . . . l . . . l.

“No, Virgil, not vinyl,” Virgil groaned. V-i-r-g-i-l.

V . . . i . . . r . . . g . . . i . . . l.

“Yes, yes yes!” Virgil impulsively hugged the man whose arm he'd been spelling on a second earlier. His name was Patton, and through much trial and error, Virgil had discovered that Patton was about his age and could see. Why he wasn't talking was a mystery that he hadn't decoded yet.

Virgil and Patton had been curled up on the bed for hours, tracing into each others' arms. It was mostly the alphabet, over and over again as they tried to instinctually recognize the letters. It was slow going, but Virgil felt they'd gotten far enough for his name—and they had. It exhausted both of them, he was sure, so he wasn't surprised when Patton fell asleep, him following shortly.

The past few days had been too short, it seemed, after the unbelievable length of the month he'd spent alone. Hours of tracing and sleeping and eating and just touching helped the days fly by. Every day Patton held Virgil steady as the walked the perimeter of the room, one hand on the smooth wall, the other clenched into Patton's shirt. He was slowly beginning to envision their cell in his mind's eye. He knew how many steps it was from the door to the beds—because there were two of them, apparently, though Virgil spent most of his time on the same bed as Patton. When it was night, he couldn't bear to let Patton go, afraid he'd wake up alone again, not able to find anyone. On nights when the fear was particularly bad, Patton held him to his chest and wiped the tears away.

They were almost constantly touching, in some way. When they were both mentally worn from the struggle of communicating, they often lay on the floor, hands entwined. In those moments, Virgil let his mind explore beyond the room, sometimes imagining himself to be a great wizard or adventurer. He went on grand quests to retrieve lost treasures, journeyed into caverns that dripped with shadows. Most of the time, though, he imagined he was going about his normal life. He pictured his dorm mate, the paths he'd take to school. He thought about the tree that grew outside his window, the aloe vera on his desk that was somehow managing to survive. Those bittersweet thoughts always led to a wave of homesickness, and Virgil would find himself curling into Patton's arms to cry.

Now, though, Virgil woke up slowly, automatically squeezing his grip to make sure he was still holding Patton's hand. The man squeezed back, then spelled something onto his arm.

V-i-r-g-i-l.

Virgil smiled sleepily and spelled back: P-a-t-t-o-n. Who was he to break morning routine?

F-o-o-d-s-h-e-r-e, Patton spelled out slowly, making a slicing motion on his arm to indicate a space between words. Virgil nodded, forestalling the man as he began to spell it again.

“I heard, I heard.”

Over breakfast, Patton continued the alphabet lightly. Virgil tried to keep his arm free, but he needed one hand to hold the bowl and the other to eat the oatmeal, so it wasn't going too well. Soon enough, the tray was taken from them (by the morning food-bringer, Virgil was beginning to be able to tell their footsteps apart) and Patton squeezed him in a brief hug before taking Virgil's hand and placing it over his own, tracing more letters onto Virgil's skin.

I-a-m-d-e-a-f.

That couldn't be right. Virgil wracked his brain, trying to think of which letter he misinterpreted. Before he could pick it out, though, Patton was tracing again.

I-a-m-d-e-a-f.

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed!): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222

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saokpe · 4 years ago

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HDLW Sibling Week 2020 - Day 3: Family Photo

I’m having a whole lot of fun writing these HDLW Week fics and this might be my favorite so far!

@hdlwsiblingweek2020

Photo Preparations

The morning in the mansion dragged long. An overjoyed Webbigail waits in jittery excitement as, from just around the corner, enters three unusually dressed identical triplets. Their faces burrowed in clear annoyance, all stretching horribly in the costumes discomfort. Expressions Webby could not dare emulate, instead she wore an elongated smile and beaming stare.

Before they reach the living room sofa that the excitable Webby waited by, Huey complains, “I love him, but Donald really does pick THE WORST clothes for these family photos.” The duck, absent of his usual red cap, signals to his combed and meticulously designed outfit. A thick red vest, stray pieces of thread fuzzing over the also red undershirt he begrudgingly wore. Oh, and it was all covered in polka dots, from head to toe. Not a spot was left without a spot, it was anything but attention grabbing, multicolored polka dots in a bright red background, beautiful.

“MY question is: why do we need to take a sibling only photos in ADDITION to the family photo, the parents photo, the uncles photos, the rich uncles photo, which is literally just Gladstone and Scrooge, and the ‘anyone else we have passing knowledge of’ photo! I would think the last one would tick all the previous boxes.” Louie, whose loose shoulders wore the bear of a t-shirt anyone would doubt he would like immortalized. The shirt, a couple of sizes over his body type, obnoxiously said, in outdated impact font, “I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m right!” The utter void of any type of enthusiasm echoed in his sunken eyes.

“Well I want to know why this sweater is so ITCHY!” Dewey forces himself ahead, unaware of the couch he crashed into as he vigorously scratches his body, rolling across the sofa while struggling to fight the liberally designed blue sweater. “AND WHY DOES IT SMELL SO WEIRD!”

As their sequence of whining comes to a still begrudged end, their uninspired trek halting as they reach the only ray of enthusiasm in the room, i.e. Webby, she tosses her opinion into the frey. ”I think you all look great, your photo is gonna be amazing!” She exclaims.

“Wait.” Louie approaches Webby, her body bolting backwards as the distance closes. “Why are you wearing your normal clothes? Did Uncle Donald let you wear anything you wanted!?” Disbelief and shock rings in his angered assessment.

“Oh, no-” Webby attempts to excuse herself before being interrupted by Dewey, who still drags his nails violently over the obnoxious sweater, adds:

“Really!? Lucky!” The boy stumbles over his contorted feet, falling face first to the room’s rug, not stopping the erratic fight he had with his clothing.

“No, no, no, no, guys-” The girl waves her hand over the accusive triplets, chuckling as she explains, “This is the sibling photo, I’m not in this one.” She continues the giggle.

Little response leaves the triplets as Webby’s forced laugh permeates. Dewey, who halts his pursuit of comfort and stands beside his brothers, Huey, and Louie stare oddly at the girl. The deafening silence of their looks complimented by a perfectly synchronized eyebrow raise. Eventually, despite her lacking social skills, Webby reads the room, thinning out her somewhat sad laughter and replacing it with awkward eye contact with the boys. It takes a second for the fourway gaze to break, the embarrassingly dressed kids turning to each other before, simultaneously, speaking out:

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Yeah, Webbs goes in the sibling photo with us, I’m pretty sure.”

“Us four, and Mom and Uncle Donald.”

“Uhh-” Webbigail, somewhat paralyzed from the overheard mumbles of her family, tries to intrude. Unfortunately the attempt is foiled when they turn their bodies back to the stunned sister.

“You probably just didn’t see your clothes, I asked Donald to let mom pick it out for you so-” Huey begins before getting intersected by Louie.

“Actually, Huey asked me to convince uncle Donald, he was real adamant about the outfit he picked out for you until I persuaded him otherwise. No need to thank me, unless you want to, in which case, who am I to refuse?” He smugly assures.

Huey pushes the scheming brother aside before finishing, “-point is, you’ll probably look a bit better than us…. Maybe.”

“Uhhhh-” Webby didn’t dare move as her brothers explained the situation, her mouth agape and droning. Her mind ran, every fiber of her brain overthinking the words the conversation brought. She probably liked to believe herself a sister to the triplets, but that wasn’t written down in the family tree, it can’t be the case. Right? I mean, she would’ve known and added it by now. Wouldn’t she?

Salted tears begin to well, the stray droplet splashing over the shaky smile her body forced over her. The emotive response doesn’t go unnoticed, Dewey returning to his feet after a valiant round against his sweater.

“You okay Webby?” Genuine concern oozes over the duck’s equally concerned tone of voice.

Louie and Huey, who discussed the clothing situation they still suffered, are the next to take notice.

“Whoa, are you alright? What’s the matter- Oh.” Huey stops himself, his expression souring in embarrassment as he continues, “Did you want to wear what Donald got you instead? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to exclude you I just-”

“Way to go dude!” Louie lightly shoves his older brother.

“You were the one to convince him! I feel like there's equal blame here.” He attempts to retort.

“Cause you told me! If I knew that Webbs wouldn’t-”

“No! No! No!” A stray laugh escapes the overwhelmed Webby, her arms rubbing across her eyes, drying them. “That’s not it, I just-” She contemplates her answer a little longer. Her thoughts prove blank, another chuckle preceding a larger hug. Her arms drag the triplets together before wrapping them tightly, abnormally tight for some her size. “Thank you.” She whispers between them.

Lungs crushed, the triplets are able to spew out:

“No problem?”

“You're welcome.”

“This somehow makes this sweater itch MORE.”

The embrace parts, leaving those squeezed out of breath and aching. But before any complaint can be filed, their sister runs off. From the distance she screams. “I’ll be back in a second, wait for me.”

“Alright!” Huey screams back.

Silence continues as the remaining group, Dewey while scratching the living hell out of his now burning torso, look ahead to the dashing Webby.

“That was weird.” Louie finally breaks the silence.

“We’ve got a weird sister.” Huey responds.

A second moment of silence, occupied only by Dewey’s struggling grunts, returns.

“OK THAT'S IT! I’M DESTROYING THIS STUPID SWEATER! I’LL GO SHIRTLESS IF I HAVE TO!”

“Dewey! NO!”

The following pictures were deemed unusable by Donald as Dewey refused to put his, by then, burnt and torn sweater. Webby still keeps them in her room, though, the blurred lines of action and chaotic composition struck a chord with her. A good representation of their relationship as siblings, she thinks.

#HDLW #ducktales #Huey Duck #Dewey Duck #Louie Duck #Webby Vanderquack #hdlw sibling week 2020

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clydeloganisababe · 5 years ago

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What I Wouldn’t Do (1/3)

Sometimes, you just need to write the incredibly niche, indulgent smut you wish to see in the world. So, in honor of Adam’s latest SNL appearance, please allow me to present a flower shop ABO au featuring the one, the only, the king, Robbie the Biscutie.

The whole thing is going to be 3 chapters, with the third chapter being a no holds barred smut-fest. Chapter 1 is the meet-cute, Chapter 2 is the date, Chapter 3 is the heat/rut. Now on AO3.

I’d love to dedicate this fic to other writers whose work has sustained and nourished me over the years and to other Robbie enthusiasts, especially @theweddingofthefoxes. Let me know if you want to be removed or added to any updates!

Author’s note: Robbie has a girlfriend at the start of this mess, but there’s no cheating.

And now, without further ado:

~~~~~

Many customers, regardless of their designations, liked the sweet smell of the shop. Actual product varied by day but there were almost always roses and lilies in stock, which incidentally were among the most fragrant flowers. When customers weren’t looking for floral arrangements they could also sample the various soaps, diffusers, oils, candles, and perfumes that littered the store front. The barrage of scents was almost overwhelming, but that was how you wanted it. You took great care to hide your own scent, but it was still difficult to hide the odor of an unmated omega without a little extra help. Working in a fragrant shop made it that much easier to blend in, and for that you were grateful. Decorum, and at times your safety, depended on it.

There was an enormous wedding this weekend so by Tuesday you were already in pre-production. You were in the middle of taping floral foam to a tray when you heard the tell tale tinkle of the door bell.

“Welcome! Come on in, I’ll be right with you!” you called, drying your hands on a nearby towel. You were almost to the front when it hit you: the unmistakable musk of alpha pheromones. You whipped around, trying to find the source.

Striding up to the counter was an absolute beast of a man. His navy suit draped attractively against his broad frame, but his languid strides revealed rippling muscles underneath the wool. The first button of his brightly patterned shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a flash of gold at his throat. His messy black waves were pulled back into a knot at the back of his head. You typically thought that man buns were silly, but this guy was pulling it off.

The rational part of your brain said that he looked like a bad New York stereotype. But the secret, primal part of you whispered he’s big and broad and smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, he’d give you healthy pups and a big fat knot.

How could you smell him this clearly? You were on very strong suppressants and shouldn’t be able to smell him, let alone separate the notes of his scent. Maybe he wasn’t on blockers? He looked like the type.

As you slipped behind the counter, his dark gaze finally found yours and a ripple of understanding passed between you both. There you are. Judging by the look on his face he could clearly smell you too.

“Hi, do you need some help today or are you just browsing?” It’s easy to slip into the friendly, customer service persona, even when you are beginning to tremble at his proximity.

“Yeah, I need something for my girl.” His voice is a deep, rough rumble. Fuck. Of course he has a girlfriend. You sniff delicately, trying to be subtle. He’s got a girl, but you can’t smell anything lingering on him. Beta.

You go over all the details as professionally as you can: he needs the bouquet tonight, she likes roses, money’s not a problem because my girl deserves the best. “I wanna pick it up at 5 o’clock sharp. I’m surprising her at dinner and I wanna to be on time.” He’s going on about his girlfriend, but his dark eyes linger over your form. He feels it too.

“Of course! I’ll have the bouquet ready for you right at 5.” It’s an innocuous statement, but his eyes darken at your quick obedience. He pays with a shiny black card.

“Thanks sweetheart, I’ll see you at 5.” He turns to leave and you can’t help but watch his thick thighs as he slips out the door, bell chiming in his wake. You want to be mad about the pet name, but you aren’t. You hope he’ll say it again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5 pm rolls around and the hot alpha from before is punctual. His credit card had the name Robert on it, but you don’t think it suits him. Robert sounds much too formal. Does he go by Bob? Maybe Rob?

As promised, his rose bouquet is waiting for him on the counter, spilling out from a delicate crystal vase. You chose pink and white roses, but added some burgundy ranunculus and white anemones for texture, framing everything with eucalyptus, salal, and seeded eucalyptus. The effect is soft and romantic.

“I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up for you,” you explain. He remains silent, inspecting the bouquet. “Do you like it?” You shift nervously. He’s taking a long time to answer.

“It’s perfect,” he finally announces. “Better than I imagined. She’s gonna love it.” She’s gonna love it. Right.

“Excellent! I’ll wrap that up for you.” You snap to work, trying not to waste anymore time.

“Did you make that?” he asks, leaning against the counter. You catch another whiff of his sweet, spicy scent and you stifle a whimper.

“I did!” you offer, topping off the plastic wrap with a cream ribbon. He whistles lowly. “Stunning work, sweetheart.” He takes the vase from you, his hands engulfing yours for the briefest moment. “I’ll have to remember this place for next time.” You practically gulp. “Please do! I’d be happy to make you something else.” He holds your gaze for just a moment too long, then turns and slinks out the door, off to a date with his girlfriend. Goddammit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life moves on and you try to forget about the hot alpha with the incredible scent, who pinned you with his gaze and complimented your work. Until the next week when the store bell tinkles and the warm telltale notes of sandalwood drift through the shop. Your gland itches and you snap to attention.

“Welcome back!” you call to him as he swaggers confidently up to the counter.

“You remember me?” he teases.

“I do. You’re very memorable,” you admit, blushing. He smirks, pleased with himself. Your gland prickles and you clench your fists, resisting the urge to scratch it in front of him. “So what can I get you this time?”

“I need something classy. Elegant.” He looks at you expectantly, like you know exactly what that means.

“Of course. What’s the occasion?” You hope your probing isn’t too obvious.

“I wanna surprise my girl. She’s been going through a rough time lately.” He briefly looks away and seems momentarily embarrassed. Trouble in paradise? You suddenly feel bad for flirting with him.

“Absolutely. Would she prefer pastels or jewel tones?”

“Whichever one, just make it real pretty.” Fair.

“You got it. What’s your budget?” You hate this question, but it’s necessary.

He smirks. “Money’s not an issue.”

“Alright. Do you want to pick up your arrangement or should I have it delivered?”

“I’ll come by around 5.”

“Perfect! I’ll see you then!” You flash him a winning customer service smile and he extends his hand. “I’m Robbie, by the way.”

Robbie. His hand is huge and warm. You give him your name and unable to resist, you overextend your hand, slipping a finger outside of his grip to brush the gland at his wrist. His scent spikes with arousal, flooding your nose with his intoxicating scent. He growls softly, sending a shiver through you. You know you’re playing with fire, but you can’t let go. Don’t leave me, alpha. He finally releases your hand and stalks out of the shop, leaving you an itchy, unsatisfied mess.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You fall into a routine. Robbie comes in every Friday, orders an arrangement for his girlfriend, you both flirt, then he leaves. You look forward to it. You know it’s not going anywhere, that he’s just the hot alpha customer and you’re just the cute omega shop girl, but seeing him still makes your day.

In fact, he’s due any minute to pick up his arrangement. The bell tinkles and you immediately perk up. But the scent is off, it’s a little too woodsy. It’s another alpha.

“Welcome, how can I he-“

He cuts you off. “Hi, do you have any yellow roses?”

“I don’t believe so, but let me check.” You scan the back room and peer through the coolers. You’ve got a handful of spray roses, but you can tell that’s not really what he’s looking for.

“I’m so sorry, we only have small spray roses, were you interested in an-“

“Well, do you have anything yellow?” he huffs. His smell is bitter.

“I’m sorry, we really don’t.”

“You really don’t? What kind of florist doesn’t have yellow flowers?” You miss the tinkling of the shop bell, but it’s impossible to miss a sudden waft of sandalwood.

“I’d be happy to order some for you, I could get them by tom-“

“My anniversary is tonight! What good does that do me?” You fumble for an answer, but Robbie doesn’t.

“The fuck you say to her? Is that how you talk to a lady?” Robbie barks from across the shop. He barrels towards the front and the other alpha visibly shrinks before him, his damp scent souring with fear.

“This is so unprofessional,” the other alpha whines. Robbie starts to crowd him but he immediately backs away.

“Then find another florist before I throw you out myself,” Robbie growls. The other alpha shoots you one last glare, but slinks out of the shop with his tail between his legs.

Robbie finally turns to look at you and you exhale a shaky breath that you didn’t realize you where holding. “Robbie, you didn’t have to do that,” you insist weakly.

“Yes I did,” he comes behind the counter and wraps you in his arms. “I couldn’t let him talk to you like that,” You bury your face into his chest and he purrs, a deep rumble. A shudder ripples through you. “Thank you for saving me,” you murmur, running your hand along his spine. “Any time, doll,” he chuffs.

You linger against him, much longer than is appropriate, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You nuzzle into his chest, soothed by his purring. Robbie’s hands wander up your back and one settles between your shoulder blades, fingertips just shy of your mating gland. You tremble at its proximity. The other snakes its way along your ribcage, just shy of your breast.

The shop bell tinkles and you break away from him, the moment shattered. ‘I’ll be right back with your arrangement,” you murmur. You hand him the flowers and he fixes you with one last smoldering look.

“Have a nice dinner,” you offer weakly. It breaks the spell and he finally looks away. “Right,” he grumbles, taking the vase. He moves towards the door but he stops, looking back. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone,” he calls. You smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Robbie.” He gives you one last lingering smirk, but then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The week drags by slowly. Robbie hasn’t placed an order yet, which is odd, and you wonder if you’ll ever see him again. Maybe your obvious connection is too much, too inappropriate. He has a girlfriend and that should be the end of it, you begrudgingly remind yourself. But you’ve been itchy and antsy all week, and you’re worried that you’ve started something out of your control. Like your heat. You should have another month or so to go, but the close proximity of a compatible partner can still mess with even the best suppressants.

The shop phone rings and it’s a welcome distraction. “Hey, doll,” he rumbles through the receiver. Both relief and anticipation shudder through you.

“Hey, I was beginning to wonder if I would hear from you this week,” even you can hear the needy whine in your voice. “What can I get you this time?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could help me with that.” You can hear him shifting on the other end of the line. “I want you to make something that you would like. Can be anything you want, big or small, any budget, I just want you to make something that you would want.”

“Really? I’m surprised you are letting me decide, you always seem to know exactly what you want.” You can’t help but tease him. Designer’s choice was always a popular option, but it’s odd coming from someone as decisive as Robbie.

“Oh, I do babydoll, make no mistake about that,” he growls. “When do you get off work on Friday?” You gulp. “Usually around 6 unless there’s an event. Nothing this week though.”

“Good. I’ll pick it up at 6.”

“Sounds great, see you then, Robbie”

“Bye, babe.” You both linger on the line, but you finally disconnect the call. It’s not weird, Robbie just likes your designs, you reason. It’s expected that a floral designer should design an arrangement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unfortunately for Robbie, you have expensive taste. You lose yourself in the creation of the handtied that you are making, an asymmetrical bouquet spilling over with greens, black baccara roses, plush dahlias, ranunculus, anemones, queen anne’s lace, and thistle. It’s wild but soft, dark and deep. You throw in some carnations for a pop of color. You have no idea if Robbie’s girl will like this, carnations can be controversial, but you like it, and that is what Robbie had asked for. That thought makes you smile to yourself.

You are a little nervous to see Robbie when he rolls in at 6 pm on the dot. “I wanted you to see it before I wrapped it up,” you explain, handing him the bouquet. He’s silent, inspecting it on all sides. His thorough examination puts you on edge. “I can change it, if you want, that’s not a problem,” you can hear yourself blabbering, but you can’t stop yourself. “It’s unexpected,” he finally offers, looking over and pinning you with his dark stare. “But so were you. This is perfect.” He leans closer and you instinctively inch towards him.

“I got a confession. These ain’t for Sophie. We broke up a week ago,” he pauses, scanning your face for a reaction. “If you want ‘em, they’re yours. If you don’t want ‘em, then I’ll keep ‘em to remember you by. But I hope you want ‘em.” You are stunned into silence. No one has ever done something like this for you before. You gape up at him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” the sour taste of nerves invades your senses and he begins to back away. “I can be pushy, I’m sorry if I-“

“Robbie,” you reach up and rub the glands on his neck and he moans openly. “Is that a yes, baby doll?” he rumbles. Taking the bouquet, you reach up on your tiptoes and gently press your lips to his.

“That is definitely a yes, Alpha.” He groans, scooping you up and burying his face in your neck. You shiver at the hot swipe of his tongue against your gland. You can feel the gentle rumble of a purr beginning in his chest and you clench around nothing.

“I’m taking you to dinner.” He presses his lips to your neck, eliciting a soft gasp from you. “And then after that, I’m taking you to bed.” He draws back, tilting your chin so you look into his eyes. “Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

#robbie the biscutie #robbie x reader #adam driver snl 2020 #adam driver snl 2016 #adam driver x reader #abo hell

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seriousshit88 · 6 years ago

Note

Stiles falls into a patch of poison ivy in the Preserve (in his defense, it's not supposed to BE in California at all.) Cue Scott scrubbing him down with detergent and exfoliant, and then careful, tender application of calamine lotion. Just buddies being dudes, right? Except Stiles can't get the memory of Scott's hands on him out of his head.

Loz. This fic turned out to be over 3 times longer than it was supposed to be. I’m still not sure I did your prompt justice, but thank you for being patient with me.

“This is torture,” Stiles groused.

“Scratching is just going to make it worse, dude,” Scott said as they made it back safely to their tiny, two-bedroom apartment. He scrolled through his phone looking for info on poison ivy. And based on Stiles’s description, it was definitely poison ivy and not the far-more-likely poison oak. Because Stiles had the kind of luck that allowed him to find the lone patch of poison ivy in all of California.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose skin feels like there are thousands of fire ants crawling all over. Oh, my God! This is the worst!” He flung both of his shirts to the living room floor and stalked to the bathroom, where he could finally get a good look at his splotchy chest in the mirror. He cringed at the sight. “The. Worst.”

Hours ago, he and Scott were out in the Preserve following up on a very credible report of a Bigfoot sighting. Being a freshly-minted FBI Agent meant Stiles had to investigate stuff like this in the event there were real X-Files somewhere (he was pretty sure they existed, even though his more senior colleagues gave him weird looks whenever he asked). Unfortunately, they never found Bigfoot. But somewhere along the trail, Stiles tripped and fell onto what he thought was a normal bush. The itching didn’t start until the ride back home. It only got worse from there.

Maybe the mere presence of poison ivy in California was the real X-File all along. It’s something that certainly required investigation. By someone who wasn’t him.

Scott followed Stiles into the bathroom, tutting in sympathy once he saw Stiles’s bare chest. But then he cocked his head a little to the side in confusion. “Okay, how the hell did you get rashes under two shirts? It looks like you just stuffed a bunch of poison ivy under them.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles whined. The bathroom was too small for the both of them to comfortably be in there. They weren’t smushed, but it was close. It made Stiles feel funny in ways that had nothing to do with itchy plants.

Stiles made an absent-minded attempt to scratch his chest, but Scott swatted his hand away.

“Ow!”

“Turn around. Let me see your back.”

Stiles did as he was told. His hips knocked into Scott’s on the way around. The funny feeling only intensified.

Scott let out a soft gasp. “Oh, man.”

“What? Is it bad?”

Stiles felt Scott brush his fingers gently across a spot on his back. The incessant itch briefly gave way to an involuntary shiver.

“Um. Well. Let’s just say I’ve seen pepperoni pizzas with clearer complexions.”

“I know you’re used to your patients having four legs, fur, and barking to communicate, but your bedside manner for humans sucks ba-aahhhhhh…” The itching all over Stiles’s body ceased almost immediately.

“How’s my bedside manner, now?” Scott asked a little too smugly.

The sound Stiles made was somewhere between a moan and a sob. “The absolute best. I love you.” Thanks to the pain drain (itch ditch?) Scott so graciously administered, Stiles no longer felt like separating himself from his own skin.

Scott directed Stiles to sit on the edge of the tub, and proceeded to rummage through their medicine cabinet for supplies to clean and disinfect the rashes all over Stiles’s back. This involved touching. Lots of touching. And with the distraction of the horrendous itch reduced, Stiles couldn’t block out the feeling of Scott’s fingers on his bare skin. They felt good roaming all over his exposed back. They also felt good good, and Stiles really didn’t want to have to explain the confused boner he knew was just waiting to pop up at the worst moment. With how his luck was going, that was a distinct possibility.

“Are you okay? Your heart rate is through the roof right now,” Scott said.

Knowing Scott could easily hear the lie he wanted to tell, Stiles decided to go with something a little closer to the truth. “I’ve been better, dude.”

Scott patted his arm. “I’ll get the calamine and finish up back here, then you can do your front. We’ll be through in no time. If the itching flares up again, I can help you out with it, if you want.”

Though grateful for the itch relief, Stiles hated when Scott put that kind of strain on himself. They hadn’t discussed it, but Stiles knew Scott was doing it for the animals at work who needed it. Sometimes that was a lot.

“Thanks, but the calamine should be enough, right? I’ll manage.”

“You sure?” Scott asked as he trailed his fingers along Stiles’s side in a spot he very well knew was incredibly ticklish. “It’s really not a problem for me.”

“Scott, I swear to God, don’t you dare do what I think you’re about to do,” Stiles warned.

“What?” No one did fake innocent like Scott McCall did fake innocent. Stiles loved it.

“Just get the calamine, and no tickling, you dweeb,” Stiles said with no real heat. He couldn’t see Scott, but he knew Scott was smiling to himself.

The lotion was shockingly cold, and Stiles flinched a bit when it made first contact with his raw skin. Between Scott’s hand and Stiles’s back, though, it warmed pretty quickly and started feeling more like a massage than basic first aid. After the shit-tastic day he’d had, Stiles found it was way too easy to just…drift…

“…probably going to blister later, so try your best to keep it clean. You might have to sleep sitting up. If it gets worse, we’ll head straight to the ER. I’ll fill mom in, too. Oh, and you need to wash the clothes you’re wearing. Don’t forget the shirts in the living room. And I’ll wash mine too, just in case.”

Stiles’s brain barely processed any of what Scott said, but it sounded important. “Thanks, Dr. McCall,” he replied.

Scott handed him the lotion and hurried out of the bathroom, presumably to get started on the stuff he had to do.

With Scott gone, Stiles felt like he could finally breathe normally. He made quick work of his torso, and now that he felt significantly better, Stiles very gingerly went to help Scott.

***

Sleep was impossible. Stiles couldn’t find a sitting position comfortable enough without getting calamine lotion everywhere. He couldn’t put a shirt on or a blanket over himself, so add “cold” to the list of reasons why he couldn’t sleep. But that wasn’t the worst part. Every time Stiles closed his eyes, his thoughts went back to Scott’s hands on him, fingers roaming with the lightest pressure, just enough to make Stiles wonder what it would be like if Scott touched him for real. He could always claim curiosity, but who was he kidding? This wasn’t the first time he’d pictured Scott’s fingers brushing a nipple or slipping beneath his boxers’ waistband. A more mature person would deal with the situation head-on. Stiles, however, was not that person.

Sometime around 2am, the calamine wore off. There was no way Stiles would be able to reach his back to reapply the soothing lotion. With the itch rising in intensity with each passing second, and the impulse to scratch becoming harder and harder to fight, Stiles realized he had a very difficult decision to make.

***

Scott’s door was cracked. Stiles peeked in and saw Scott curled up beneath his covers and sleeping like a baby. He really hated having to do this.

“Scott?” he whispered into the dark bedroom.

No response.

He tried again, this time stepping into the room. “Scott? I kinda need you right now, buddy.”

Scott stirred. “Stiles?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry to wake you, but the itch came back, and-”

He couldn’t get the whole sentence out before Scott threw back a corner of his covers and scooted over to make room for Stiles in the bed.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m sticky with this calamine crap, and I don’t want to ruin your sheets.”

“I can wash them later. C’mon, get in here.” Scott patted the empty spot next to him. He wasn’t fully awake and hadn’t sat up, yet, but he still wanted to help. A tiny part of Stiles wondered if he wasn’t taking advantage of Scott’s generosity.

The miserable urge to scratch kept gnawing at him, though.

“Okay.” Scott’s sheets were pleasantly sleep-warm under Stiles’s butt, and his headboard? Surprisingly comfortable. If he had to sleep sitting up, this was definitely the best way to do it.

Scott’s hand found his in the darkness. The itch was gone a few moments later.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles sighed. Relief flooded through his veins and radiated across his skin. For the first time that night, Stiles felt like he could relax and get some sleep.

“Stiles?” Scott asked, giving his hand a little squeeze.

“Hmm?”

“No more Bigfoot tips, okay?”

Of all Scott’s touches so far, this one had to be Stiles’s favorite, and if it meant not getting to fall asleep with the soft weight of Scott’s hand in his, Stiles wasn’t so sure he could agree to that.

“Sure thing,” Stiles said knowing full well he didn’t mean it.

Scott burrowed a little deeper into his covers, never letting go of Stiles’s hand. “Finally got you in my bed, though,” he slurred into his pillow before letting out a soft snore.

Yawning, Stiles felt his eyelids droop. Blissful sleep was just around the cor-

Stiles’s head whipped around. Wait, what did Scott just say…?

#foreversciles #sciles #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #mobile users there's a cut #my fic #thank you bigfoot #lozenger8

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playfullyevil · 7 years ago

Text

Walkabout chapter 3/3

The last part of my fic for The Magnus Archives

Jonathan is in trouble, what happens now? (aka: I am bad at summaries)

As always thanks to erikaangelchild for the beta!

**Edit** so I initially posted the whole thing as one big post but when I woke up the next day it had been cut off after the first chapter. Now that post has the whole thing again? idk so this may be a repeat, I don’t even know anymore.

Returning to consciousness was not a straightforward journey for Jon, he bobbed near the surface of awareness, brushing against it, but couldn’t quite seem to break through. A slow drip of water echoed in what sounded to be a large space from very far away before retreating back into nothingness. He thought he may have opened his eyes at one point. There was dim light and soft shapes that stubbornly refused to focus but they didn’t last long. Trying to concentrate was exhausting, his meager grip on reality slipped and all was again darkness.

He might have been laying down but couldn’t quite tell in which direction “up” is hiding. Maybe there was movement from somewhere around him but that could be his own breathing. His thoughts were beginning to come into focus. Though they were disorganized as the archive he managed.

Used to manage. The thought came stumbling in a bit after the last. Jon chose to take comfort that he was able to correct an error in his own thinking before fading out again.

Moving any part of his body seemed like more effort than he could bear at the moment. Even the thought of opening his eyes seemed a herculean task. He settled on passive observation to gather information. The dripping sound was back. So, not deaf. Put that in the column labeled “good news”, he remarked dryly to himself. Ah, sarcasm, there’s another for column A.

The dripping wasn’t loud or overly frequent but it was steady. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t wet, more good news. The air smelled damp to a degree that lined up with the water sound. It took effort but his thoughts were beginning to coalesce in a more orderly fashion. The desire to slip back into unawareness beckoned to Jon but he pushed past it.

Okay, so musty smell and dripping water. Sewer? No, a sewer would smell worse. Basement? Maybe. Oh Christ! Please not the tunnels! Have I been brought back so the Not-Them could finish the job?

The thought prompted a sharp gasp of air which wheeled his attention back to his own body.

His sense of awareness in space was much less confused than earlier. Jon was not lying down as he initially thought. He was seated, well slumped, in a high backed wooden chair. His head lolled back and to the left, nestled between the chair back and his shoulder. His arms rested on those of the chair, and his legs were planted on the floor roughly shoulder width apart. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions but the act of actually moving to do something about it still seemed still beyond his grasp.

He thought about moving without actually succeeding in doing so for some time. He tried to focus on twitching his hand or stretching out his leg but his mind drifted back toward something akin to sleep before his muscles would obey. Eventually, he managed to crack open his eyes. The light was diffuse and the world was out of focus, but in a familiar way. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Unfortunate but not incapacitating. His eyesight wasn’t that bad compared to some, just enough to give the world a soft focus like what they used in the old Star Trek reruns he saw as a child. After a few blinks he was able to focus on what appeared to be the ceiling of a cellar of some kind.

His face and mouth itched enough that the urge to scratch finally overrode the weight of inertia he seemed to be under. His hand twitched in the direction of his face but never reached its destination. Not for lack of trying though. His wrist was secured firmly to the chair. Both were. Legs too he discovered a moment later. Damn.

Jon struggled to lift his head and get a better look at his situation. The blood that had collected in the back of his skull drained readily as gravity took over. The world tilted making him lightheaded and a bit nauseous. The sensation reminded him exactly why he hadn’t touched tequila since university. Facing forward, he focused on what appeared to be a door and took several steadying breaths while he waited for the room to cease its swaying.

Stomach and brain mostly settled, Jon took stock of the room, at least what he could see from his vantage point. The area in front of him was about three meters across. The wall was old brick but to Jon’s relief, they were red and not the black brick that lined the tunnels under the Institute. A rough hewn door was placed centrally in the wall. Light filtered in from somewhere above and behind him. He had no way of knowing how far the room extended behind him but if he had to guess, he was in what was once a coal storage room similar to the one in his grandmother’s basement.

Looking down at himself in the low light he saw his arms and legs secured to those of the chair by means of silver duct tape. At some point while he was out his coat had been removed, but it was not so cold for that to be a problem. Jon pulled at his bonds to no avail. He was likely to have bruises show up in a couple of days if he wasn’t careful.

If I live that long.

A rue laugh huffed out of him. The skin around his mouth still itched and burned a bit but he wasn’t gagged. The thought of yelling for help occurred to him. Judging from how thick the walls appeared and the lack of outside noises filtering down from above, it was unlikely that anyone but his captor would hear his cries for help.

“If screaming could help me, I doubt I would be capable of doing it at present.” The words came out dry, in a way that pricked at the back of his throat uncomfortably. His attempt at clearing it sent him into an outright coughing fit. A wave of dizziness passed over him as he coughed, but nothing as severe as earlier. When it cleared, he still felt a bit off but less akin to his idiot uni binge drinking, and more like two ciders on an empty stomach. Whatever it was seemed to be clearing out of his system at a decent pace.

Small favors, I suppose.

Jon swallowed carefully and sighed, “Well I’m not just going to sit here and wait for death or…” Sighing again he set about pulling free one of his hands. The left one seemed to have a bit more give. Working methodically, he felt he was making some minor progress at least. The tape around his wrist seemed to be stretching a little.

Maybe, just maybe… Tucking his thumb as much as he could Jon winced as he did his best to squeeze his hand from its restraint.

The sound of someone descending creaking stairs stopped him cold.

Jon gave another frantic tug and let out a pained hiss of breath when the tape refused to give way. It was no good, with enough time he might have been able to work free one of his hands but he no longer had that time. The footsteps finished their decent and the crisp sound of hard soled shoes rang across the stone floor as they approached the door.

Bottling down on the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Jon closed his eyes and resumed the closest thing he could recall to the position from which he had awoken. Doing his best to even out his breathing, he waited. There was a click from behind the door and through closed eyes, he could tell a light had been switched on.

More sounds, a ring of keys, the turning of a lock, a door opening. Whoever it was stepped through and shut the door behind them but did not seem to lock it. Jon couldn’t remember if there had been a lock on this side of the door, he hadn’t thought to check.

A disappointed sigh came from the air in front of him. “I know you’re awake, Jon. You can stop this play acting.”

He considered continuing to feign unconsciousness simply to spite the man whose voice he identified as belonging to his former boss. Ultimately, Jon decided against provoking a suspected murderer. There didn’t seem to be an obvious threat in the statement but his voice was firm and discouraged argument.

Cracking open his eyes, Elias Bouchard, head of the Magnus Institute, stood framed against the wooden door. At first glance, he may have appeared casual but Jon knew that every move Elias made had an undercurrent of power and control. He wore creased brown trousers paired with matching jacket. Above a dark blue V-necked sweater, a white shirt collar peaked out, secured at the neck by a knotted, paisley tie. No signs of the day’s previous struggle rumpled his immaculate clothes. He stood, back straight, and in his left hand he held a glass of water with a pair of glasses hooked between his fingers.

“That’s better,” he said with an edge of satisfaction and took a step towards Jon.

Jon flinched away, pressing himself as far back in the chair as he could. The sudden movement overbalanced him and he began to tip backward. Elias’s hand shot out and grabbed the chair back before it could fall, the sleeve of his jacket brushed against Jon’s ear.

Jon tugged again at his bindings, trying to squirm away from the man now looming over him while Elias settled the chair firmly on the floor.

“Shhhh, Jon, calm down.” Elias’s hand moved from the chair to Jon’s shoulder. He squeezed in what may have been an attempt at comfort or what could have been a threat. Judging by how close the hand was to his neck and how firm his grip was, Jon really couldn’t be sure either way. Elias’s eyes met his and he cocked his head ever so slightly, and gave a small smile. Again, Jon was unable to discern intended comfort or threat.

Whether from the touch, the words, the eye contact, or simply paralyzed by blind fear Jon stilled.

Elias gave Jon’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing him and stepping back.

“Elias, what is going on? Where am I and why have- “

“Would you like some water?” the older man cut him off, “You must be thirsty.”

The words had a genuine sounding kindness to them that made Jon pause. At the mention of thirst, he swallowed and coughed once. “Um… yes actually, I…” His eyes shifted from Elias to around the room before landing once again on his former boss. “What are you playing at? What is all… this?” he gave a halfhearted tug against the chair to punctuate his words.

“I couldn’t have you running off again before we had a proper chance to chat.”

“I, uh…What?”

“Would you have come willingly if I had asked nicely?”

“Probably not.”

“Precisely.”

Elias produced a knife from his pocket and opened it with a click making Jon’s heart skip a beat.

“Do calm down,” Elias scolded as if addressing a particularly disobedient puppy. “You’ll need a free hand if you want to drink the water. I’m not going to feed you like an infant.”

The older man bent down and slid the sharp looking blade between Jon’s wrist and the chair it was held to. A quick motion sliced through the bunched tape and Jon’s left hand was free. Elias took a smooth step back before Jon had more than the briefest flicker of a thought to make a grab for the knife.

His newly freed hand throbbed slightly as the blood returned to full circulation. Red marks on his wrist stood out in stark contrast to his pale flesh. He flexed his hand experimentally and shook out his arm once before bringing it up to scratch his face. It was more tender than he thought and he winced when he came across what seemed to be a sore on the side of his mouth.

“Chemical burn,” Elias responded to the unasked question, “chloroform has a rather low vapor pressure. An unfortunate side effect but nothing too severe, should heal in a couple of days.”

The hand holding the knife had been lowered but he made no move to put it away. “Are we going to have a problem?”

Jon fixed Elias with an incredulous look but managed to bite back the words threatening to spill out of him. Are we going to have a fucking problem!? You kidnapped me! I’m tied to a goddamn chair! Of course, we have a problem!

“Any new problems at least.” Elias amended, reading the look on Jon’s face. He held up the glass of water, not quite offering it just yet. Not a drop had been spilled despite Elias having moved suddenly to catch his falling chair. Of course, Elias would be the kind of person who could carry a cup full to the brim down a flight of stairs without a drop ending up on the saucer.

Wincing as he passed his hand over his mouth again he managed to grind out a, “No, I suppose not.”

Anger was replacing his previous fear and the impulse to resist at every possible moment was strong. The picture Jon’s logical brain was piecing together however, implied that Elias didn’t want him dead. Not yet at least. Elias wanted something, whether as an agent of Beholding or as something else, only time would tell. But that meant that he had time to pick his moment later.

The older man fixed Jon with the full force of his gaze, scrutinizing him. A few moments later he stepped forward to hold the water within Jon’s reach.

It was warm to the touch and lighter than he had expected. Plastic, not glass as he had originally assumed. That definitely lowered its value as any kind of weapon. Jon caught a faint hint of lemon and some kind of sweetness when he sniffed at the liquid. Was he trying to hide some kind of poison? Jon met Elias’s gaze over the glass and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

“Really, Jon? Why would I poison you? If I wanted you dead you never would have woken up in the first place. You had a rather nasty coughing fit while you were unconscious. It seemed you could do with a bit of honey lemon water. No one is forcing you to drink it, dump it on the floor for all I care.”

The thought of throwing the drink in Elias’s face was quite appealing. Anything to rumple the older man’s proper appearance and bring him down a peg or two. It wouldn’t be worth it though. As glorious as the mental image was, truth be told, Jon’s throat was dry and sore. If he threw this away it was doubtful he would be getting more anytime soon.

Jon raised the glass to his lips took an experimental sip. The warm drink was indeed soothing on his sore throat. He paused, waiting to see if his previous nausea or drowsiness returned. When none did he continued drinking.

Jon nodded to Elias, “Are those my glasses?”

“They are. Would you like them?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Elias stepped forward once again, extending the glasses. It was a bit awkward with only one hand to work with but eventually Jon managed to get them settled on his face. The world came into focus, giving him access to a few more details. Elias’s crisp suit had dark blue pinstripes matching the sweater he wore. But more interestingly, a red mark stood out on Elia’s temple. It would seem Jon had managed to clip him with a wild punch or an elbow during the attack. Seeing that the older man hadn’t made it out completely unscathed caused Jon to smile slightly.

If Elias noticed the change in expression, he did not react.

“Jon,” he began, “you are not a stupid man but you certainly have been behaving as one lately.”

“Says the psychotic killer.” Jon spat, glancing toward the knife.

“Rather messy work were I to guess, and not something undertaken lightly.” Elias said darkly, contemplating the knife in his hand briefly before returning his gaze to the Archivist. “And I’ll thank you not to interrupt me.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Elias but did not speak.

“As I said, you’re not a stupid man. However, bumbling your way through morning rush hour…” Elias made a tsk noise as he folded the knife with a practiced motion and returned it to his pocket. “You nearly walked right into a trap.”

“It would seem I did walk into a trap!” he used his free hand to gesture to the basement cell they currently inhabited.

“Though it may not look it, it was in fact, a rescue.”

Jon scoffed. “In that case I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I get myself out of here.” He began to work at the tape holding his right arm to the chair.

“Jon,” Elias warned, “Don’t”

The command gave him pause, but a heartbeat later he resumed work.

“You will be released when we are finished here, but until then-“ Elias seized Jon’s wrist with surprising strength. “This is for your protection as much as mine, we are worried you are going to hurt yourself.”

Jon managed to twist free from Elias’s grip and land a punch to the side of his head. The older man stumbled back with a cry of surprise and pain. Jon scrabbled at the tape wrapped around his still bound wrist. It was too bunched from his earlier escape attempts to tear easily.

He had managed to work a small tear started along one edge when a hand caught him across the face, stunning him. His ears rung, his head swam, and he tasted blood. Then Elias had him by the throat and pulled him forward.

“Jonathan Sims, I am not an unreasonable man but you seem determined to test my limits” Every syllable was clipped, clear, and enunciated with precision. Only the strong pulse of the vein on his neck, of which Jon had a close-up view, betrayed anger in Elias’s calm demeanor.

Blood pounding in his ears Jon grasped at the hand around his throat, desperately to pry free the squeezing fingers. No good, darkness was creeping at the edges of his vision, he had to try something else. Abandoning his previous plan of attack, he decided to go for the eyes. Elias was fast, almost as if he had anticipated the move and with his free hand batted away Jon’s attack.

Releasing his throat, Elias grabbed Jon’s arm in both hands and slammed it back against the chair’s wooden arm sending a shock of pain up his elbow. Through great gasps of air and a subsequent coughing fit, he was dimly aware of the older man reaching behind the chair to retrieve a roll of tape. Using one hand to press down on Jon’s now quite sore wrist he wrapped the tape around several times, much more tightly than before. After a quick look at the state of it, the process was repeated on his right arm.

Jon’s hands throbbed as the bindings began cutting off circulation. He grunted and pulled at them to no avail before sagging back down in the chair, defeated.

The commotion had mussed Elias more than a bit. His hair in every which way, jacket out of place, and tie askew. There had still been a bit of water in the glass and what was left had managed to spill down the knee of his trouser legs. The placement and quantity weren’t all that evocative of having pissed himself but Jon took what little comfort he could at his former boss’s expense.

The older man undid his top button and began pulling at the knot of his tie. Taking piece of paisley fabric off, he folded it and stowed it away in the jacket’s inside pocket. He brushed the residual water from his slacks then shed his jacket and folded it over one arm. He raked his hand through his hair and took a breath to compose himself.

The end result was the most casually dressed he thinks he’s ever seen Elias. Tim had once made a joke that the Bouchard children must all born wearing perfectly tailored suits. Martin had chimed in with, “Bespoke Babies, by Bouchard” It had actually managed to illicit half a rare laugh out of Jon. That was back before Prentiss, when the archival team were all on speaking terms.

“Are you finished having your tantrum?” Elias sighed.

Jon glowered and shifted in his chair to a more comfortable position. Flexing his bound hands, he said nothing but reluctantly nodded once.

“Good.” He regarded the man seated before him for moment, seeming to look almost through him. “You need to be more careful. All it took was a few notes from Nikolai Denikin’s steam organ to send you flying away in a panic.”

“How do you know about- “

“How do you think, Jon? Watching is what we do. You were reasonably well hidden from them before but after today, I fear they will be narrowing their focus on you. The archives are protected but I cannot let you return to them just yet. We need those statements.”

“What? I don’t- What-? The statements?” Jon was suddenly at a loss. “And what makes you think I would want to ever set foot in that cursed building again!?”

“You’re the Archivist,” Elias said without a trace of irony, “you belong there. It is more a home to you than you have ever had or ever will.”

It was something he knew deep down but was unwilling to admit. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, marked by Beholding, belongs in the Archives. No matter what he does, how he tries to fight against it, he will always return to the Archive. That realization hit him like a physical weight and he blinked back tears.

“As for the missing statements, they have a way of finding their way back to the Archivist even if was an Archivist who initially stole them. For some reason the statements we need the most are being prevented from returning to the Archive itself. Once you left, lo and behold, they started showing up at your door.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Once you stop fighting and accept your role you will be able to answer that for yourself.”

“Stop fighting…”

“Yes. At least with us, Jon. For now. Larger things are coming and we need you with us on this one.”

“The Unknowing?”

“The Unknowing. Gertrude hid things away from us, things we need for the coming battles. Those statements give us the shape of what we’re up against.” Urgency crept into Elias’s voice as he spoke. “Pieces are moving sooner than we anticipated and it is crucial we see the whole playing field before the fight begins.”

“So, you need me to stay in hiding, waiting for breadcrumbs from my dead predecessor.” Jon leaned forward, tape digging into his arms, “My predecessor, whom you murdered in cold blood.”

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. There are larger things at stake than the life of any one person,” his voice hardened, “even if they are the Archivist.” His eyes met with Jon’s and held them there.

“Would you like some time to think on this?”

The two men stayed that way for some time, eyes locked on one another. Jon held is gaze for as long as he was able but in the end, blinked first. Elias looked resigned as he pulled out the knife from his pocket.

The Archivist held his face impassive as the older man approached.

The knife opened with a click.

Elias crouched, bringing himself to eye level with Jon. The Archivist closed his eyes and waited.

There was a sharp tug at his left leg, then his right. Jon opened his eyes to see Elias evaluating the much tighter tape restraining his arms. The older man seemed to contemplate this for a moment before folding away his knife and getting to work peeling up the end, unwinding the tape from around Jon’s arm. The last few loops had dug in deeply and he hissed out a noise of pain as they came away.

Before he could pull his arm away completely from the chair, Elias placed a firm, but oddly gentle hand on the back of his hand. “Not yet.” He made quick work of the other arm before stepping back and nodding.

Jon’s hands ached and throbbed in time with his beating heart as circulation in his fingers was restored. His left wrist was especially tender and he took turns massaging one then the other.

“Am I free to go?”

“Yes. Of course, you are still wanted by the police so I would advise against returning to your flat. I did however, take the liberty and you will find some clothes and cash upstairs”

The thought of Elias rummaging around his flat was not a pleasant one. Especially after the man had framed him for murder.

“Detective Tonnor drew her own conclusion on the matter. I never suggested you were the culprit.”

How did he-?

“You’re very easy to read, Jon. Don’t worry, we’ll work on that when you get back.”

Jon stood to meet Elias’s gaze. “’When I get back?’ How long do you suppose that will be?”

“That depends on how many statements need to find their way back to you. We’ll be in touch.”

“If I can’t go home and I can’t go back to the Magnus Institute, where am I supposed to go?”

“Back to Georgina Barker’s, of course. Do clean yourself up a bit before you go, you know how she worries. Lucky for you it is cold enough for long sleeved shirts.” He said, glancing down and the angry marks on Jon’s wrists.

The Archivist’s hands balled into fists and he imagined punching the smug expression off Elias Bouchard’s face. He forced it down and made himself open his hands.

Elias raised his eyebrows and seemed genuinely pleased. It was unsettling.

“I don’t want to put her in danger. Is there any way to guarantee her safety?”

“Almost certainly not. No one is ever safe, especially with what is coming. What I can tell you is that she is in no more danger than any other person in the city. Provided you don’t lead them directly to her door.

“Keep an eye out, you’re better at spotting these kinds of things than you know. I would never have hired you otherwise. This won’t be the first time they try to flush you out. They want you to act without thinking. Don’t let them dictate your behavior. You were lucky I got to you before they did.”

Jon scoffed and continued rubbing his wrist, “Yeah, lucky.”

“You have no idea how lucky.” Elias fixed Jon with an intense stare. “I did what I had to do quickly and quietly. If you had managed to cause a scene the both of us, along with anyone else who’s attention you called, would be off somewhere having our flesh peeled away with excruciating slowness all while they render the fat from our still living bodies. Believe me, they can extend that process for months. Every moment an agony, unable to move, unable to sleep, unable to scream.”

That stopped Jon cold. The two men stood in uncomfortable silence.

“Do keep an eye on cats.” Elias suddenly remarked. “They don’t react favorably to aspects of the Stranger. Think of them as an… early warning signal.”

“Okay…?” Jon responded, off balance as the tension bled away. “Are there any lying in wait nearby? Aspects, not cats.”

“Not here, they seem to be focusing on the south side for now. They will probably disperse soon enough, they typically don’t have the patience for a drawn-out hunt.”

“Comforting.” Jon remarked dryly.

“We take what little comfort where we can.” Elias shifted his jacket to his other arm before opening the door to the small room and walking out. “I need to get back to the Institute. You’ll see yourself out?”

“Fine, sure.”

Elias nodded, turned, and walked away. As he climbed the stairs. Jon could swear he saw a hint of something metallic tucked in the waistband at the small of the other man’s back.

The Archivist, and that’s what he is no matter how he struggles against it, stretched and turned to survey the room now that he’d been freed from that damn chair. His limbs ached from sitting on its hard surface for who knows how long.

Off to the side of the wooden chair, he spotted his coat sitting atop what appeared to be a large roll of industrial garbage bags. He tried not to think too hard about it as he retrieved his coat. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards overhead and the sound of a door opening then closing drifted down from above. Elias had left. Time to retrieve whatever clothes and money are waiting for him upstairs before doing the same.

As his hand hovered over the switch to the light for that small room, Jon remembered Martin describing how he found the previous Archivist. A small square room, underground, in a wooden chair, covered in dust, three gunshots to the chest. He suppressed a shudder. It would seem Gertrude Robinson’s chat with Elias Bouchard ended differently than his own.

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, flipped the switch and turned to leave. He had work to do.

#The Magnus Archives #i made a thing!#fic

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notwithout-mymuse · 7 years ago

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Fic: 2001

For Robert Week 2017 - Day 3: Free Day

The story of one warm summer’s day.

Robert/Steven (aka farmhand boy), sort of a prequel to this. Warning: contains mentions of parental abuse.

Apologies to @dasoni for teasing her with this one 😊

It’s the hottest week of the year. The sun is high and bright in the sky, the air is stuffy, and even the slight wind feels warm. As Robert wanders the perimeter of one of the fields, his hand skims the top of the tall, dry grass, and he can already feel the slight itch of sunburn starting to develop on the back of his neck.

He can hear the water splashing on the concrete floor inside one of the currently empty barns and follows the sound, hesitating at the door just out of sight. Steven is inside, hosing down the grubby floor inside, his shirt off as he swelters in the late August heat.

Robert’s dad had hired Steven earlier in the summer to help out on the farm, and since then the two of them had become good friends. But lately Robert had been feeling strangely uncomfortable and nervous around Steven in a way that he couldn’t really explain.

He feels it again now, as he stands just out of sight, clutching tight onto the bottle he’s carrying, as he watches the young labourer work through a gap in the barn’s wooden walls. There’s a second gap in the roof too, that allows the sunlight to stream inside, and Robert can’t stop watching the way it falls on Steven, highlighting his bare, sweaty back, where the muscles shift and strain as he works.

That odd feeling intensifies, Robert’s stomach flipping and a heat creeping through his body that has nothing to do with the weather.

The plastic bottle Robert has carried down from the house slips from his sweaty palm, falling against the wooden wall with a loud thunk, and he immediately panics.

“Hello? Is someone there?” Steven calls out, pausing in his work to push his sweaty brown hair off his forehead.

Don’t be stupid, Robert tells himself as he reaches to pick up the bottle, you live here, you have every right to be wandering around.

“It’s just me!” Robert calls out, as he walks in, hoping that his red cheeks will be attributed to the sun. “I…er, though you might need a drink.”

“Oh! You’re the best Robbie.” Steven says gratefully. Usually Robert hates that nickname, and insists on being called Robert, or Rob to his family, but somehow with Steven it feels different.

He takes the bottle of water that Robert offers him and pulls off the lid to chug the cool liquid. In fact he gulps it a little too quickly, as some of the water starts escaping his mouth, running in rivulets down his chin and neck, all the way down to his bare chest.

“You ok?” Steven asks as he pulls the bottle away from his mouth, and Robert suddenly becomes painfully aware that he was staring at those droplets of water.

“Yeah, fine.” He replies quickly, wishing his voice didn’t sound quite so strained.

An odd, almost suspicious look passes over Steven’s face, and Robert rushes to change the subject.

“How’re you getting on with the cleaning?” He asks, grateful that his voice sounds more normal now.

“Yeah alright, pretty much done. Actually I was just thinking of taking a break, wanna join me?”

They spend the next half an hour sharing a packet of biscuits that Steven pulls out of his bag, chatting about everything and nothing.

“Did you want to hang out tonight?” Steven says suddenly, when their conversation lulls.

“Erm, like, just us…” Robert says, stumbling over his words a little. This is new for them.

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple of beers stashed away near the house, we could just chill for a bit. If you can get away from your dad, that is…”

Robert and Jack have been arguing a lot more lately, mostly over him working on the farm, but he hadn’t realised that Steven had noticed.

“Yeah. Yeah I’ll be there.”

Robert pretends to go to bed after tea that evening, waiting until his Dad heads to the pub before retracing his steps down to the barn. The sun is setting now, but the air is still a little humid, grasshoppers scratching around in the grass.

Steven is already there, sitting with his back up against the wall as he watches the sun set over the distant hills. He’s wearing jeans and a white t-shirt now, the fabric pulled tight over his broad shoulders as he holds out an open beer bottle for Robert to take as he sits down.

The first half an hour is normal enough, as they just talk. But then the conversation tails off, and Robert finds himself watching the last of the sun’s rays highlight Steven’s strong cheekbones.

Robert doesn’t know who leans in first, or whose breath hitches most, but all of a sudden Steven’s dry lips are pressing against him, and that squirming feeling in his stomach explodes into something much more intense.

It’s only when they pull apart that the panic starts to set in.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I can go…” Robert stutters breathlessly, his brain screaming at him what have you done, you idiot!

But before he can stand and run away, Steven’s hand wraps firmly around his wrist.

“It’s ok, I don’t mind, not at all. Unless you don’t want…”

“No, I do.” Robert says, only realising how true those words are as they leave his mouth.

After that he loses all sense of time, all rational thoughts lost to soft, experimental kisses that taste of cheap beer, and tentative calloused hands on the side of his face.

Once the sun is down, there is very little light this far down the farm, which causes Steven to pull back at last.

“It’s getting late… I should probably go.” He says, making no move to leave.

“You don’t have to…” Robert replies, throat dry, not wanting to lose this feeling just yet. “Dad will still be at the pub, Victoria will be asleep, and Andy won’t disturb us if we’re… you know… in my room.”

Robert’s heart jumps in his chest when Steven immediately stands, reaching out a hand to pull Robert up and towards the farmhouse.

It all goes wrong. Of course it does.

By midnight Robert is curled up in bed in a foetal position, his sense of shame stinging as much as his bruises. The tears falling as the sound of his father’s fury rings in his ears, wondering if he would ever see Steven again.

But before all that, Robert walks back up to his house on a warm summer’s night, a handsome boy holding his hand, and a smile on his face.

And for that short while, he feels free.

#robert sugden #robertweek2017 #rw2017 #robertlove #dasoni #fic: 2001 #beth's writing

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tisfan · 7 years ago

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All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room | Chapter Three: (You’re) Gonna Sing the Words Wrong | Chapter Four: You Make Me Live | Chapter Five: Count Only Blue Cars

Chapter Six: Reignite Your Memory

Hey, wake up, your eyes weren't open wide For the last couple of miles you've been swerving from side to side You're gonna make me spill my beer, If you don't learn how to steer Passenger side, passenger side, I don't like riding on the passenger side --Passenger Side, Wilco

“Okay, so we have a spare,” Sam said, in that voice. Steve was getting ridiculously familiar with that voice. The one that vaguely reminded him of his mother, dead so very long ago. She’d had that same sort of fond, hands on her hips, look what this idiot has done, tone.

“I’m sensing a but, here,” Steve said. He set out the road flares.

“You’ve got one following you around,” Sam said. He leaned against the open trunk and gave Steve a long look, raking him up and down. “I mean, you could be one of those rap guys' girlfriends.”

“What?” Steve crinkled up his forehead.

“He means your ass is huge, Stevie,” Buck piped up. He was still poking around in the trunk and through their gear that they’d unloaded, as if extra looking would make a miracle happen.

“Nice, though,” Sam pointed out. “If you like that kinda ass. If that was the sort of ass you’d want to tap--”

Buck grabbed a crowbar out of the trunk and waved it threateningly in Sam’s direction, then scoffed, disgusted. “It’s a rap song, Stevie. Jesus Christ, you been awake like five years, ain’t you paid attention t’ nothin’?”

“Been a little busy saving the world, Buck,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. He manfully resisted the urge to lean against the car as well so that Sam couldn’t see the ass he was commenting about. Steve wasn’t quite sure what was going on there; Sam had never flirted with Steve before. He had to assume, therefore, that Sam was doing it just to get under Buck’s skin.

(mobile users, beware the read more, or read the entire fic on A03)

Buck rubbed at the side of his face with his middle finger. “Too busy t’ listen t’ music? Too busy t’ read any books? Stevie, you ain’t livin’, you’re just survivin’.”

He was still working on a response to that with more class than “fuck you, too, pal” when Sam added, “He ain’t lyin’, Steve. You had a whole list of stuff you wanted to try, when we met. You ever make it through that list? You ever figure out what makes you happy?”

“Before we start on a general critique of my life, you think you can tell me what’s distressing about the tire?”

“No jack,” Buck said, succinctly. “Not a problem, really.”

Sam stopped giving Steve the “I’m waiting” look to flatly stare at Bucky. “What’s not a problem?”

“Car only weighs in ‘bout four thousand pounds,” Buck said, reasonably. “An’ you got two supersoldiers, s’long as you know how to change a damn tire--” Buck raised an eyebrow as if he wouldn’t be shocked to discover that Sam was, indeed, lacking in that skill “--we can hold up th’ car for a bit. Jus’ make sure you put on th’ parking brake.”

“You’re going to hold. Up. The. Car?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you pick up a car, Steve?” Sam asked, incredulous.

“Can? Yeah, I think so,” Steve said. He hadn’t ever exactly checked. There had been a whole list of tests that Erskine wanted to perform on him, after Project Rebirth went through; Steve had gotten a look at the list, and with a little concentration, even now, he could bring those things to mind. Some of them had been repetitions of tests that he’d done before they’d injected him, so there could be a direct comparison. How much did he weigh, how much could he deadlift. How long could he hold his breath? How far could he throw a five pound object?

There’d been other things, under Erksine’s heading of For Science that Steve wasn’t too sure of, either. Average sperm count. Refractory time. Performance issues? Steve rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure there weren’t a group of scientists in a basement somewhere who still jerked it to his file. There’d been some photographs taken for that line of questioning, too. Steve wondered if Stark would be interested in helping him get those files back so Steve could burn them, or if Stark already had them. Steve’s mouth twitched a little.

“More a matter of getting th’ proper leverage,” Buck was saying when Steve tuned back into the conversation. “Ain’t like a car’s made t’ be picked up by the door--”

“--or the steering wheel,” Sam interrupted.

“If I said I’s sorry ‘bout that, would you let it die?” Bucky demanded.

“Ain’t likely,” Sam responded.

“Good. Because I ain’t sorry,” Bucky said, his mouth turning up at the corner, just a little. “But yeah, if Stevie an’ I can get a good grip, we can lift the car, no problem.”

“Yeah,” Steve added in, “When Bucky says don’t make him turn this car around, he means it.”

“You can pick up a car?” Sam turned that question on Bucky, this time. Repeating it, like he didn’t believe them. “Like, the whole car?”

“You wanna show him, pal, or should I?” Steve asked.

Buck sighed. He dropped to the ground, slithered under the car, and with a grunt, pushed the car up. He was balancing it, feet on the undercarriage, hands spread wide to hold the weight. “This ain’t the best position t’ lift for a tire, change, but yeah, I can lift the whole fuckin’ car.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam demanded. “I mean, fuck the muscles, man, you both got muscles, but how do your bones take that kind of stress.”

“Very well, thank you,” Steve said. “Put the car down and stop showing off.”

“Pick the car up, Bucky,” Buck said. “Put the car down, Bucky. Sheesh.”

“That should not even be possible,” Sam said.

Steve shrugged. He wasn’t the science guy; even though he’d had a pretty good brain before Erskine had started his experiments -- his dismal grades in school had reflected his many illnesses rather than his intelligence -- and afterward, he’d gotten a memory like a steel trap and the ability to see and analyze patterns, but he still didn’t understand Erskine’s thought patterns that had made Project Rebirth a success. He only knew what he could do, and half the time he didn’t even know that until he tried it.

He rather suspected Buck had been thoroughly tested. That his abilities were as well known to him as they had been to Hydra. He didn’t ask about that.

There were a lot of things that happened to Buck under Hydra’s control that Steve didn’t want to ask about. He was pretty sure those things would scar his soul.

It’s enough. We got him back.

He hadn’t said a word, but Buck seemed to have also developed some sort of ability to read Steve’s mind. Or maybe it was a gift, from having known each other so long. Buck put the car back on the ground, clawed his way out from under it, and patted Steve on the shoulder. “I’m okay, pal,” Buck said.

“Yeah, okay,” Steve responded, blowing out a breath. “Where do you want me to stand while we change this tire?”

Buck showed him where the jack-grooves were. “Lift there. An’ don’t pull too hard, or the a-frame’ll come right out an’ then we’ll be in trouble.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Steve said, mildly.

“Get ready t’ change the tire, fast as you can.”

Sam loosened the bolts and on a count of three, Steve and Buck lifted the car about a foot and a half to let Sam work on it.

The car wasn’t heavy. Not the way Steve had thought about heavy, back in the day when he weighed about ninety pounds with his clothes on, but it had also been a long, long time since Steve had felt anything heavy, or anything like muscle-strain.

The car was… just awkward. Holding it at a precision height, knees bent in a half-squat, fingers with the pads flat against the metal because he didn’t want to dig his nails into the material and rip it free. And knowing he probably could do those things, if he wanted to.

Had he ever, really, cut loose? Analyzed what he could do, just to see, and not because lives would be lost if he didn’t actually manage to jump across the factory floor while it was on fire?

“Don’t get any bright ideas, pal,” Bucky said. “I ain’t fixin’ to go fetch this piece o’ shit if you throw it halfway down the road, there.”

It's an itch we know we are gonna scratch Gonna take a while for this egg to hatch But wouldn't it be beautiful Here we are, we're at the beginning We haven't fucked yet, but my heads spinning Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you Why can't I speak whenever I talk about you It's inevitable, it's a fact that we're gonna get down to it So tell me Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you --Why Can’t I, Liz Phair

Supersoldiers were fucking show offs, Sam thought, resentment burning just a little in the back of his brain.

Wasn’t it bad enough that they were both drop-over gorgeous? Brilliant in combat, expert tacticians. Barnes was a marksman, beyond what any training should have compensated for. Sam had seen him take a shot without even looking, using his ears like some sort of sonar, triangulation shit, and how was that even fair?

And then there was the shared hivemind thing they had going on. Sam wondered if they even noticed that they were going it; sentences flowed from one of them to the other, even if Barnes was only commenting or agreeing with the subtle tips of his expression.

Sam was starting to feel seriously outclassed.

At least neither of the fuckers could fly.

Of course, neither could Sam, at the moment. His pack was still back at the Avenger’s Compound, waiting to the Accords celebration, waiting for a signature to say that everything Sam did for the rest of his life was going to be under the jurisdiction of most of the world.

He still wasn’t sure it was a good plan; in fact, Sam would be willing to say it was a pretty bad damn decision.

First off, as someone whose great-greats had come over to the Americas, collared and registered on a document as property, he didn’t have what you’d call happy, shiny feelings about being on any damn sort of registry, super-hero or otherwise.

Second, while Sam didn’t have any direct evidence that General Ross was under Hydra control, the man was absolutely not to be trusted. The number of human rights violations in the Sokovia Accords were staggering; and Ross just happened to have access to an enormous, submersible prison that no one knew about, right up until he threw half the Avengers into it without due process? Yeah, that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Sam continued to brood about the Accords while he worked the hubcap off the tire, listing all his arguments and reasons; much more articulate in his head than he ever managed to be in person, but one of the things Stark had done -- and Sam would probably rather cut his own tongue out than admit that he was relieved about it -- was get a whole team of lawyers on it. Just because the Accords were a global initiative didn’t mean that the United States Constitution didn’t apply. Just because it was convenient didn’t make it law.

He was going to lose his fucking mind when Steve reached out and grabbed the tire with one hand, working the torque backward against the crowbar when Sam was having a little trouble getting one of the bolts loose. Sam had to restrain himself from smacking Captain fucking America with a crowbar, because really? Really, Sam could change a goddamn tire on his own, without any--

Holy hell, how the fuck? Even?

Steve’s bicep bulged attractively.

“It was rusty,” Sam explained, like normal guys never had trouble with pickle jars and wrenches. But he got the flat off, and the spare on, and then Steve dropped the car. Sam jumped back, the crowbar clattering against the pavement and bouncing under the car.

There was a terrible shrieking sound of metal on metal, a tearing, grinding noise that set Sam’s teeth on edge and his eardrums on fire.

“Christ, Stevie, warn a guy,” Barnes said, holding up the rear bumper, that he apparently accidentally torn off. He folded the bumper up -- at least the older car was mostly made of metal instead of that fiberglass and plastic compound with built in crumple zones -- and tossed it off the side of the road like it was an empty fast-food cup.

Sam stopped running his brain on that particular hamster track when Barnes used the collar of his tee to wipe sweat off his throat, the hem of his shirt riding up, showing off ridiculous abs and the dip in his hips… Jesus, Sam. Get a grip.

“You’ve got --” Steve pointed, and he was just making shit worse, because Barnes yanked his tee all the way up to scrub his face on it, showcasing that chest and lower back, and Sam really needed to not fall in lust with the unobtainables. There was a little somethin’-somethin’ going on with Steve and Barnes, and Sam was trying to stay out of the middle of it. That way lay heartbreak and possibly losing the best friend he’d had since Riley died.

But he wasn’t blind, and he couldn’t help but look.

Fuck.

“You best be havin’ an idea about what we’re going to do if now that you tossed our bumper,” Sam said, folding his arms over his chest.

Barnes raised an eyebrow. “Stealing a better car comes to mind.”

Let the heat of the sun Reignite your memory 'Cause if we just turn and run Let them fire the gun No I don't know why seasons change Or how we fell so far Before our hearts go up in flames Let's go throwing stones And stealing cars --Stealing Cars, James Bay

“Relax, Stevie,” he said. He laid his tools out on the cheap hotel room table. “I ain’t takin’ someone else’s money. This is Hydra cash, I’m just accessin’ it.” He reinforced the credit card with a few pieces of packing tape across the front.

“That’s someone else’s credit card, Buck,” Steve pointed out.

Idiot; like he didn’t know that, he was the one who lifted it from the tourist family who was checking in before them. He held up one shiny metal finger. “Ain’t attached to their account anymore, I jus’ need somethin’ to swipe.” He slid the magnet over the card a few times, degaussing the strip. “You got that number for me, Wilson?”

“I don’t even wanna know why this stuff’s public information,” Wilson commented, handing over the notepad where he’d written the codes.

The night clerk probably wouldn’t miss the strip-encoder that they’d liberated from behind the desk; not until check out, at least. There were a few of them, for high turnover time at the hotel, but it was unlikely that all three would be required at once, and the device was portable. Chances were good the clerks wouldn’t even notice it was missing at all. And he’d put it back, the next day.

He entered the new credit information onto the strip-encoder and then ran the hotel card key over it, imprinting it with the account; an old Hydra slush fund for high level executives. That one was one of Pierce’s old funds, where he slid extra campaign money and used for various bribes -- as well as some of his little luxuries -- that he’d managed to retain after Insight. Only Pierce and a handful of his top agents had known about the account at all, so he wasn’t worried about being tracked down by accessing the funds.

Painting down the old stripe with clear fingernail polish kept any residual information from seeping through the card-reader and a few slices with a razor and he transferred the magnetic strip from their hotel card-key onto the back of the credit card. He pressed, using the sealant of the polish to hold the new strip in place

He took the finished product and heated it in the microwave for a moment to bond the tape and polish together.

“Shiny new credit card,” he said, handing it off to Steve. “With almost as much funding as a Stark account. Now… go buy us a new car, hmm?”

“What about getting our old car fixed?” Steve crossed his massive arms over his massive chest and looked massively disapproving.

“Consider it backpay for puttin’ Insight outta commission, if ya gotta, Stevie,” he said. “Th’ money’s there, ya might as well use it. Ain’t nobody with better intentions gonna have access to it.”

“And we’ve already pissed off our regular mechanic,” Wilson piped up. He’d been fascinated by the whole process, that gap-toothed smile sneaking out when he thought no one was looking.

Steve flicked an angry look in Sam’s direction. “I’m not asking Tony for help.”

“Which is why you’re gonna use Hydra funds t’ get us a new car,” he said.

“If you hadn’t ripped the bumper off our old car--”

He turned Steve in the direction of the door. “Car.”

Wilson waited a bit longer than strictly necessary before turning to him. “You’re smooth,” Wilson admitted. “Tell me, didja rip th’ muffler off on purpose?”

He was getting practice with the whole rolling-the-eyes thing. “This was a dumb damn idea t’ start with,” he said. “Can’t believe you said yes t’ a six week long road quest with Captain America.”

Wilson’s arms were less awe-inspiring than Steve’s, but he’d mastered the unimpressed look. “I’m not the only one who coulda put a kibosh on this.”

“You think I ever had any influence over what Steve does?” He shook his head. “Not even when he was so tiny I could sling ‘im over my shoulder an’ cart him away. Steve always was a stubborn cuss.”

One of Wilson’s eyebrows achieved altitude and the side of his mouth twisted. “What’s your plan, soldier?”

“Thought Steve was the man with a plan?”

“You calculatin’,” Wilson accused. “Ever’thing about this op’s been on your dime, since the words left Steve’s mouth.”

He gave Wilson a quick nod, respectful. “You’re a sharp one.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Wilson agreed. “Except around a direct question. What are you up to?”

“You know what happens to a pocketwatch, when gets overwound?”

Wilson puffed out his cheeks and made a soft explosion noise.

“Thing is, you can’t tell. Steve’s… man, Steve’s runnin’ on empty,” he said. “Man’s been done, years now. An’ they keep callin’ him back. An’ he can’t help but go. If Stark asked him t’ stay, he would’ve. What happened in Siberia, that shouldn’t have happened. The Steve I knew, he wouldn’t never have done that. He’s broken already. Ain’t that I’m tryin’ to keep him from breakin’. He’s already done that.”

Wilson nodded, reluctantly. “So, what’s this?”

“Little bit of peace,” he said. “Him, you, me, open road.”

There went the dubious eyebrows again. “You and I ain’t never gonna be a little bit of peace, hoss.”

He chuckled, letting his wry amusement show. “Little problems,” he said. “Little solutions. Somethin’ he can do, an’ fix. Be annoyed with me. He’ll sleep better. Hell, sleep at all. You’ll see.”

Wilson was nodding slowly. “When I first met him, I asked him what made him happy. Said he didn’t know.” Wilson shot him a long, knowing look. “That’d be a different answer now, wouldn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. There’s a lot of road between us an’ that bridge we burned down. Leastways, I aim to see if it grows again.”

“I… I won’t get in the way of that,” Wilson said.

He shook his head. “You can’t. Not between us. There’s more there than either of us can ever put aside. But Steve’s got a big heart, Wilson. More’n I can fill. Don’t… I ain’t possessive. I ain’t gonna warn you off. If--” he trailed off, not sure how to express it. Steve… Steve needed to be needed. And he… both did and did not need Steve.

“What?”

“My comin’ back messed things up for him. He was gettin’ over me. Maybe not so easy. An’ this… well, this is just a grade A clusterfuck, ain’t it? What I’m sayin’ is, this didn’t have to mess things up for you.”

Those were more words than he’d used in a long time, and he was done. He started cleaning up the scraps and tape and polish from building up the false credit card. Steve should be back soon, and this conversation… was over.

#All Caps #steve x bucky x sam #all american road trip #steve rogers #bucky barnes #Sam wilson #road trip #music #showing off

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random-thought-depository · 7 years ago

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I think @adepta-astarte/Purplekitte’s Primarch gender-swap ideas are cool, but I have a different interpretation of what Mara would be like.

I see a lot of autism coding and chronic pain/invisible disability coding in Mortarion. I think this is why I’ve always found him one of the more compelling Primarchs: I think I’m autistic or something and I have persistent low-level physical pain and a self-sacrificing streak, so I find it easy to see him as someone whose outer and inner struggles remind me of my own; he reminds me of the part of myself that once tried to tough out a serious toe infection because I didn’t want my mother to have to pay for my treatment.

I see Mara as very similar to Mortarion, and as very masculine/butch/GNC in ways that are totally tied into her brain-weirdness. She doesn’t object to wearing feminine clothing in principle, but most feminine clothing and associated things (long hair, make-up, jewelry) irritates her sensory sensitivities. She’s very strong and tough and fast, but she’s clumsy with small delicate objects and small finicky movements, so she’s a lot better at the kind of manual labor an agricultural society codes male, and this influenced her early experience of gender a lot. Femininity emphasizes a lot of the human things that are most difficult for her, like being pretty and sociable and good at emotion work. I see Mara experiencing her alienation from femininity as an extension of her alienation from humanity in general.

I see Mara’s early childhood as a lot more gender-neutral than Purplekitte does. I always saw Mortarion’s introversion in terms of ... he was raised by beings that were not human, that did not teach him to be human, he had to learn to be human later, and having learned it so late it never became easy for him. So I see the Barbaran overlords as inhuman beings, who wouldn’t share human things like gender roles, and who’d treat Mara and Mortarion about the same way.

I started writing a fanfic based on these thoughts a while ago, but it probably won’t be ready for posting before next year because I want to finish some other writing projects first. Also, I think I should read more Horus Heresy novels before I finish the fic, I’m mostly going by fandom osmosis at this point. Some other Mara ideas from my unfinished fanfic (a lot of these are just my Mortarion headcanons):

I actually did name her Mara, thanks @adepta-astarte for giving me permission to do that, it was better than any name I could think of.

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In my mind’s eye Mara looks a lot like @newvagabond but really big (she’s one of the bigger Primarchs, so she’d be bigger than this guy), with the body type of Julie Bell, a kinda sea-creature grey-white complexion, a stronger chin and gold eyes, and a lot of scars (I asked New and she said it was OK to mention this). I think there’s a couple of reasons my brain made that connection, and the spoonie thing is one of them.

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Mara was badly abused as a child, especially during the early years when the tyrant saw her as a biological curiosity instead of a potentially valuable future minion. Some of the things that were done to her permanently physically damaged her (her inhumanly white appearance is a manifestation of that).

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Mara has some sensorimotor issues:

- She has unpleasant sensory sensitivities. Everything feels jagged. Sensations scratch, bite, itch, burn, poke, tickle-scratch, are too much. Many things feel bad and few things feel good. Constant low-level pain is the background noise of her life

- She’s fast and graceful by human or even Space Marine standards, but every movement feels like it takes more effort than it should, as if her brain has to shout at her body, as if her limbs are moving through mud, and it’s frustrating. She’s also clumsy with small delicate objects and small finicky movements.

She treats these problems as embarrassing secrets and resists making any concessions to self-care.

She also has the autistic restricted food preference thing, but will eat almost anything anyway; she had to do that as a matter of survival during childhood and she’s exactly the kind of person who’d rather low-key torture herself than ask for accommodation.

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Mara ran away from the tyrant around 8-10 years old or whatever the Primarch years equivalent is, and was adopted by a human community shortly thereafter. I think that scenario evokes the feel of autistic/ND alienation better than her having run away as an adult.

She had an adoptive mother-figure: an old widow. This woman had an adult non-verbal autistic son who lived with her, and raising such a child gave her experience that was useful in dealing with Mara (knowing how to touch her in a way that didn’t irritate her sensory sensitivities, recognizing when she was feeling overloaded, etc.).

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Mara is mostly asexual, but she has proto-sexual crushes and proto-sexual sensual attraction. The analogy she thinks of for her own sexuality is a pot that sometimes comes to the verge of boiling but never boils, or a plant that never blooms because the soil it’s in is too stony and sour. She could probably enjoy sex, but she feels no strong desire for it. She’s relieved at being asexual, because she thinks her being celibate makes things simpler for herself and everyone else. She has never had a romantic relationship, and she has never had sex.

The closest thing she’s had to a lover was a girl a few years older than her in her adoptive village, who was her one childhood friend. She and this girl did a proto-sexual “take off our clothes and study each other’s bodies because we’re curious” thing as young teenagers. Later on this girl started training to be a singer/oral storyteller, and Mara had a strong sensual attraction to her voice (in my mind’s ear this girl’s singing sounds like this). This girl picked up that Mara was attracted to her and offered to have sex with her, but Mara wasn’t comfortable with that idea so nothing happened. They might have become lovers eventually but this girl died young from disease.

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Mara started her rebellion against the overlords when she was a young teenager. When they’d been grooming her to be a minion the tyrant taught her a lot of stuff about weapons, and she taught the Barbaran peasants how to make cross-bows, guns, cannons, greek-fire-like-stuff, bombs etc.. She has a techie-nerdy side, but it often isn’t appreciated.

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Relationships with other Primarchs (note, I haven’t figured out which other ones I’d gender-swap in this AU):

- Horus is one of the very few living close friends/intimates she has. He’s likely one of the very few people she’s told about her sensorimotor issues. They have a close older-brother/little-sister type relationship.

- She does not get along well with Fulgrim and Ferrus Manus. Given their schtick they strike me as likely to not get along well with a sibling they see as broken or defective. They don’t know the details of her condition, but they have eyes and they’re bright, they see and judge, and she can see them seeing and judging (and hear the occasional snide comment). She has some sensual attraction to how pretty and graceful and perfect Fulgrim is, which makes her resent him more, as she finds being attracted to him humiliating.

- She doesn’t get along with Magnus for the same reason Mortarion doesn’t: the Barbaran overlords were sorcerers, sorcery has bad associations for her, and she knows enough about it to have some idea how dangerous it is.

- Her default opinion of Leman Russ is “charismatic popular guy who finds all the stuff I struggle with easy,” and envy based on that. Going by some interpretations, may be surprised how relatable some of his experiences are to her if they have the right conversation.

- She probably dislikes Purplekitte’s interpretation of gender-swapped Russ for the same reason she dislikes Magnus: she doesn’t like sorcerers. Though I have an extremely vague notion of an enemies-to-friends fic for those two based on finding the mental image of Ljufa trying to teach Mara her weaving-sorcery thing interesting (Mara did textile work as a child but did not like it, especially sowing - her fingers were clumsy and she kept stabbing herself with the needle).

- I think she might have a very interesting relationship with Lorgar. Lorgar is another Primarch I easily read as possibly autistic, though in a way that’s only apparent if you’ve noticed a particular thinking style that I think may be autism-associated but that doesn’t fit common autistic stereotypes. Mara and Lorgar seem to me like kind of symmetrical opposites in terms of their relationships to brain-weirdness, embodiment, Primarchness, and gender (the symmetry isn’t perfect, but then gender is asymmetrical; gender-nonconformity tends to be a lot less accepted in men). I’m not saying I ship these two, but I’m not not saying it.

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I should do a Primarch autistic headcanons post sometime.

#my writing #warhammer 40k #effortpost #alternate universe #autistic headcanons #spoonie headcanons #child abuse survivor headcanons #genderswap #maybe autistic

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