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awkward-and-indecisive · 3 years

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First Day Assistance.

Summary - Y/N is new on The Boys set, nervous and determined to do her job right until she meets Jensen Ackles and her mouth loses its filter so he decides to teach her a good lesson.

Pairing - Jensen Ackles x Female!Reader

Warnings - SMUT 18+, Unprotected sex (y’all are better than this), Oral sex (f receiving), fingering, semi-public sex, tiny bit of fluff, Jensen in that damn Soldier Boy suit, this is just pure filth with no plot in sight

Word Count - 2547

A/N - Blame @msmarvelouswinchester for this and of course Mr. Jensen Snackles who I’m pretty sure wants to kill me. Apparently this is what she and I do, put thoughts into each other’s head until we can’t do anything but write them. Till three in the morning🤦🏽‍♀️

This was also Beta’d by @msmarvelouswinchester , so double thank you 😘

This is a work of fiction and for entertainment purposes. I don’t mean any harm to anyone in their family.

This is my first ever fic so please tell me what you think about it. FEEDBACK IS HIGHLY APPRECIATED!!!

Happy Reading!!!

*****

It was your first day on the set of The Boys and you were excited for this new opportunity. You had to start small with being a P. A. but now you were looking forward to working on the third season of such an amazing show. You were ready to work hard and were determined to make it big in the industry.

But all those plans flew straight out the window when you looked at Jensen fucking Ackles in his Soldier Boy suit looking like a sex god. You probably had stopped breathing and only inhaled sharply when you became a little lightheaded. Your thighs squeezed together, your pussy clenched and you could feel wetness pooling between your legs.

It was rather directly proportional - the dampness of your panties and the amount of time you looked at him. The more you stared at all the little details, the more wet you became. You knew it was highly unprofessional to have such thoughts about one of the leading actors but it was like your body had stopped listening to you and all the rational and moral thoughts had ceased to have any effect on you.

The way the muscles of his broad shoulders rippled underneath the spandex of his suit as he moved. The way the suit gave a little peek of his neck. The way his freckles shone through the little peek. The way his shoulder to waist ratio fucked you up. The way that knife holster on his hip made you go feral with lust. The way you wanted to come undone on those fingerless gloves till you couldn’t anymore. The way that suit hugged his curves, especially that perky ass.

You were busy thirsting like a dehydrated bitch in the middle of the Sahara, lost in your own filthy thoughts for who knows how long, when a snapping noise brought you back to the land of living. You blinked a few times to clear your head of its dirty thoughts and blurry vision. When you looked back up, you saw Jensen Snackles, as Sony Pictures had oh so proudly named him, standing in front of you and snapping his fingers.

Confusion flooded your expressions but before you could open your mouth to ask what he wanted, he cut you off, “Do we have a problem here, miss? Is there something on my face or what? Because you keep staring at me and I can’t do my job like that!” He said in an annoyed tone.

That’s when you looked around and saw that the set was deserted except for you and the Adonis. The director must have called for a break if there were too many bad takes. You felt a little guilty for wasting everyone’s time but before you could apologise, he cut you off again, “There she goes again. What is going on inside your head?” He clipped, waving a hand in front of your face.

You didn’t know what it was. The pent up sexual frustration of not having had sex in months or how rudely Snackles here was constantly cutting you off, with the fact that no one should look like that or that you couldn’t get your mind off of him but you snapped at him.

“Listen Mr. Sna- Mr. Ackles, firstly, I don’t have a problem with you and I’m not staring at you and secondly, you are not letting me work and are distracting me.” You quipped.

You knew in an instant you were fired for the way you had talked to him but now that you had spoken your mind and the words had left your mouth, you couldn’t take them back. So you decided to stand your ground.

“I am not letting you work?!” He scoffed, cocking one of his eyebrows.

“Yes!! You think it’s easy for me to concentrate when you roam around looking like sex on legs.” You said, waving a hand up and down his body.

Your eyes widened and your hand flew to your mouth when you heard the words that had left your mouth. A cocky smirk grew on his face and he took a step forward as you mirrored his move in the opposite direction.

“I think that implies you were staring at me.” He chuckled, stepping forward again until your back hit the wall and the clipboard and the walkie you had in your hands fell. You were caged by him against the wall, looking like a prey meeting the eyes of its predator just before it’s death.

You looked down, too ashamed and weak to meet his burning gaze. You turned your head towards the exit and said, “I’m sorry Mr. Ackles. I should leave.”

“Nuh-uh,” he tutted, “Sex on legs huh?” He asked cockily.

He was dangerously close to you. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your face. You let out an involuntary whimper and if it was possible, his face turned more cocky.

“What other thoughts swim around in that pretty little head of yours Miss..” he trailed off, his hand coming to push a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You cleared your throat before half whispering and half whimpering, “Y/n Y/l/n.”

“Y/n Y/l/n.” He said, gruffly, as if trying to see how it would sound from his mouth and god did it sound so sinful. “Interesting name but I guess it makes up for your interesting personality. So as I was saying, what other thoughts about me do you have? Other than sex on legs of course.”

You couldn’t focus enough to reply as you were busy staring at his plump lips and that goddamn beard that gave you all kinds of thoughts you wouldn’t think in your wildest dreams.

“You’re staring again, sweetheart.” He chuckled and the vibrations of it could be felt by you as he pressed his body to yours and caged you between his arms that you knew from his Instagram video he had spent some time working on.

You instantly looked up into his gorgeous green orbs and found yourself lost in them. You opened your mouth a few times but nothing came out, looking like a fish out of the water. Words had left you. It was like a small child trying to speak but not knowing how to.

He closed the distance between his mouth and your ear and growled, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

Your whole body shuddered and you pushed your thighs together to get some much needed friction. Jensen seemed to notice your reaction and pushed his thigh between your legs.

“Oh so that’s what this is about. I see nobody has fucked this tight, little pussy in a while and that’s why you’re snapping at people and undressing me with your eyes.” He said in a low, deep voice that had your pussy clenching around nothing.

A wave of arousal flooded your panties and you knew they were ruined a long time ago but now it felt like they had simply disintegrated.

He continued, “But don’t you worry, unfortunately I know what it feels like and I think I would very much like to help you with that.” He winked and if it wasn’t for the wall and him caging you in, your knees would have buckled and you would be a horny mess on the floor.

You noticed your breathing had become heavier and your lips had parted, your hands were balled in fists at your sides, your pussy throbbed in need and your whole body was shaking with lust and desire.

Jensen leaned down to look into your eyes and spoke softly, “Hey, if you don’t want this tell me right away.”

That seemed to snap you out of your sensory overload and you quickly nodded frantically.

“I want this. I want you to fuck me, Jensen.” You sputtered quickly before he could take his offer back.

The moment your consent reached his ears, the beautiful greens of his eyes were eclipsed by the black clouds of lust. He crashed his lips on yours in a bruising kiss that was all teeth and tongue. It was driven by pure lust and need and want and desire.

His hands were on you pushing and pulling and mapping out your entire body. Everything felt too much and not enough at the same time. When the need for air became too much you both parted, panting like you had just ran a marathon. He pushed his partly gloved hands underneath your jumper and pulled it off you leaving your upper body in the black tank top you were wearing.

His mouth moved towards your jaw, nipping and nibbling at the skin there while his hands squeezed your ass. His mouth went to your neck, to the spot behind your ear that drove you wild and sucked. And oh god did he suck hard. You were pretty sure you’d be sporting a big purple hickey but you couldn’t care less.

He kissed the valley of your breasts and suckled one of your clothed nipples as your back arched off the wall and you shamelessly let out a loud moan. He pushed your tank top up as he kneeled down, leaving open mouthed kisses all over your stomach.

He pushed your leggings and your panties down in one go and both of you were shocked. You, to see that your panties hadn’t disintegrated and him, to see how wet you were. He looked up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes and before you could comprehend what it meant, he dove inside your pussy like a starving man.

He let out a groan when he tasted you, gripping your thighs so tight that you were sure there'd be bruises there. You tangled your hands in his hair, keeping him in place but also giving yourself something to hold on to.

All your wet dreams and imaginations didn’t do justice to how delicious the burn of his beard felt between your thighs. He fucked you with his tongue and then went on to suck at your clit like a child sucking an ice lolly after playing for hours in the summer heat.

To say that you were a panting, moaning, whimpering, writhing and blubbering mess would be an understatement. You were at the mercy of this man’s mouth and you thanked your lucky stars for it. One of his hands left your thigh and came to encircle your core. Desperate to come, you started grinding on his face.

He pushed two of his thick fingers in and groaned at how easily they fit cause you were practically dripping at this point. He fucked you on his fingers hard all the while nibbling and sucking your clit. He moved up your body till he was face to face with you all the while thrusting his fingers into you at a merciless pace.

He crashed his lips on yours and pushed his tongue inside your mouth. You moaned at tasting yourself on his tongue. He moved his talented mouth towards your ear and nibbled on the lobe.

“You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you squeezing my fingers. Come on Y/n. Come for me.” He whispered in your ear.

Like he had a remote control to your body, you came. And you came so hard that you saw stars. Your vision went white, your body went slack and you felt like you were filled to the brim with pleasure.

When you came back to your senses, the first thing you felt was his cock, hard and heavy, lined with your core, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on your ass supporting your weight and crushing you between his body and the wall. He looked at you to see if there was any hint of discomfort but when he couldn’t find any, he kissed you while pushing his cock deep inside you.

You had to admit that he was bigger than any guy you’ve been with and the stretch was just oh so good. He kissed you, nibbling on your lower lip til you got used to his girth. You clawed at his shoulders and the now not so short hair at the nape of his neck.

“Fu-uck Jensen. Move please. F-fuck me.” You begged not caring how desperate you sounded.

Jensen let out an animalistic growl upon hearing your words and pulled all the way out, only leaving the tip in and slammed back into you in one thrust. You let out a cry when his cock hit your g-spot with fucking precision.

He kept up his deadly pace, pounding into you so hard you were sure you’d feel it for days, that had the coil in your lower belly wound tight in no time. He hid his face in the crook of your neck. Only the sounds of his heavy breathing and grunts ,which to be honest should be illegal, and your moans and panting could be heard around the large set.

“Look at you,” He grunted in your ear, “taking my cock so good. You’re so tight. Fuck.”

You couldn’t help but clench your pussy hearing those words pouring out of his mouth.

“I’m not gonna last long. Come for me one more time Y/n. Come on my cock. Squeeze it.” He grunted, pushing one of his hands between your bodies and rubbing rough circles on your clit.

You came with a scream of his name. Your orgasm was so fucking intense that you knew in that moment no one will ever be able to make you come so hard other than this man. He fucked you through your orgasm. A few hard thrusts later he stilled deep inside you and came with a grunt that you’d remember till the day you die. He spilled hot ropes of cum and you milked his cock for all its worth.

When you both came down from your highs, you untangled yourselves from each other and cleaned yourselves the best you could. You quickly and quietly got dressed, the air filling with awkwardness.

When you got dressed, you bent down to pick up your stuff which had fallen and turned to leave when suddenly Jensen caught your wrist and turned you around so that now he was caged between you and the wall. He kissed you and it was all sweet and soft this time while you wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned your body into his.

“Don’t you dare think this was a one time thing. You and me. Dinner at my place at 8. Sounds good?” He asked, sincerely and sweetly.

Your brows furrowed and you opened your mouth to reply but before you could the walkie in your hand came to life and a voice sounded from the other end, “Jensen Ackles is needed now at the wardrobe. Jensen Ackles is needed now at the wardrobe.”

“Looks like I have to go.” Jensen said and pecked your lips once.

He walked backwards and shouted, “My place at 8. Don’t forget.” He gave you a wink before finally going out of your sight.

You stood there confused as to what had just happened in the last hour of your life.

*****

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sweetwritertanya · 4 years

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My Little Show

Summary: You come up with a clever idea to catch your boyfriend’s attention, making Yoongi drop everything in the studio and rush back home just in time for the show.

Warnings: SMUT! This fic will include: swearing, stripping (female), lap dance (male receiving), erotic body touching, dry humping, protected sex (it’s been a while!), sex on a chair (armchair, actually).

Word Count: 2689

The hours have gone by him without him even knowing, laser focused on what he was doing and oblivious to the world outside of the room he was in. When in the studio, Yoongi could get so absorbed in his music that the concept of time completely escaped him. It was nothing new to you, and you have learned not to take it personally if he doesn’t answer your calls or messages for a while. That was something he truly treasured about you.

Of course, he still felt bad about it. Even if he never really showed it, when he reached for his phone and noticed five messages starting from an hour ago, all from you, his heart sunk and squeezed in his chest painfully. He had told you he would be home before dinner but that was long done now. Opening the text messages, he was expecting angry words and disappointment, but that was not quite what he got.

Th first three were just you asking when he would arrive and if you should wait for him before eating. Yoongi’s already thin lips pressed together tightly in guilt, making them even smaller at that. The last two, however, were much different.

‘That’s too bad, darling. Look what you are missing out on.’ You wrote. This text was only from a few minutes ago, compared to the others. And you had sent a video after.

Clicking on the dark video, Yoongi frowned his eyebrows as he tried to figure out what he was seeing. Just as he turned the volume up, hoping to hear your voice in the dark, your figure stepped back from the phone’s camera. You were in the living room and it was actually quite bright. Not by the head light, but due to the candles you had lit up around. Not that his sharp eyes were drawn to any of that.

No, his small droopy eyes opened wide and awake at the first sight of you through the recording. You were using his oversized robe, which was actually a bit tight on your large frame, black sash tying the garment in the middle with a bow. Seductively, you walked back until your full body was shown in the middle of the room and slowly untied the fabric ribbon.

The robe opened up and you allowed it to fall off your shoulders and pool at your feet. You were wearing a black short babydoll that was barely covering your matching panties and the deep pungent cleavage revealed so much of your soft breasts that he was sure you were not wearing a bra. And then you actually smiled and bent down in front of the camera, hands on your knees and tits about to fall off the satin attire. Yoongi’s hands twitched and he licked his dry lips, having to change his position in his chair due to an uncomfortableness between his legs.

“Too bad you’re missing out on all of this, honey” your sensual voice whispers, before ending the video.

It takes him three minutes to save all of his work and gather all of his things before leaving the studio. In his hurried pace, not quite running because he wasn’t one to run, but surely in a much faster step than what was usual for him, it took Yoongi about five minutes to get home. He never thanked the fact that he got a place close to his studio so much before.

Coming in, the house seems dark and quiet. For a moment he wonders if you gave up on him arriving and went to bed but as he approaches the living room, the flickering light of the candles tell him you must still be up. Undressing his jacket, he calls for your name as he enters the room.

“Y/N?”

“About time, darling. Thought you’d miss the show” your voice almost purrs as you get up from the armchair that you had dragged in the middle of the room.

Yoongi smirks at the sight of you, although you had put his robe back on. The knowledge of what was beneath it somehow drove him madder than before. He steps towards you, but you seem to have other intentions and move around him, keeping a distance.

“That was quite a video you sent me. What are you playing, kitten?” He asks, eyes intensely set on you. You had that look in your eyes that never failed to stir him up. A look filled with naughty schemes.

“Like I said, I just wanted you home before you missed the show” you enlighten with a chuckle in your voice. You gesture your head towards the armchair you had just been on. “Why don’t you take your seat?”

Curious, Yoongi raises one eyebrow but follows your lead, sitting on the armchair with his back leaning back, arms resting and legs crossed. You like seeing him like that, like a powerful king. The flickering candles dance on his skin and his eyes look even darker now, intently staring at you, waiting for your next move. And you weren’t one to disappoint.

“Enjoy the show” you whisper hotly before you press play.

Yoongi swallows heavily as the slow bass-driven song starts playing, at the same time your wide hips start moving. It was a show alright, one excruciatingly sensual one that he wasn’t sure he could wait for the end patiently. With your back turned to him, your hands slide up your meaty thighs all the way up to your hair that you pull up, at the same time your hips rock from side to side. Even beneath the robe, Yoongi could envision your ass jiggling with the movement. His hands clench the armrest tighter.

You dare looking up from your shoulder to him, a small smile feigning innocence while your hands drop the robe from one shoulder, and then the other. With the fabric hanging by the middle of your arms, you suddenly turn around at a particular strong beat of the song and let it fall down to the floor, revealing the beautiful babydoll Yoongi had never seen before, showcasing the swell of your breasts and the thickness of your legs. Air becomes thicker around him and he has to lick his lips, uncrossing and crossing again his legs.

The smile on your beautiful round face becomes devious. Knowing what you were doing to this fine-ass piece of a man empowers you. Biting your bottom lip flirtatiously, you skim your hands with fingers sprawled apart up your inner thighs, brushing your center as you pull them up and your digits get caught in the fabric and pull the babydoll up, revealing your almost sheer little panties. You hear Yoongi suck a breath even as his position seems froze in the chair. Your smirk grows and when your hands reach your chest, you squeeze the flesh and let it bounce as you slowly squat down, legs spreading apart. A rumble escapes Yoongi’s constricted throat and by now he his clawing the armrests in restrain. You never told him he was forbidden from getting up or reaching out and touch you, but he felt like that was an unspoken rule in order for him to enjoy this show all the way to the end. If he made it there.

Keeping with the beat of the song, you snap back up and turn around, slapping your own buttocks hardly covered by the thin string in between them. The bountiful flesh wobbles and Yoongi is clenching his teeth together. His fingers itched to trace the stretch marks on it, feel the dimples and squeeze the fluffiness of your ass that his hands would barely hold.

The song slows down and much to his punishment, you swiftly get down to your knees and hands. Yoongi drops his leg and closes his eyes but only for a moment, overwhelmed by the image in front of him. You start crawling in an almost feral manner, a huntress with sights set on prey. Your back arched, tits hanging and pulled together every time you placed one hand in front of the other, approaching him slowly. By the time you reached between his legs and place your hands on his knees, anchoring you to get back up while swaying your body in front of him, Yoongi’s hips jerk without his control, the simple touch setting his constricted muscles ablaze.

“Y/N…” he roughly speaks in a low voice, your name sounding like a menace.

You bring your index finger to your lips, silencing him while you kept dancing just inches from him. And then you play with the straps of the babydoll, pulling one arm and then another off of them. Yoongi curses under his breath and throws his head back when you pull the garment over you head, bare torso in display for him. A frustrated growl leaves his tightly shut lips, small eyes half-closed and glassed over. Every cell in him was jolting with the need to just pull you in and touch you, feel your skin against his, grab those perky nipples with his mouth and lap on them until you screamed, grind himself on your hot center before burying himself deep. But you weren’t done yet.

Wicked smirk in place, you wiggle your almost naked body in time with the tempo, before turning around and twerking your butt on his lap, low enough to actually brush the evidently erect member between his legs. He almost chokes at the final hint of relief, taking every ounce of willpower in him not to move. He had to close his eyes now, it’s the only way to keep him steady. You vary between small brushes of your bottom and full on grind of his girth between your ass cheeks. Every time, you feel his resolution to control himself waver, driving him absolutely mad.

Song coming to an end, a long song purposefully chosen for this, you turn to face him and ran your hands over his shoulders, sitting on his lap. Your hands run down his arms until your reach his hands and you take them to place them on your hips.

“You can touch me now, darling” you allow, amused.

Yoongi’s eyes burst open then, almost unbelieving, before he sighs in relief.

“Fuck!” he curses just as his hands attach themselves to the malleable flesh of your ass and pull your core closer to him, grinding himself on you at the same time he violently slants your mouths together.

More than kissing, he is biting your lips avidly, ferociously, tongue plundering in and twinning with yours, running it along all the sensitive crevices of your mouth before pulling back and snagging your bottom lip in between his teeth. Your body ever so sensitive to his touch, so much aroused by all the seduction of before, it takes so little to leave you a moaning mess. His head dips down and his lips close around your erect nipple and you wail at the sharp pleasure it brings straight to your womb. You can’t help the way your hips start moving in synch with his, humping down on his covered length in search of much needed friction.

“Ahh…! Yoongi, need you! Now” you whimper as he drowns in your cleavage, playing roughly with your tits much like he wanted to since the first time he saw that video.

He doesn’t need any more convincing, immediately dropping his hands to his belt and undoing it impatiently. Your raise your hips and lick your lips, aching for him. You catch Yoongi’s wallet from the back pocket of his jeans before he pulls them all the way down his legs, searching for where you knew he kept a couple of condoms. Finding one, you rip it open with your teeth just as he pulls down his boxers and releases his cock from any confines. He reaches for the condom but you pull it away.

“Allow me” you say.

He nods and his Adam’s apple bobs in anticipation. With deliberately slow movements, you place the condom at the engorged red tip of his dick, very gradually pushing the latex down his length, a bit with one hand, another bit with another. You feel the member pulsating and twitching angrily at that. In retaliation, Yoongi pinches at your abused nipples, making you huff.

“For fucks sake, Y/N, I can’t” he speaks through his tense jaw, eyes burning into yours as his hand covers yours and helps placing the condom all the way down.

You smirk and slide yours hand up his torso, feeling his enclosed abdominals tense under your digits. Sliding even closer to him, you rub yourself on his protected member, soaked panties revealing how ready you were too.

“Was the show that much of your liking?” you tease, mouth going down to bite and kiss at his neck. His hips thrust upwards into your covered entrance, one hand setting on your plush hip while the other venters into the middle of your legs and pulls the fabric of your panties to the side.

“Fuck yeah” he answers, at the same time he plunges in.

It makes the both of you gasp, you at the sudden fullness accompanied by the brain numbing pleasure, him at the sharp relief your warm and tight body provided. Relishing in that first feeling, both stay still for a moment. But the urge to chase the much awaited high rapidly took over.

Yoongi is the first to move, backing his hips the further they would go in the cushioned seat before slamming back forward, hands settled at the curve of your hip to pull you closer. You respond to his movements avidly, holding yourself up on your knees and bouncing in time with his lunges. The air is static, the house quiet if not for your bodies colliding erotically, moans and grunts alongside heavy breathing.

That familiar pull at your womb, that deep and low pressure in your belly, keep on building up at every movement, unbearable need rippling through you like a bonfire. Gushes of arousal cling to both your bodies, spreading from between your legs to your inner thighs, creating shameful squelching sounds that become that much more noticeable once Yoongi picks up the pace.

His hips snap forward harder and faster as fissions of pleasure skitter through his gut, the pulse on his groin scorching his veins with molten need. Knowing he was about to be driven to the edge, Yoongi grabs your heavy leg and pulls it to rest on the armchair instead of on the cushion, making you yelp and consequently wail as the angle opens your legs further and his renewed speed makes him continuously press on that delicate pad of nerves inside.

His more vocal grunts and desperate thrusts tell you he is close too and, before you know it, your insides erupted throughout your body, scourging every inch and you cry out in absolute delight. Your walls clench him impossibly tight as you climax and it’s all it takes for him to follow. A molten wave of gratification left him shaking and spilling into the latex barrier, body shuddering beneath yours before giving out.

Heads still buzzing and vision still slightly blurred, you share content and loving stares, you chuckling before his lips attach to yours in absolute adoration. Carefully, you two disentangle and the spoiled condom is thrown out. Yoongi had pulled his boxer back on, but not his trousers, while you had put on his robe again, with nothing but your panties that managed to stay on during this endeavor.

You were resting on the armchair when Yoongi came back and pulled you up just enough for him to sit down and pull you to his lap. Sitting comfortably, he wraps his arms around your bulky frame and drops pecks at the skin of your exposed shoulder.

“Not hurting you?” you ask, referring to your weight on his lean legs.

“Nah” he replies in between pecks.

“Was my little show worth ditching work?” you snicker, eyes closing with weariness.

“Infinitely.” Small cat eyes shutting close too. “Always.”

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aarcanechaoss · 3 years

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1. Breathe

The teams finally get to meet the Yokohama school, after brief introductions from their coaches they are nervous and excited- some already believing they could beat the coed team but playing against them is a different story entirely.

“Yokohama Port High School can not be messed around with.” Ukai said suddenly as the team drove to Tokyo in a bus. “They’ll be joining the upcoming training camp.”

“Who?” Hinata asked, being brave enough to actually ask.

“Yokohama’s Port High school made it to nationals- third year in a row. All thanks to their current team who has been smashing their opponents and Nekoma was kind enough to ask them to join the upcoming training camp.” Takeda added. “Probably so we can learn their movements and make strategies in case we ever play them in general.”

“Chuuya Nakahara, is the captain, Libero and a third year. Like carrot top here he’s a short ginger but with a temper. Osamu Dazai is vice captain, setter and also a third year. Bare in mind right now I’m telling you the most crucial members that we will be with more often... they only have around eight or nine members so the other odd three I don’t know their names.” Ukai said.

“Who else?” Daichi asked.

“Wait the captain in a Libero?” Nishinoya asked.

“He could just be acting captain until number 1 can play again- I’ve heard a player had a nasty injury... not surprising since they are in Yokohama.” Takeda said. The team nodded.

“Second years Ryunosuke Akutagawa and Ryoko Fukami are outside and opposite hitters respectively.”

“Isn’t Ryoko a girls name? Sorry I guess I shouldn’t judge.” Yamaguchi apologised.

“Not wrong YPHS is a coed team. Due to how little people joined the seperate teams but don’t take that to think they aren’t strong. Fukami’s their current Ace she’s tall, strong and fast a deadly combo.” Ukai continued. “Last of the main team- or at least who I know about- is first years Atsushi Nakajima and Gin Akutagawa who are the teams middle hitters and blockers.”

“Is Gin-?” Nishinoya started.

“Yep. Ryoko and Gin are the only females on the main team as far as I know. Again don’t doubt them. Their captain sent me a video of their matches... those girls are a force to be reckoned with.” Takeda said. “Their managers are a bit intimidating I’ll admit well the third year is the first year not so much.. I think.”

“I was actually going to ask if she and the Ryunosuke guy were related.” Noya mumbled.

“Oh yeah they are siblings as far as we know. Anyway the coed group is nothing to trifle with so I don’t want to see any of you thinking you are better just because of the ladies.” Ukai said with a glare.

“Who’ll be at the training camp?” Suga questioned.

“Yokohama, Nekoma, Fukurodani, Aoba Johsai, Shiratorizawa, Itachiyama and Inarizaki.” Takeda grinned.

“That’s a strong group of players.” Kageyama admitted.

“Yes which is good. More practice to build morale and strength.”

Finally they’d reached the camp. It was an older training ground with a tiny bit of dilapidation. Most of the teams were here already. Now only missing Yokohama.

Then they arrived. Dressed in their fancy looking uniform with black blazers and grey button ups. Ties seemed non existent and the skirts seemed a tad shorter than the ones from other schools along with the form fitted slacks that no one seemed to wear the same. A boy with choppy silver hair had his cuffed mid shin while another wore an entirely different colour. They lined up in front of the bus and bowed.

“Thank-you for having us.”

“Welcome to the training camp.” Aoba Johsai’s coach gleamed a sliver of mischief in his eyes. They were planning to learn their every move.

“Wow they look so cool.” Hinata gasped. A short ginger stepped forward along with their coach.

“I’m Coach Hirotsu.”

“I’m Chuuya Nakahara, the acting-captain of the Yokohama Port High’s team and Libero.” Nishinoya’s brows furrowed- acting captain made sense he supposed.

“Damn they got some cute girls for managers.” Tendo snickered. Orange glowing eyes snapped towards him an air of annoyance drifting off her.

“Ryoko and Gin step forward.” Hirotsu said. Soft pale pink hair fluttered as she stepped forward, along with long dark hair that was tied in a ponytail. “This is the Ace and our middle hitter- respectively.”

“Hiya.” Ryoko said cheerily. “I’m Ryoko Fukami nice to meet you.” She stood roughly at 5’10” only a fraction shorter than the tall bandaged setter beside her.

Said setter shivered at her cheery tone.

“Gin Akutagawa.” She said quickly. Her voice sweet and airy. Unlike Ryoko’s who was deeper and still eerily cheery.

“Ryoko don’t scare them... yet.” Hirotsu said. “Other members should probably introduce themselves too.”

“Osamu Dazai, I’m our setter.” The bandaged one waved. And everyone had a single thought- what’s up with the bandages.

“Akutagawa. Outside hitter- Ryoko is an opposite hitter.” He had an angry look on his face and looked like he didn’t want to be there.

“I-I’m Atsushi Nakajima... Middle blocker- hitter.” The choppy silver haired boy said quietly but loud enough his name was heard. Gin patted his head comfortingly.

“I’m Higuchi outside hitter.”

“Oda Sakunosuke I’m the official Captain- I’m injured so thats why Chuuya said acting captain. Opposite hitter and substitute setter for Dazai here.”

“Still mad you didn’t choose me.” Dazai whined. The other teams laughed.

“You’d make an awful captain and we’d never do any work.”

The last two weren’t mentioned in the briefings, like Ukai said he only knew so much about them so at least Karasuno figured out who some of them could be already knowing their names at least- they hadn’t a clue if the others were briefed the same way.

“Shall we get a practice match underway?” Hirotsu grinned. The coaches all agreed.

Ryoko was the first to leave the change rooms shortly followed by Shiratorizawa’s manager, Rika. Both adorned simple black exercise gear.

“Manager?” Ryoko asked.

“Acting, Shiratorizawa’s original threw their work at me and dipped.”

“Sounds like a bitch move- I’m Ryoko.”

“Rika Matsuo I can’t wait to watch you kick their asses.”

“Rika you are meant to cheer for us not someone else!”

“Eh who cares Tendo”

“Trust me. I’ll take joy in knocking them down a peg.” The Ace’s grin was feral, almost animal like making Rika’s breath hitch. Gin was quick to join the pink and the purple haired girls. She signed something to Ryoko who just nodded towards their team before waving and walking off with the dark haired girl.

“Knock us down a peg.. I doubt it.” Tendo pouted making Rika roll her eyes and shove him away.

“So the plan?” Chuuya started, arms crossed. His hair was pulled back with loose strands hanging around the sides and wore a red and black shirt and sweatpants.

“Knock their ego’s down.” Ryoko laughed cocking her hip and bumping into Fyodor who only rolled his eyes. She wore a loose tank with leggings same as Gin. Fyodor ever the well put together man was in all black from mask and T-shirt to pants and shoes. His hair however hung in front of his face unlike the girls who pulled their long hair into braids. Ryoko’s muscles flexed as she crossed her arms in mock annoyance at his unresponsiveness.

“I agree to that. Game plan seven?” Dazai grinned. Seven was their harshest play and probably should only be played against Shiratorizawa because of the teams size differences physically. Dazai as per usual was covered head to toe in bandages with cream sweatpants and white shirt.

“Only for Shiratorizawa.” Tanizaki reminded Dazai. “We might be a powerful team but they do have size against us they are all exceptionally large.” The casually dressed teen shivered. His jumper and jeans not at all hiding the shiver.

“Depends who we play against first for what game plan. If it’s Karasuno I’d say plan five because of their quick attacks.” Atsushi chimed in whilst playing with his Grey T-shirt- his blue shorts cut off at his knees.

“I agree with the were- Nakajima.” Akutagawa coughed- another in all black (long sleeved shirt and sweat pants) albeit with white trim.

“Thank god you aren’t wearing that awful ascot.” Ryoko said. The boy just glared at the pink haired teen.

“The ascot isn’t awful!” Higuchi defended. The team all grimaced. “You’re just a... a bitch jealousy you can’t pull one off.”

“I’m going to punch her one day.” Ryoko grumbled. Fyodor gave a soft chuckle.

“Don’t do that Fukami.” He started. “You’ll have to wash your hands a few times to get her germs off.”

“Hey!” Higuchi yelled. The team just ignored her. Her... love for Akutagawa always made her a bit uneasy and he clearly didn’t like it that much either if he even noticed it.

“Yokohama and Karasuno are first.” Coach Hirotsu said as he joined the teens with Ranpo at his side.

“Game plan five it is.” Ryoko grinned cracking her knuckles.

“I suddenly feel very scared.” Yamaguchi said to his team.

“What do you mean Yams?” Hinata asked.

“Like we are about to have our asses handed to us really really badly.” Ennoshita added with a shiver.

“Alright we’re up against Yokohama first.” Ukai grimaced. Karasuno fell pale. Yeah their asses will be handed to them on a silver platter.

#bsd #haikyuu #bsd x haikyuu #Bungou stray dogs #Ryoko Fukami #bsd oc #haikyuu oc

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amiplayingright · 4 years

Text

This is a long story, but I think it’s a good one

For weeks my DM (my roommate) was hyping up the next game. It was hard to schedule a video call, so she was always writing something I couldn’t look at or painting a mini I couldn’t see. We were playing a campaign in a bit of a mix between modern and medieval. Our objective was to find an archmage’s artifact in an abandoned laboratory. Of course it had to be a laboratory.

My character was an elf-orc wizlock named Alta whose father was a scientist. A simple explanation of her backstory is that they lived in a town called Vassali, but were shunned due to being inhuman mages. When a tornado and hurricane combined into quite a literal perfect storm, the village’s leader had all the explanation necessary to execute the scapegoats. Alta managed to escape with a gash on her back, but her father, Reluvethel, was beheaded.

Fast forward an ambiguous number of years, Alta, Berrian (a moon elf fighter), and Katherine (a gnomish druid) were traveling the lab. Entering a room with a beaten door, we began a battle with the monster my DM was talking about all this time.

The battle itself was kind of underwhelming. Everyone in the group made their own cool plays, but it was ultimately killed while I was two death saves down. Being healed again, I saw as the creature crumpled to rust. Everyone was reduced, except it’s white metal head, which clashed to the floor.

It’s a good thing my partymates are new players, or else it would have been obvious that my Eldritch Sight was, in fact, not a wizard thing. I told them the head was magic. They predictably started fighting over it, while I slipped away to find what was magic in the cabinets.

I firstly found an amulet, which I silently tucked away without investigating. That, however was not all. I told my party that I had found a series of documents. The DM pulled out a physical copy.

The front was a series of signatures, with a line of scratching and holes. A few of the names were written in different scripts, which I deciphered with my Eyes of the Rune Keeper. All of the names had a latin lettered version above them, exept the head researcher. I asked my DM with dread what the elvish script and signature said. Reluvethel.

Of course.

I hoped it was only a hint of things to come later in the dungeon, and began to read the rest.

“Experiment overview: The development of an intelligent war machine (sanctioned & sponsored by Fen Labs) to aid the great country of Valoria.”

Below were four drawings. A humanoid with barely distinguished pointed ears behind a large hole and scratches, labeled J.D. An unscathed human with a large scar on her face labeled Ana D. A smiling dragonborn labeled Telvar with scratches on their neck. Another humanoid with pointed ears and what seem to be small fangs under a clump of scratches labeled Selva.

“Day one: I’m glad that Lady Fen let us begin this experiment. They even gave us our own testing hall under the mountain! Perfect secluded location for our little project. Will update further.” Lady fen was one of the Archmage’s colleagues. She was the nicest, and said Reluvethel used to work with her in the lab. This page, along with others, had sketches of the machine we fought, cited as being drawn by Ana.

“Day 2: Still constructing the outer shell, meanwhile me & Telvar have been thinking up ways to engineer it’s sentience. Our list:

Magic spell

Humanoid parts

Haunting

Realistic AI”

“Day 4: Lady Fen came by to check on my progress today. She said that she’s proud of me! We even tried an animation spell, but without success.”

“Day 6: We tried to place a deer heart into the frontal compartment. Will document further.”

“Day 9: It’s alive. IT’S ALIVE! It seems to be skittish and passive. J.D suggests putting in bear or monster organs. We’ll just have to deal with the smell.”

“Day 13: Bear organs work & we’ve achieved the desired temperament for a war machine. Lady Fen will be so happy.”

“Day 14: Fen was happy.”

“Day 16: Ana suggested we take it to the next level & put something intelligent’s organs in. I agreed, Telvor & Selva were passive, but J.D. was so revolted that he left. His loss.”

“Day 21: Fen supplied us with the organs. They showed up in a box at the door. I̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶a̶s̶k̶ ̶h̶o̶ I’m grateful.”

“Day 24: Human parts work, but it can’t talk and seems confused. I wonder if multiple sets will fix it or make it worse.”

“Day 27: Fen supplied more at our request. Selva seems reluctant to continue, but it’s for science’s sake that I do this. I won’t stop.”

“Day 28: Ana here. Dr. Maiava (my surname) seems to be very interested in this. Will ask about it. Perhaps he does not want to disappoint Fen?”

“Day 30: Selva walked into the lab to see that our creation had died. It wrote on the wall in blood: ‘So long, G0od DoctOR!’. It appears to have been a suicide. Maybe the extra set of organs drove it to the brink. Fen won’t be happy. Selva quit.”

“Day 34: Ana again. Got a set of organs from Fen. Dr. Maiava is shut up in his workshop. He’s modifying the mask to have a mouth.”

“Day 36: It’s alive again and can now talk, as well as see. It seems to have retained memories from when it was alive. It told us to explain, so we did, but it was ecstatic to learn that it was practically immortal now. As long as it cooperates, I’ll be happy.”

“Day 44: The first battle was today. It was just some skirmishers, but our creation was efficient and ecstatic. Fen was just as happy.”

“Day 45: Another push into enemy territory, another victory!”

“Day 46: Dr. Maiava & Fen wanted to unveil our pet project, but Tevlar opposed. He said that if it went wrong, they could execute us for unethical experimentation. We decided to listen.”

“Day 50: It killed, but this time it enjoyed it far too much.”

“Day 68: It went power crazy it killed tevlar someone please help PLEASE NOT YET IT’S BANGING ON THE DOOR NOT YET I DON’T WANT TO DIE BY AN EXTENSION OF MY OWN HAND”

“Day 70: Ana here. I dealt with it, but D̶r̶.̶ ̶M̶a̶i̶a̶v̶a̶ Reluvethel fled to Vassali. Something about a family to live for? I’m building a tower to keep watch over the mountain & scare of investigators. Will update.”

Day 210: I got the news that Reluvethel is dead. I know how much he loved this project, like a child. And seeing as the soul inhabiting the shell retains memory... I know what I should do. He’d want this.”

“Day 416: I̶t̶’̶s̶ He’s feral. I locked the lab up for good. He’s too far gone to reason with. I only wish that the daughter never finds out. If she finds this, I am so deeply sorry. I thought it would work. I’m so sorry, Rel. I hope this book can jog your memory.”

The next few pages are blank with a series of scratches.

“Al t a. I am OK. It is OK.”

Each time I read his name, I hoped more that there wouldn’t be a reason to tell the rest who Reluvethel was. Of course that couldn’t happen.

#D&D #tabletop #other people's stories #submission

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breadcaaat · 4 years

Text

part seven

jeongguk x hybrid!reader

words: 2.5k

Warnings: mentions of rape and revenge porn

“I wasn’t born in Seoul. I’ve actually only lived here for a couple of years.”

“Where were you born?”

“Busan.”

She nodded, as if she knew where that was. He bypassed explaining Korean geography and continued.

“Anyway, I came here for college three years ago with Da Eunae - my high school girlfriend. She was studying to become a teacher and I wanted to get into videography… ” He picked at his fingernails. Move on, he thought. It was a bittersweet subject. He had little to no possibility of pursuing that career now. “Anyway, about half-way through my freshman year - I’d just been meeting all sorts of new people, you know, and I realized that I didn’t really love my girlfriend anymore, so I broke up with her. I wanted to explore, and she was too possessive. Like - if I talked to anyone female she was immediately suspicious, but she wouldn’t outright accuse me, if that makes any sense. She’d just give me the cold shoulder, but also be super - super clingy at the same time. I mean - clingy isn’t bad, though! It was just the wrong type and so…” Move on, move on.

“Right, I explored. There was stuff I was curious about - different scenes and people and stuff - and I’d also been questioning my sexuality for a while at that point and decided to just kinda… put myself out there. Had a whole new friend group in two months and they were awesome. That’s actually when I met Hobi-hyung. There was a dance workshop second semester, and he was in his senior year so he introduced me to a lot of people. Everyone likes Hobi.”

“Is this the one you went out for drinks with?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, and he felt himself relaxing a bit. Freshman year had honestly been great, even with the angst of letting his old girlfriend go. It’d been a relief, with time.

“During the summer after, I did a photography internship with a local journal and spent some time back in Busan - pretty uneventful. Fun, though. And at some point I decided to really,” he cleared his throat, and the tips of his ears dusted pink, “explore, and I started… sleeping around.”

Y/N nodded, chin propped on his shoulder. She seemed unperturbed.

“Boys and girls,” he clarified. If he was expecting a reaction he didn’t get one - besides a little cock to her eyebrow as if asking And?

He couldn’t help but prod. “That’s not weird?”

She shook her head. He seemed hesitant to let it go though, so she clarified. “My lover in the cages likes boys and girls, too. I’ve slept with other women. Thought it was normal. If you wanna have sex with someone then… you wanna have sex with them, and that’s it.” A small pause, and a little furrow appeared between her eyebrows. “Is it weird?”

Jeongguk hadn’t stopped processing the first statement yet. “You had a lover?”

She nodded, looking a little puzzled now. The spotlight was supposed to be on him, not her. “Yeah; an ex-stripper.We shared a cage and were pretty tight…” Then she shook her head, focusing back on the subject at hand, “I’ll tell you about him later, though. I still don’t know what - this was all about.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. Right, yeah. He’d pursue that line of questioning later.

But, honestly… he’s still not sure what happens next in the story. The effect on him, yeah. The result, sure. But the cause?

He still has no clue.

“And then, I dunno.”

“You don’t know?” She seemed thoroughly confused as to the connection between this history and his anguish about it.

He sighed, heavily.

“I don’t know. I started sophomore year, and then suddenly there was this huge following online where people posted… videos and stuff. Of me having, um, sex. I didn’t even know videos had been taken. And most of the videos were with the men I’d slept with. They got posted to this porn website and a couple people from the college got ahold of them and they circulated - and then that was that.”

He was silent for a second. The turbulence of his confusion then affected him even now. When he next spoke, it was quieter.

“The only people that stuck around were Hoseok and Eunae. I think my friends couldn’t look at me without seeing what they saw in the videos, you know? I don’t… blame them. It’s weird.”

She was silent for a minute.

Then she got huffy.

“I do. And fuck your ex, dude.”

Finally, he turned around. “What?”

“I know my hearing is better than yours but you can’t have that shitty a sense of - ”

“No, what do you mean by what you said?”

“I meant to say fuck your ex, she sucks.”

There was a long moment where she looked at him expectantly. Like whatever connection she’d made was obvious.

He gave her a look.

“… You really don’t see it, huh?”

He shook his head.

The deep inhale she took he could then feel against his back, and the two of them swayed with it. It was heavy. She was preparing to say something just as heavy.

The breath came out in a rush. Her head tipped forward and tapped his shoulder. Mutedly, he noticed how soft her hair had become. It cheered him up a little.

“When - when you get turned into - into… a hybrid. Like me, um…”

The stutter was something he hadn’t heard in a while. He watched in surprise as her ears folded back against her head, as she curled in on herself - almost hiding behind him. It was her turn to avoid eye contact now. It made him apprehensive, but he was focused on her more now than he had been all day.

“Go on,” he murmured. She nodded against his shoulder.

“The way it works is you get, um, commissioned. Somehow, before it all, you catch someone’s eye - someone with money - and they get in contact with Sheepdog, and then they commission you. They describe what animal they want you to be, and look like, and act like, and how they want you trained and… you lose everything.”

Her voice was so quiet. He felt like the whole world was contained in just this flat.

“They take your memory, and they keep taking it - I don’t know how; they don’t tell us. But the lab is where you feel like you’re born. I really don’t know how to describe what it’s like being - being born as an adult, but… that’s how it is, and you’re sensitive and vulnerable and everything hurts. You want someone to take care of you and coddle you and protect you and - and touch you, so badly it physically hurts. Right in your chest. It’s like a, a twist. But there’s no one, and every time you reach out for comfort it’s denied. It hurts every time. It never stops hurting.”

As tender as he could manage, his fingers wound into hers where they were still kneading at his hoodie strings. She relaxed a little.

“And then your owner comes. They throw open the door and sweep you away to a place where there’s food and luxury and nice clothes, and they act so nice and they - they touch you. They worm their way under your skin while you’re still like that - all, all innocent and scared - and they seem like saviors. You think that everything will be better and that it’s so good you’ve left that dark, scary place, but ultimately…”

She scrounges up the courage to look him in the eyes then.

And for the first time since they’ve met, it really hits him just how scary her life has been. He understood that it was dangerous, but not scary. Not like the dark is to a child.

“Ultimately, your owner put you there.”

She finishes, and seems to hold her breath. She’s looking for that click behind his eyes. He has to see the connection now. She hopes he does, and that he sees how he’s been wronged. That he spots the parallel.

And really, he doesn’t get it - until he very suddenly he does.

The click she was looking for happens, and he feels sick. The few bites of ramen he had were craving a return to the open air.

It was no secret Eunae wanted him back. And no secret that she was competitive - it was one of the things he thought was attractive about her in the beginning, because he is too, and also one of the qualities that eventually drove him away. After he dumped her, she must’ve felt like she’d lost somehow. And - lemon juice in the wound - to men. She’d always had a problem with that, too. Boys kissing boys and girls kissing girls. She’d always said it was gross. He never bothered to correct her.

So, it was plausible.

It was plausible that she’d wanted him back so bad that she’d engineered a “dark place” - paid off or convinced or whatever’ed some of his partners into filming him when he wasn’t aware, and then got her hands on those videos and posted them. The result: he lost his friends. And she made a now obviously convenient return into his life, open-armed and honey-tongued.

Ultimately, she put you there.

A new flavor of bile.

It’s bitter. Tinged with some emotion he can’t quite place. Something primal and angry and feral. He’s lost so much because of some girl’s - what, pride? Jealousy? He lost basically everything because of an ex?

But take a step back. She may also… not have. He might still be the unlucky victim of some - admittedly - very coordinated bullies.

And when it came down to it, it never mattered who did this to him. The result would still be the same no matter where the blame lies. He still lost everything. He lost his friends, and his college, and his career… his family. They left him, too -

“You’re crying.”

A finger brushes his cheekbone, wicking the water away. He’d been so in his own head for the past few minutes he hadn’t realized.

“There’s more?” she guessed.

He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes with too-scratchy sleeves. “Yeah. Yeah, there - ” his voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and went on, “ - there is.”

“Tell me.” Gentle. Firm.

Another long, too-long pause.

“One of my professors saw my videos.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, but - he didn’t, like…” Another sigh, this one frustrated. “It hadn’t reached my family yet, so he blackmailed me.”

He didn’t elaborate further. Whatever it was seemed more painful than the rest.

She prodded anyway. “Into?”

“Into letting him fuck me.”

She blinked.

“He just… really liked what he saw in those videos, I guess. And someone got a picture! And it got into the news and then the school ousted me and then - !“

“Breathe,” she reminded him. More tears were budding at his lash line, and she wiped them gently away. They spilled and rolled over his cheekbones.

He sucked in a breath, then continued. It was like he’d opened the floodgates. Now he had to get everything out or he felt like he’d die. “And then my family learned about it anyway. My parents were never rich. We were relying on my uncle - he’s got a lot more money - to help me out financially. I was already on thin ice before for my major. And then it came out that I was - I was fucking guys and getting fucked by guys and sleeping with my professors and coaches and whatever the fuck else and that support was yanked out from under my feet like a rug. And then I had no job, so I was completely broke, and then I broke the phone I had and… “

“And?”

“And I’d never memorized my parents’ numbers. And they don’t know how to use the internet well, even when they have access, which they usually don’t. So I haven’t talked to them in…” He used to keep count of the weeks; he used to remember. It hurt to, though. He’d stopped.

“… In a long time. And that’s all. That’s my fucking - sob story, so, uh, take it or leave it I guess.”

She doesn’t speak for another long, long minute.

“Does talking about this at least feel any better?” she whispers.

“I don’t know what to feel.”

So she grips him tight, leaning to the side so they both topple over into the pillows.

He’s not usually the little spoon.

… It feels nice.

“How would you feel?” he asks after a minute. The cuddling is soothing, and he’s feeling braver now.

“Hm?”

“Like, if all this happened to you and you were me, how should you feel?”

“Well, is this a would or should scenario?”

He chews on that for a second, before answering, “Would.”

“Angry.”

“Should?”

“Angry.”

He scoffs. “Don’t you lose the moral high ground, then? Anger is all… evil and stuff.”

“Bullshit. Anger is perfectly moral.”

She doesn’t explain further, but he’s curious now. Perhaps he does feel a little better.

“… How so?”

“Here, roll over.”

“Huh?”

She loses her patience very quickly, gripping him by the waist and rolling him over herself. They’re face to face now. His nose is almost touching hers, and it makes his breath catch in his throat.

(Her face is really pretty.)

“Anger is perfectly righteous, and you wanna know why?”

Suddenly feeling very shy, he just nods. But that’s a bad idea because it makes their noses brush and he can’t help but imagine a different flavor of the sleepy mornings they share. Mornings where instead of blanket tug-of-war and nipped ears there’s just the gentle press and slide of soft lips and -

She must sense he’s not completely there, reaching up to pat at his face. He needs to hear what she has to say. He deserves anger. He blinks.

“You deserve anger.” Good start. “You deserve it because - because you’re worth it. You - you’re worth something, and because of that, you deserve to feel anger over how you’ve been mistreated and stepped on because everything that’s been done to you is wrong. Any moral standard that doesn’t allow you anger doesn’t allow you to defend yourself.”

Her hand’s stayed on his face. She lets her thumb brush the reddened rim of his eye, hoping that her fingers are cool enough to help with the swelling. She doesn’t like seeing him cry.

“And I understand that you gotta fight for the ability to feel angry for yourself but I - I just… that’s why I would and should be angry, if I were you. You deserve that anger.”

The urge to close his eyes and lose himself to the weight of her palm on his cheek and the gentle brushing of her palm is a strong one, but he forces himself to keep them open and look at her.

“I’d get angry,” she repeats. Her voice is a whisper. “And I’m angry for you.”

He doesn’t know if he agrees with her; at least not at first. But he tries to take it in the context of her life. Anger is what she’s learned it to be, not what society has said it is. So to her, anger is a different entity.

To her, anger must be justice. It’s her drive for justice.

And he’s on board with that.

He’s angry.

A/N: of course, now that im seven chapters in, im starting to dislike the chapter style. im thinking of - when this is all finished - doing one last collective post with all the parts in one, so its just a ~40k beast

tag list: @feed-my-geek-soul @not-novoa @astronomyturtle @anoushe01 @seokchella @dinorahrodriguez @mischiefmakerliesmith5 @studiojoonie

tag list glitches: @infiressnct @starryannaaa

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optimistic-dinosaur-nacho · 4 years

Text

Bloodshed AU

Chapter 7

Warnings: Nudity, Gore, Language, Adult Themes (Slight smut) Summary: Steve Rogers works in a research and tech company in New York. He’s been digging into myths and footage on a creature known as the werewolf. Vicious as they are, he hunts them. With a lot of failures, his team thinks he’s crazy. He may prove them wrong.

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Characters (Bloodshed Seven)

Chapter 8 is gonna be awesome. Chapter 7 and 8 are gonna be my favorites of all time!

I do not post my stories on any other websites. So if you see them anywhere else, it’s there without my consent.

Reblog, like and comment!

2 Years Ago.

“Go!” The girl screams, the silver-haired boy starts the car and starts to drive out of the forest. The girl sobs in the passenger seat as the boy reaches over and holds her hand. “Sis, you need to call the police. Do it, now!”

The girl digs for her phone and pulls it out, she turns to his window side and gasped. “Pietro!” Glass shatters on his side and the beast yelps, pulling away from the window as the boy drove off the road and crashes into the tree.

The girl pulls away from the dash, looking down at her clothes, her sweater covered in blood and she turns to the driver. “No! Pietro!” She grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Wake up, Pietro... Wake up!” She chokes a sob.

The girl gasps to the loud and long howl of the beast. She pulls her door open and stumbles out. Kicking herself away from the crash, she stumbles onto her feet and runs into the forest.

Another howl was called. She whimpers, stumbling over twigs. The forest could go on for miles. She knew there was a road a little ways out. She runs and trips over the log, crashing into pine needles and dirt. She turns around and picks up a rock, “Stay away from me!” She shouts.

The forest was quiet.

Her panting was harsh and short. She threw the rock over the brush and a low growl erupts from it. She stood up again and continued to run. She heard rustling on her left side. Her right. And behind.

She sobs and meets the hard ground, she realized she stood on the road. Headlights began to shine and she waved her hands, “Help! Help me please!” The truck stops in front of her and she rushes over to the driver.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” The man jumps out, she stumbles into his arms. “There’s something in the forest! They killed my brother! They-”

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down-”

“My brother...” She sobs and the man looks out to where she came from. Nothing was following her. Not anymore. The man looks down at her, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Wanda... Wanda Maximoff...” She says. He continues to hold her, “Where’s your brother?” Wanda points out to the forest, “We crashed on a dirt road. They... jumped through the window and broke it.” The man sees the blood on her and scans her body, “Are you hurt?” He asked.

She shook her head, knowing she did hit her head hard on the dash, “Call the police, please...” The man nods, shrugging off his jacket, “Here. Take this and sit in the truck. I’ll call the cops.”

He leaves her in front of the truck as he goes for his phone. The girl looks out to the forest. Shaking under his coat, her cheeks soaked in her own tears. She sobs quietly on the road.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” The police asked, the girl sat in the back of the ambulance truck. She still had the trucker’s coat as she stared at the ground. “Wanda Maximoff.”

“And what was your brother’s name?”

“Pietro Maximoff.”

“You’re twins,” The officer wrote the things down, “Do you have any parents? Anyone who we can call?” He asked. Wanda looks up to him, her lip lifting up with a low growl, “My parents died in a bombing. Here in Sokovia. Have you not heard? The man who did it got away with just a simple amount of money.”

The officer nods, “I do. And I’m sorry to hear that.” He continued to write some things down and he reaches for his belt and held them there. “You wanna tell me what happened?” Wanda looks over and sees what was Pietro’s body. Being dragged on a gurney into the other ambulance.

Wanda felt the tear fall, “It was them...” The officer furrows his brows and looks around, “Who is them?” He asked. Wanda lifts up her hand and shook in pure rage. The officer felt chills run up his spine the way she looked. Like a insane woman.

“The Bloodshed Seven...”

Steve sat there in the dark, the only light was still the window as it beamed in the center part of the room. He could see the soft glow of her face. Almost a hint of red glow in her eyes, he thought he might be on something.

Steve looks down in the book and sees that Erik had written down a few questions. He flicks his blue orbs back up to her.

“We read about you in an article back in 2013, you were 18 at the time. Your brother-”

“Pietro,” She blurts out. Steve looks up to her and nods, “Yes. Pietro. They reported that you both went out to visit your grandparents who lived in the woods? Can you tell me what happened?”

“Cold...” She mutters, Steve furrows his brows at her. She repeated the word in a low whisper. The man shuffled in his seat a little bit as she trailed off, dazing somewhere else. This woman was out of her mind. He needed to keep this going before she does flip out. “Wanda. I need you to focus-” Wanda grabs his shirt and tugs him forward, she was a few feet away but she was quick enough to snatch his shirt into her fists.

“They killed her! They killed Pietro! I was almost killed!” She tugs him back and she stumbles back into the darkness again.

“Like little red riding hood... running,” She says in a higher octave, sounding like a child. Steve fixes his shirt, feeling the uneasiness wash over him, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up. His breathing picked up as he watched her closely. What was the point to get this out of her? What was up with this cold blue moon? Was it a hunting season for the werewolves?

“Out jumped the big bad wolf...” She says in a low voice, picking at her hair as Steve watched her carefully. She felt his gaze and looks up to him, “Bloodshed seven hide... Come out under the cold moon. Little red riding hood has nowhere to hide. The wolf takes her. Tearing her limps, piece...”

Steve felt the nightmare rush through his thoughts. Those dark red eyes staring at him like the devil. Ripping his limps off, piece...

“By piece.” Steve looks over to the woman as she giggles in the corner. “Run. The boy who cried wolf. They will not help you...” Steve felt her dark gaze as she smiles up at him. “You’ll die in the forest... alone.”

Steve felt his heart clench in his chest, he rushed out of the room and the nurse never came to aid him as he rushed out of the building. The large slam of the front doors got Erik’s worried attention and spotted Steve come out, clenching his chest. The old man rushes up, “Rogers! Are you okay? What did she tell you?” He says, hovering his hands over the frightened grown man.

Steve doesn’t respond and slaps the journal into his chest, “We need to leave. Take your damn journal, I’m dropping your ass off at the lab.” With that, Steve jumps in the truck and leans over, panting heavily as he leaned on his wheel.

The growling filled his ears and he shook his head.

What a crazy woman.

Steve hadn’t contacted the three weirdos from yesterday. Not after seeing Maximoff in that hospital. Gave him a horrifying shock and his nightmares had gotten worse. He didn’t sleep well last night. He remembered when his thumb hovered over his phone to dial Natasha.

But he only closed it.

Steve needed something to help him think. He barely slept that night, so the diner across the street wasn’t so bad to clear his head. He sat in one of the booths and stared out the window, watching the cars pass by like it was some normal day for him.

In his mind was just the nightmares and that girl’s face.

The boy who cried wolf.

“Hey,” Someone spoke up, Steve turns to see Y/N, her large smile creeping up to her face. Steve seemed to grin at her, “Morning,” He says. Y/N had her coffee in hand, “I thought that was you. I was looking from across the diner,” She lied. Looking, he thought. How long has she been looking at him?

Y/N hadn’t spot him across the diner, it was the scent of him that made her come over. Her wolf went feral once again but she gained control. “May I?” She asks, gesturing to the empty booth, Steve nods. “Go ahead.”

Y/N sits in front of him and grins, “You’re lucky to see me again. Such a huge coincidence,” She softly chuckles. Steve grins up at her with the half-lidded eyes. Tired but such gentle and genuine eyes.

She lowers her head and Steve lifts up his, “So you and James?” Y/N looks over to him and she furrows her brows. “Bucky?” Steve gestures to her, “You and him...?” He trailed off.

Y/N realizes what he means and softly chuckles, “No! Oh no, we’re just really close friends. I consider him a brother.” Steve nods, maybe that’s why Bucky seemed a bit defensive toward her.

Protective brother.

“I think he hates me,” Steve admits, Y/N peers up at him hurtful, “No,” She lies, trying to sound truthful. “He doesn’t hate you. He just... He’s just a grump. Mostly he’s tired. Working on bikes...” Y/N raises her cup to her lips.

Steve grins at her and he slowly turns away, “Have you heard about werewolves roaming around your home?” He asked, noticing the way she pauses and lifts her head up, slightly choking.

“Werewolves? As in a man who shifts into a wolf? I mean some people can mistake bears as other things, I’ve seen wolves but not... werewolves,” She clears her throat.

Steve drops his head, “You know anyone who could have seen one?”

Y/N raises her head again, eyes narrowing at the slightest, “I honestly don’t know. I’ve seen videos and stuff but you know. College kids, crazy people who just beg for money. Like that Rogers guy.” Y/N grins and Steve felt his heart stop.

Y/N noticed and looked up to him, “Hey, you okay?” Steve lifts up his head and sees the worry in her eyes. He spots the flashes of the cold blue eyes reflect off her normal color eyes.

He hears large growling in his ear again. His heart beating against his own chest. The flash of those blue eyes of a werewolf, he shook his head and glass shatters. Y/N and Steve turn to see the waitress on her knees, cleaning up the mess of the plastic plates.

Steve placed his hands on the table and thought for a moment, “Sorry, I should go. I-” Y/N watches as he slides out of the booth and out towards the door. Y/N instantly stands up, “Wait, Steve.”

Steve pushes through the doors and he hears footsteps behind him. “Steve, wait!” He turns and looks at Y/N who runs up. “Hey, I’m sorry if I upset you for what I said.”

Steve tried to shake his head like it was no problem, “No, it’s fine. I just...” He pauses and sees the concern gaze coming from her. Does she not know who he was?

Y/N’s lips part, “I also wanted to... make up an offer.”

Steve doesn’t speak, letting her continue for her offer. She pants, “Did you want to come over for dinner? My family and I were having lasagna tonight. And I thought you’d like to get to know my family better. I surely knew we had a rough start and I think Ada likes you very much.”

Steve looks at her up and down, a tough gaze before he nods once. “Okay. Is eight alright?” He asked.

Y/N softly grins, “Make it seven. I’ll pick you up.” Steve grins back at her and they hear someone call for her. Steve spots Bucky on his bike, waving at Y/N. Dark shades covering his eyes but Steve knew Bucky was trying to kill him with looks. “I should go,” She says.

Steve looks over to her and nods, letting her walk off to Bucky. Steve and Bucky had kept their stares once Y/N greeted him. She hops on his bike and Bucky gave Steve one more glance. Keeping his eyes on the man, Bucky revved his motorcycle and rides off with Y/N. Leaving Steve there on the sidewalk. The man puffed out a long sigh. This dinner was not gonna end well.

“You did what?” Roman spats, Y/N could hear his wolf growl in his throat as she turned away from him. “I think we had a rough start! Besides, this guy doesn’t even look like he knows anything,” Y/N says, throwing her arms out in a shrug.

“Oh, so you pity him?” Randall asks.

Y/N’s wolf growled at him and that only made him smirk. “Whether you mutts like it or not, you can eat upstairs.” Ada wasn’t even in the conversation. Tatum was the one laughing through all of it. Bucky had been in the corner with his arms crossed. Not at the moment to jump in because this was about Steve. Something was off with the wolf man and Bucky didn’t trust the man.

“You think Roman can handle a human? His big bad wolf comes out like Ada’s worst days-” Roman’s wolf snarls at the teenager and Tatum’s wolf lets out a scared whine. Ada rolls her eyes at the two, “Y/N, I think what you’re doing is not what we all want. It’s not following our rules.”

“Then having sex with one another is not breaking the rules? And I didn’t know Roman had something down there,” Y/N remarks, Roman growled and storms up to her. The two back up into a wall and Y/N gets caged in Roman’s body.

His scent singed her nostrils as his flared. Her wolf growled loudly and so did his, both sharing deadly glares. “Is Ada your new Omega? Huh?” Y/N pushes, Roman grabs her throat and Ada was quick enough to rip the two apart.

“Enough you two! You!” She points at Roman, “Keep your distance! I don’t want to deal with a fight right now! And you!” Ada shouts, pointing at Y/N. “You keep your mouth shut.” Silence fell once again and Ada looks over to the clock.

It was almost 6.

She breathed out slowly, “We’ll allow this dinner. But if I hear another bitch comment from one of you two again, I will chain one of you outside. Do I make myself clear?” She asks.

Roman and Y/N glance at each other, both glaring for challenge with their eyes. Surely everything the whole group does is how off their growls, teeth, eyes and stance. Roman happened to be an Alpha. But not to Y/N. With a snap of Ada’s fingers, she points at the two, “Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N and Roman turn away from each other and Roman walks off without another word. Ada sighs, “Good. Now. Randall put on a damn shirt on. Tatum, you as well. Bucky, can you set up the table?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and heads into the kitchen. Ada turns to Y/N and sees the look on her face, the dark haired woman walks over and gently rubs Y/N’s shoulders. “Hey, calm down. He’s not gonna mess with him. I won’t let that happen. Go or the food will get cold.”

Y/N glances at Ada and watches her walk off. Y/N takes the car keys and heads for the car. She drove down to the town and waited for Steve to leave his room. Y/N could hear the click of his door and saw Steve step out of his room. He gets into the passenger seat and grins. “Nice ride,” He says, Y/N grins.

“Not nicer than the motorbike,” She said.

Steve grins, “I have one in New York. We would’ve rode back.” Y/N chuckles softly, “You consider being the one to hold me by the waist?” Steve shakes his head with a small smile, “Could be the other way around. I know how to ride one.”

Y/N doesn’t take that as a flirting thing and she softly laughs, pulling out of the parking lot to her house.

Once they reached her house, Steve gets out and waits for Y/N to meet up with him. Y/N was the first to step up to the doors and enter in the large cabin home. Steve could smell the food from here and Y/N shouts out to the family.

Y/N takes Steve into the dining room. The fireplace was lit and the dining lights were on. He heard large thuds, “Watch out!” Tate shouts, almost crashing into Steve’s shoulder as he flies into the room like a wild animal. Randall walks in afterwards, slightly giving Steve a glare up and down.

This family didn’t like him.

Y/N reassuringly gave him a pat on the back. “Let’s eat,” She said. Tatum and Randall sat on the one side, both starting shove each other. Ran gave the boy a glare and Tate returns with laughs.

Ada comes over and puts wine on the table. “It’s nice to see you again, Steve.” The man looks up and softly grins. “Thanks. You too.”

“Wine or beer?” She asked.

Steve looks over to Y/N for an approval, he stammers, “Uh... beer?” He asked. Ada nods but then Y/N raises her fingers, “I’ll grab them.” Y/N gives Steve a small glance as she stands up from her seat and walks over to the fridge, finding the bottles of beer.

“I’ll take one!” Tate shouts, only to receive a punch from Randall, “Ow!” The boy grunts. Steve inspected the two who probably had no manners on how to act around guests. But he didn’t mind it.

Her family was probably foster kids.

Neither of them looked relatable. He should ask her about it but he didn’t want to push more into her life. Y/N sits down next to him and popped open the caps. The two boys settled down and Steve saw Bucky walk in at the corner of his eyes.

Steve took a glance and Bucky watched him as he walked to the other side of the table with Ran and Tate, taking a seat there. Steve seemed to swallow hard as Ada joins at the table.

“I hope you like lasagna and garlic bread. Unless you’re a vampire,” Ada jokes, Steve chuckles along with Y/N but his was cut off by the look from Bucky. He cleared his throat and reached for his beer. Distracting himself with the taste stinging his taste buds.

Roman was the last one to enter the dining room. It wasn’t audible for Steve but Y/N sensed his wolf low growled as he sat down across from Ada.

“Roman. You remember Steve,” Ada says, sounding to nice as she was. Roman doesn’t even respond as he shoots a dark stare toward Steve and Y/N cleared her throat.

Steve needed to start something common to keep the silence from being awkward. He spoke, “What do you guys do? Like outside the house?” He asked.

Ada looks up and looked over to the family if one of them were going to speak. No one did so she cleared her throat, “Randall here cuts trees. A lumberjack, you can say. For about 6 years and he can name every tree,” Ada grins.

Steve manages to smile and Randall glares in return. Ada looks over to Tatum, “Tate here, he was home-schooled. He’s nineteen but he doesn’t consider on getting a job.”

“Yeah. It’s time he moves out,” Randall mutters, raising his glass to his mouth. Tatum shoves him and they scowl at each other. Ada grins, “Bucky here, he just works in the garage. Fixing an old motorbike he found in the scrapyard.” Steve looks over to Bucky who picked at his food and raised it up to his mouth.

“And I’m just an at-home mother. Roman is the alpha around the house,” Ada adds, laughing as it was a joke. Steve took it as one when Y/N forced a smile on her lips and Roman kept his eyes on Steve throughout the whole dinner.

Y/N’s wolf growled every time Roman would glance at her. It was around 9 and Y/N thought to return Steve back to the motel. So, he said goodbye to the family before heading out to Y/N’s car. She jumped in and pulled onto the dark highway.

The silence was awkward but the music was calming to them. Y/N seemed to get use to his scent. But her wolf thought otherwise. Y/N gently shook her head, “I’m sorry if my family... was odd. They never had someone come over in years.”

Steve turns, “How come?” He asked.

Y/N chuckles, “They just live so far out and they don’t talk to many people. We just have each other.” Steve nods and turns away to look at the road again. Y/N glances over to him, “Have you visited your mom?” She asked. Steve inhales softly and nodded, “I did.”

“Is she doing well?”

Steve grins softly, “Better than I ever seen her. She worries about me though. After my dad died, she thought I would struggle because him and I was going out more than ever. I joined the army and she gotten even more worried. Then I left when I found out she got cancer.”

Y/N nods softly and sighs, “I send her my regards. And to you.” Steve gazes over to her and grins sadly. Taking her regard nicely. “Thank you.”

The rest of the drive was calm and nice, Steve liked it. Y/N stopped at his room and Steve opens the door. “Thank you for dinner,” He says. Y/N swats her hand at him, “It was nothing. Besides... I’m open anytime to help.”

Steve smiles and closes her car door, walking towards his room. Once he did, Y/N looks up front and grips her hands on the wheel. Her wolf is going feral. Growling. For hunger. She barely ate at that dinner.

She craved it. His scent lingering on the passenger seat. Stealing a glance at the back of his head. She growled and ripped her keys out of the ignition. Seconds he got up to the door, Steve heard her door close and he got his motel room door open. With a turn, he felt hands grab him. Then a pair of lips crash onto his.

His body leans back but his head leaned into Y/N’s lips as she pulled him by his shirt. Steve’s hand reached for her waist, pulling the loops of her jeans as they back into his room and Y/N kicks the door close.

Steve shoves her, crashing into the TV. None of them seemed bothered by the crash as Steve tugs her shirt. He grabs her waist and rips her up onto the surface. She pulls his flannel off his shoulders and slipped her hands under his shirt.

He took that sign and ripped it off, going back to kiss her with need. His hand grabs her waist and she lets out a breathy moan.

The morning sun beams through the tangerine colored curtains. The fainted buzzing noise on the ground inside the unbuttoned dark jeans. Steve opens his eyes to the buzzing sound as he turns on his back and leans a bit off the bed to reach for his jeans.

Taking his phone in hand, his phone notified him a missed call.

Missed call from Natasha

Steve placed his phone on the nightstand that had no sign of the lamp anymore. He looks at the lamp on the ground and slowly sat up from the bed. Viewed the whole room that looked like animals had invaded the space. The TV was on the ground, his cigarette packet and personal things are sprawled all over the ground.

He sees black bra on the edge of the bed and turns to see Y/N’s bare back. He rubs his face and yawns softly, taking in the scene around him.

He’d have to ask for a maid to clean it up. Maybe a new room. Y/N was good friend’s with Erik, perhaps he’ll understand. Steve didn’t want to get up. Instead, he looked to his right and reaches over with his left hand to rub his finger down her spine. Y/N doesn’t stir, hair falling over his cheeks while he leaned in to kiss behind her ear. Then her jaw. Her jaw to her shoulder. Y/N stirs this time, moaning softly.

His hand trails down her body as she turned onto her back to look up to him. Steve continued to pepper her with kisses before he pulled away to look at her tired eyes. Her neck covered in red bruises and bites. Hair disheveled from being pulled. Somewhere around 3 rounds, he knew she could probably go for hours.

Some bruises have already healed, and he remembered them being dark as the night sky. Her upper half was not covered with the sheets, but he didn’t look down to enjoy those curves. Instead, he just looked into her eyes. She smiles, “What?” She laughs softly.

Steve looks up at her hair then down to her eyes again, “Nothing. Just...” He didn’t have the words as he reached up to her right cheek with his left hand. She closes her eyes to the warmth from his hand.

Her skin was warm as well. It always was.

His thumb brushes over her cheek as she hums, “What time is it?” She asked. Steve finally looks down her chest, his hand going to her ribs now just under her breast. “It’s 9 in the morning.”

Y/N reaches up to her face, rubbing the side of it as she yawns. She turns onto her side to face him as he smiles at her. He thought about his stomach growling, wanting to grab some breakfast.

“You wanna grab breakfast?” He asked, Y/N looks down at his chest, running her hand down the gathered chest hair and a small happy trail. She hums, “We can go after a shower.”

Steve grins and places a kiss on her lips.

She placed another on his and he reaches for her cheek, keeping her there and she sits up on top of his lap, kissing him. Steve’s palm lays flat on her back and the other hooks under her knee before he lifts her up when he stands, taking her into the bathroom.

Y/N sat in the booth with Steve in the diner. Y/N thanked the waiter when he placed down their coffees on their table. Y/N reaches for the cream and poured in the cup. Steve noticed she had her tank top and one of his flannels. Steve wore his blue tee and a grey bomber jacket.

Steve grins.

“What?” Y/N peers up at him, grabbing the sugar and ripping it open with her teeth. That gave him the thought when she popped open button of his jeans with her teeth.

“Nothing. Just...” He trails off, Y/N grins up at him with her her tilted down focused on her coffee. “You keep looking like that, you might get stuck with that look,” She says, Steve smiles at her and finally reaches for his coffee.

This wasn’t his usual thing. Sure, Steve brought women to his apartment, but he didn’t keep them for long. He wasn’t sure if he was keeping her or stuck with her. She just kept running into him. He didn’t believe in those things where you meet the one and you can’t stop running into places at the same time.

His mom had that with his father.

But he didn’t believe it. He just might, though. “So,” Y/N spoke up, shuffling in her seat, “I believe I haven’t had a full conversation from you. So, this will be a social experiment.” Y/N leans and squints at him, “Where were you born?”

“I was born in Brooklyn, New York, 1981,” He says, “You?”

Y/N leans back, “I don’t remember. My family moved a lot.”

Steve picks up his coffee, “Well, you’re not getting far with this social experiment.” Y/N tilts her head, “I’m serious. My family never really spoken about where we were living. But I was also born in 1981,” She replied.

Steve thought where she could’ve been born in. California. Maybe New Jersey. Vermont. She looks like she’s somewhere around Europe. Y/N doesn’t really have an accent to find out where she was from.

“Anyway, what’s your job?” She asked.

Steve sighs, leaning on his arms, his head thinking on how to word it. “It’s a company for research and tech in New York. You probably know the playboy, Tony Stark.”

Y/N nods, “Yeah. Heard some nasty things from others but go ahead. What do you research?” She asked.

Steve smacks his lips together, “Let’s see, anything that could be endangered or dangerous to the world. Our recent mission was escorting refugees back to their homes. We did solve a few world problems. But, we’re really just a couple of people who research and take small missions. I actually have to be somewhere in two days.”

Y/N pulls her hands to her face, lacing them together as she looked out the window. “You plan on returning?” She asked, Steve looks over and sees that her mood seemed to change.

But he couldn’t read it enough to know what she was thinking. Before he could answer, the waiter gives them their plates. Then they ate. It seem that the question was abandoned in thought as they laughed and talked more about other things.

Steve found out that she and her family had been all around the world. She knew a lot of languages, too. Y/N’s family was also part Native and he just couldn’t help but just think about her eyes.

Y/N grins and sees his face, “You seem content,” She says, stopping her conversation about her skiing trip. Steve shakes his head slowly. “What?” Y/N asked.

Steve saw it again. “Your eyes...” Y/N reaches up to her cheek and leans forward, “What about them?” She sounded self-conscious about them. “They just... They shine a bright blue sometimes,” He says.

Y/N reaches up to her eyes and nervously chuckles, “It’s a uh-...some disorder, that I have. I guess my natural color goes to a brighter color,” She stammers, “It’s weird honestly-”

“No,” Steve cuts her off, “It’s beautiful.” Y/N lifts her head up to him and softly smiles. He smiled back and reaches over the table for her hand. Taking it in his. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket so he reaches into his jeans and looks at his phone.

Incoming call. . . Natasha

Steve’s eyes narrow, “Sorry, I need to take this.” Y/N lets him go as he slides out of the booth and out the door.

“Hello?”

“Steve, it’s been 5 days. Not to be pushy and mean but what’s your mother got to do with these five days? We’re starting to pack for this mission and you’re still not here. If you’re there for those things I-”

“Nice to hear you to. But look, Nat, my mother is more sick than you know,” Steve deluded, looking around the town to see people walk down the sidewalks. Car passing by.

“I don’t believe a word what Cap is saying, you know how bad a liar he is,” Steve hears Tony on the phone. Nat groans, “Tony, get off the damn phone!” Steve shakes his head at the man before Natasha spoke again.

“Come home, you’ll only make this worse. They’ll come for you. For all of us. Please.” She pleads.

“You saying you’ll arrest me?” He inquired. Nat scoffed, “No. Did you hear arrest come out of my mouth, no- What I’m saying is, they’re gonna come looking for you ‘cause they know what you’re doing.” Steve looked around to see if anyone was watching him. If Natasha had been stalking him, she would’ve.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nat. What I’m doing is a family emergency,” He says, “I’ll be there in two days. You’ll be boarding up the stuff, I promise I’ll be there.”

“Don’t make us come there ourselves. I know you, Steve. I read everything on your desk at the apartment. This is gonna get you arrested. Maybe they’ll put you in a hospital for Christ’s sake! People will kill you, that’s how Joseph died.”

Steve stops at that and instantly Natasha regrets it, letting out a sigh, “I’m sorry, Steve. Just... please, come back. I don’t want you getting hurt in all this folktales.“ Who knew how much his team actually cared for his health. Natasha had always came to his aid. PTSD wasn’t no joke and she always was there when he needed it. Which is why he had her on speed dial for these things. She cared. But she didn’t believe him on this one.

“I should be the one to bring these things down,” Steve says.

“Why?”

“Because I’m the one least likely to die trying.”

Natasha hears him hang up and she pulled her phone away, “Shit.” Sam and the rest of the team stood out in front of her along with two agents in dark suits. “Did he tell you to stay out of it?” Sam asked.

Natasha ignores Sam and looks over to Phil Coulson who nods, “Thank you, Ms. Romanoff. We’ll be sure to bring in Rogers in time for your flight to Australia.” Nat watches as she sees him walk away with a familiar face when she worked in their division.

Her brown hair bounced on her shoulders as Phil takes her out of the building. “I’m sending you and Agent 13 to Oregon. I gotten the information on his mother, we call her, we might just find him at the right time and right spot. Keep your distance. Watch him. He’s gonna get further than anyone else.”

“I might need assistance on the trucks. We’re not sure what we’re handling at this moment,” She says, accent thick and determined. Phil walks over to the car and nods, “Will do. I’m counting on you, Miss Carter. Bring him and those things in.”

“I know in my mind, he’s not in the right place. I know him better than anyone else. How do you want this to be handled?” She asked, Phil opens his car door and glanced over the car roof and smiled.

“You catch them. Don’t play nice. If he resists the action, I would start losing deep feelings for him and don’t play nice with him either. Give them hell, Margaret.”

The woman watched Phil leave the lot with his car and she stood there, the long nervous stare. Her fingers rubbing against each other nervously before she jumps into her car and starts it.

Posting edits a friend made for the series!

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#chris evans x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steverogers #chris evans #chrisevans #steve rogers au #steve rogers x werewolf!reader #steve rogers x reader au #werewolf au #captain america x reader #captain america #Captainamerica #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader smut #slight smut

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sappire-charizard · 6 years

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Whee, updates!

Short summary (because it gets reeeeally long under the read more and I totally don’t expect anyone to read everything): Pupper died, kitty died x2, mom’s in a wheelchair because the VA is terrible apparently, epilepsy is still a thing, money’s still a bit tight, and our winters are cold. But! Video games are fun and I’ve adopted a new feral kitty and her kittens! Also I’m trying to make a game now! And my uncle is nice enough to take me to church whenever he can! :D

Still living at home with mom; still have epilepsy, still not able to work or drive, still trying to earn my keep by helping out around the house.

Last winter we had some pipes burst! I’ve had to master the art of DIY plumbing and got it mostly fixed but it was way more stressful than it should’ve been and that was preeetty much why I vanished on here again.

I don’t recall ever putting it on here; our dog, Elvis, ultimately passed away about a year or so after my step dad did. He ended up with cancer and we had to put him down. He was a good pupper right up until the end and I had to do my darnedest not to cry in front of him since he was such a sensitive bab. At the time, our car was in the shop and we had to call for a taxi. The driver was insanely kind to us and put up with us putting a hundred pounds of dog in his backseat, and didn’t charge us extra when we asked to stop at a gas station to get some junk food to drown our sorrows in. He also told us the story of how he put his own dog down, and how sorry he was to hear it had happened to us, too.

One of our cats died- Tricky, our big black kitty. She got cancer, as well, and when we couldn’t get her to eat even with taking something to increase appetite we had to have her put down. She was an absolute sweetheart and the vet let me hold her while they gave her the injection.

I’m pretty sure I posted on here when our other kitty- Moony- died year before last? In case I didn’t: It was kidney failure. There wasn’t anything that could be done. He became joined at the hip with me when he first started getting sick, and having to make the call myself to have him put down hurt.

More kittens happened!! We had a feral kitty (feral as in you didn’t want to approach her or she would probably attack) that was best friends with Elvis and used to eat and sleep with him for protection against our other feral cats. After we lost him, we kept putting food out in his bowl for her to eat in the garage. That became primarily my job and after working with her for around three years (I’d started trying to work with her before Elvis even got sick) she started approaching me and rubbing against my legs. Then she proceeded to have kittens and I had to activate CODE ADORABLE and we adopted all four of them- and her! The kittens were darlings and one in particular (named Cobbler now) considered me his second mother, but it was pretty easy to coax them inside the house once they were around three weeks old. Mama cat followed them and we led them into a spare bedroom. That was two years ago, and they’ve all been fixed and given their shots and they’re a bunch of healthy little babies! Cobbler is still the mama’s boy, though, and he won’t eat in the morning unless I pick him up and talk to him for a good few minutes.

Pokemon!! Pokemon has been something of a saving grace for me! Between car break downs (which happen every few months it seems), doctor appointments, and just life being generally not fun, Pokemon has helped keep me a little sane. In the past year and a half I’ve played through around... seven games, including the USUM and LGPE. Let’s Go Eevee is stupidly fun, for the record, and Eevee, Mew, and I are steamrolling over Kanto and finding shinies along the way.

This spring! This! Past! Spring! I saw someone reblog a post on here talking about turning characters without a set backstory into a fighting game, then someone added to make a dating game and included links to Ren’py and a few other engines and whoo boy. I decided to try Ren’py and I got hooked and now I’m making a game I guess?? It’s a weird mix of point-and-click, dating sim, and adventure at this point. I’m making it entirely myself (art, programming, writing/plot) and it’s been super fun!! My art’s improved a lot as a result and I totally need to share game progress on here!

My mom’s wheelchair thing is a loooong story. In an effort to keep it a little short: basically her VA doctor ignored her back pain, sent her to physical therapy, ultimately drove her into a wheelchair. Not fun.

This past November was a mess of no sleep and little food and I’m still kind of reeling from it. Slowly getting back into the swing of things, though!

Throughout all of this, I’ve been super grateful for my uncle!! He lives an hour away and preaches at a church in his city, but he makes a concentrated effort to come and pick me up once a month to go to church with him and have a meal with his congregation. He also sometimes drops some food off for me and my mom when he knows things are particularly tight for us. I’d never tell him and he probably doesn’t realize it, but he feels like the closest thing I have to a dad these days. <3

AND YEAH BASICALLY THINGS HAVE BEEN HECTIC.

But there’s been some good hectic buried in there!

I really have missed having Tumblr to come on and just dump art and writing and stuff, though, so I’m glad things seem to be settling down a bit so I can tentatively try to come back here. <3

#personal #sappire personal #WHOO BOY THAT WAS WAY TOO LONG WINDED #seriously though I was mostly just writing out the longer in-depth update for my own future self #because I like going through my old posts from time-to-time and remember how far I've come #so the tl;dr exists and covers the bases #I don't want it to come across as like #'I AM SUCH AN IMPORTANT PERSON YOU MUST READ MY ENTIRE LIFE STORY'#because that's not it at all I promise #ignoring this post altogether is fine #but I'm doing kind of okay right now!!#that's the only real relevant thing!#I'm feeling pretty good this morning and I think I'm just gonna curl up with a warm blanket and Let's Go Eevee #c:

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winterwolvesandstarbucks · 3 years

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Every counter-play of defense that was encrypted within the breached algorithm had surgically imploded when Natasha unleashed the parasitic files-records of HYDRA operatives viper nests to global security networks; she was a rogue SHIELD operative that needed to go off-grid-to become an undetected apparition within the shadow-zones. She needed to claim a new charade of utilized identity-relevance away from the exposed crosshairs of Interpol, purchasing a synthetic relevance was a practiced device of survival.

Standing under the amber glow of a dock light, rigidly Natasha gripped onto the strap of a backpack, fixing her grayish-teal irises unwaveringly on a cargo ship."Well, that's convenient," she quipped, huskily, crouching low on her denim-clad haunches as dockyard patrol sentry neared her obscured proximity. Doing a gypsy-run was the only way to reach a harbor point in Prague-stock up on arsenals of passports and food rations while traveling back to the Ukraine city of Chernihiv.

Keeping herself poised with balletic-hone agility behind a rusted oil barrel, attentively, on instinctive reaction, Natasha keenly registered whimpering yelps in unison that puppishly resonating within an intact whiskey crate- definitely rejected stray pups. Throw-away orphans that starvingly calling out for their mother. Easing her leather gloved hand over the ratty blanket-sheathed crate with a tentative flex, she delivered a pacifying caress over the distressed bundle. " Easy little furballs, I'm just going to peak..."

She felt a brush of air blow up her neck. It was all the warning sign she needed to know to react in the face of a hostile encounter. But as she swerved to draw her Glock, something rock-hard slammed against her and sent her spiraling backwards on the balls of her feet. The crushing pain she felt in her right side was ignored as she surrendered her body to its natural instincts. Years of training as a ballerina gave her the grace and skill to use her own momentum to roll and back-flip onto her feet. Her teal eyes were hard and alert but they soon widened in muted shock once she realized who her assailant was.

"Derzhis' ot nikh podal'she (Stay away from them)." A harsh familiar baritone threatened with a look of pure unadulterated rage that beckoned to be unleashed. Steel-blue eyes glistened in the midday sun beneath a grungy black-hoodie, framed by wolfish locks. The whirring of a mechanical limb pierced through the tension as her attacker stood his ground and drew his knife. "YA znayu kto ty (I know who you are)." The Winter Soldier said. The woman he fought on the bridge, who escaped his gun. Perhaps more than any other he'd come across. He glanced at the whining pups in the box, feeling apprehensive.

Damnit...It was a blood-rushing mantra that was careening through her adrenalized veins, intimidatingly aware of the menacing prowess of his sashayed advances, a mechanized precision that hypnotically induced an electrified tenor of unwarranted dread in his marked prey. Brandishing deceptive readiness, Natasha dragged her boots to blindingly mirror the arcing-murderous precision of his combat knife that slashed a breadth over her shoulder, lithely Natasha angled her curvaceous form against oil drum at the breathless second his bionic arm explosively delivered a haymaker sweep with bestial-propelling momentum; his metallic fist cannoned sledgehammering force through dented steel with unhinged rabidness, grungily drenching her copper-auburn tresses with sludgy oil. "James..." she urged out, in terse pitch, chiding herself for not being armed with EMP taser disk."It's Natalia...I know you pulled Steve Rogers out of the river, you saved him, didn't you?

"Shut up!" He yelled. Her words registered but he willed himself to ignore them, telling himself this was some sort of trap and that soon she would be leading her comrades to him. They would imprison or kill him...and take away his precious litter. That thought burned him and he was consumed by the overwhelming need to protect what was more important to him than anything. He continued his relentless assault. Like a bull seeking to ram his prey, he charged and attempted to ram her against a box of shipping containers. She was graceful like a swan and leaped over him. Her legs wrapped around his head. A maneuver he was familiar with. He threw his weight back, causing both of them to topple over boxes and land hard on their sides. He didn't miss a beat over the fall and swung his fist towards her. She narrowly evaded him, causing his hand to puncture a crate. "You will not take me. You won't take them!"

Gripping onto a hinged variance of restraint, blurringly in a feverish rush, Natasha yanked the material of his threadbare hoodie chestnut wolfish tresses disheveledly curtained his stubbled jaw, her feverish cheeks as he gnashed his teeth against a throated snarl, ferally revealing a mutative length of canine incisors that alarmingly jutted undercurve his bloodied shapely-wide lips—a morphic possession that he couldn't stave down. A concussive strobe of white-heat bleared her vision, straining against a choke of breath, haphazardly, Natasha gazed back at the precious crate-he was viscerally attached to the distressed baby pups inside."Okay, that's interesting," she murmured, raspily, cobra-striking her lithe hand up to effectively seize his cybertronic arm-the rigged gravity of mercy was on a knife-edge. "What did Pierce do to you...?"

"What he did?!" He spat, feeling the aching pierce in his jaws that told him his canines were near to puncturing his gums and lips. He flicked his knife between his digits and made a charging upward swipe, managing to cut into her jacket, causing her to yell and attack with her own series of judo kicks. "Everything!" He cried. He had been unmade so many times over. His humanity and memories stripped from him. So much he didn't know, but that much to him was clear. He had no name. No family. No friends. All he had were the three pups crying out to him to come protect them. "Hydra took my identity, my freedom...my humanity!" He landed a punch across her stomach, causing her to gasp. She responded by swiping his legs out from under him, causing him to crash on his back, losing his knife. "Now you want to stop my mission...to protect my mission." Those pups were his only mission now, and he would not lose them.

Attuned to driving thrust of his robotic momentum arced to immobilize her into a destabilizing choke-hold in aggressive fruition as he remained locked into submission, with viperish speed, Natasha drove a hammer-strike precision of side kidney punch into tauten flesh his V-braced pelvis; a guttural roar achingly deafened out him as Natasha bodily staddled the athletic sleekness of her denim-clad thighs fluidly over bulkier-ridges of graven muscle chubbily bracketing a stockier heaviness of his garbed abdomen-a definite flex of protrusive strain bloatedly conveyed rampant-contractive urgency.

Against sweltry dampness of his unkempt tresses, his razored steel-aquamarine irises nakedly floored knifing heat that melded with stuporous desperation as he rackingly glanced down at the crate. "I'm guessing what's snug in here belongs to you?" she deduced in huskier pitch, ruefully, hearing the distressed volumes of hunger beckoningly amplify-the underground extensions of HYDRA's butcherous industry was fueled by an unslaked-infectious tantamount of spawning new breeds of compliance.

The vitality of resistance was amputated by sadistic methods of -psychological mania: electronic-convulsive tortures of being strapped into a mortified dentist chair while agonized-limbic- pulses forced memories into a catatonic drift. The Winter Soldier was a reactivated-brutish instrument of termination-a muzzled beast machine condemningly leashed under the merciless grip of his handlers. The scars of the Odessa bullet etched in her alabaster flesh was branded reckoning that she needed to evict, he pulled Steve out of the Platonic River with a measure of soldiery valiance. Maybe he was worth a chance of redemption. With an errant visage of trust, Natasha gestured her hand lithely towards his litter-babies. "Answer me this, are they your...sem'ya(Family)?"

Winter Soldier had not often been at the mercy of those he fought in the field. The brutal harsh training in the dregs of Russia had instilled in him an endurance that could only be beaten into a wild dog. His comrades that were on ice had been just as equally efficient as him, but they all lacked the experience and metal appendage that made him such a dangerous assassin. But now if they could see him, at the mercy of a Widow straddling his waist with his mission in jeopardy of undoing him. He was compromised-tampered with ever since Pierce had decided to turn him into an experiment for breeding hybrid super-soldiers.

"Yes. They are mine…" He finally admitted to the Widow's cool facade. Her teal eyes were hypnotic and spell-binding that he knew then just how dangerous it was for her to weave webs of seduction with them. He shifted his gaze uncomfortably, feeling a solemn absence from within as his thoughts carried him back to a night in Bavaria he had not forgotten. To an elusive feline that had stolen the other half of his heart and fled into obscurity. "They are all that's left of the man I was. They're apart of me...They need me." He grimaced and groaned at the twisting of his abdomen, feeling and dreading the sensation of his belly swelling. He needed them just as bad.

Keeping the delicate contours of her vixenishly sirenic features nonplussed, Natasha felt a neasous rush of heat mounting in his veins; a sloshing pulse of his swelled abdomen grew bloatedly tenser. Luckily they were in a backlit dead zone-the dockyard wasn't located in the grid of surveillance; General Thunderbolt Ross wouldn't be mobilizing a dispatched strike team without a breach from the video feeds. Dragging out a terse breath, Natasha shifted her collective gaze at the darkened warehouse-a disused stockpile of shipping parts-that would serve has their inventive advantage. "Okay..." she coolly murmured, easing herself off lycan Siberian assassin's bulkier form, as their shadowed gazes heatedly clashed with the stark rawness of clamorous urgency."Ready to play hide-seek, mal'chik-volk (wolf boy)?"

His confusion lasted a mere moment before he watched Widow turn and walk towards the darkened warehouse. Was this a ruse of some kind? He wondered if he should take his pups and flee while there was time. But that wasn't an option. The shipping vessel was their only way out of the country and he couldn't afford to miss that departure. Hesitantly he climbs to his feet and follows her into the warehouse, but not before bringing the box with him. He cradled it gently against his waist, murmuring sweet-nothings in Russian to soothe the fussy little furballs inside who were squirming with thirst. The warehouse was dim but the lights shining through the high-rise windows was enough to see their surroundings.

The Widow, Natalia stood facing him, watching him closely as he set his box aside and used his flesh covered digits to rub comforting circles into his baby pups. "Why are you here? How did you find me?" He asked her, unwilling to beat around the bush.

There was no ingenuous answer-the algorithmic program Insight had cripplingly demolished her practical safeguards-profitable information of SHEILD's hardware was being trafficked to the highest bidder with fixed interest. The coolness of her sterling arrow pendant was a token-a promise to keep her best friend-Clint-out of the inevitable crossfire with rogue SHIELD agents."Circumstances have shifted..." she murmured against gritted breath, watching his bionic hand splay a chaste graze of virile- tactile heat affectionately over the infant furry pudge-balls in soothing accord -a gracing touch of protective reverence. "...and now I'm looking over my shoulder just like you..."

"Like me?" The Soldier nearly scoffed at that. What little he knew about the Widow did not exclude the fact she was a renown hero with powerful friends backing her even with the collapse of SHIELD. He was an infamous myth made real and every government around the world would be after him once the details of his crimes were made clearer. He had no friends, no one to rely upon to see him through this. "You know too little about me. But I know you...Natalia." The name-that name. It resurfaced some memories he didn't know he still had, and made him realize where he had seen her before. "You were trained to kill your enemies. If there is anyone who you had cause to take revenge, it would be me. ...Why haven't you?"

He was one of the men who trained her in the Red Room until his handler Karpov put him back on ice. Severing the bond they were forging as mentor and student. He taught her to never hesitate when her target was in sights. How much had she changed? He put two bullets into her over their many encounters. Anyone else would have taken retribution.

Every pulse of traitorous resistance was contrasted against the crimson silhouettes of the Widow operative ranks; every orphaned ballerina-little swan- was surgically weaponized to tragically mature into combative-lethal sirens of incarnate bloodlines. The mansion estate fringed with black pines of Novgorod, Russia was a gladiatorial arena conducted by a power-mongering Lubyanka general- Vasily Karpov- who brutishly exposed verminous -defective weaknesses in his elite ranks, deadening echoes of mercy with paralytic shunts of nitrogen-solidifying bones into unbreakable granite. 'My nikogda ne lomayemsya (We never break)'...'

Little Natalia Romanova was discarded like an ineffective stray-betrayed by her adoptive father Ivan Petrovich when he traded her virginal innocence to demonic watchdogs of the Red Room; they butchered her to dance to the symphonic-dynamical cadence of a venomous seduction-a- morbid concerto of Tchaikovsky's swan lake-programmed sterilization. Those balletic-harmonic rigors of elegant graces weren't for staged performances at the Bolshoi. She was trying to purge out the demons that marked her 'red' ledger; all evidence of her blood-soaked -unforgivable past was digitalized to public viewing because of that shyster Alexander Pierce -she was now a rogue deviant, cut off the deceitful threads.

With her Glock holstered against the tone-suppleness of her back, Natasha understood the grounds of phantom trust always wavered, the grip of tension was rigged on high-voltage, she wouldn't disarm her resolve; on the snowy mountain ridges of Odessa. She betrayed her on instinctive-mechanical vigilance when she received the 'greenlight' protocol to escort a high-priority target for SHEILD's interest-a HYDRA convoy obstructed that mission-hailstorm staccatos of lethal-surgical precision delivered a gut-shot throb of white-heat in her lower abdomen-a paralyzing apparition of point-blank mercy for her to bleed out. 'Ty poshchadil, malen'kiy pauk ...(You're spared, little spider)'

"I know when the pull back the trigger," Natasha murmured in a thready pitch, a subtle quirk played over her voluminous lips as she fixedly gazed at the fussy baby pups. "Now I'm trying to keep a very effective promise that I can do the right thing..."

He didn't question for details. Not when the swelling in his stomach had become a gut-piercing discomfort that made him noticeably grimace. He couldn't put off the irrepressible need that came with his new form. "I have to…I have to…" He arched forward and held his stomach, stifling the groan of pain but unable to mask the rumbling bellow of his stomach to his curious observer. "I have to get out of America. Take them far from here…" The last bit of his resistance towards the Widow had evaporated and now he was looking at her with beseeching eyes, begging for aid he could not expect her to give. "I thought I could do this alone, but-" And then he tumbled forward, dropping onto all fours as he felt his skin crawl with something feral underneath ready to break free.

Bracing his atrophied weight into a planking stance over cement against penetrative-deadened traction possessing his virile-enhanced resilience, vertiginously underneath his tactical fatigues, the tautened-corded sleekness of his muscled-heavier thighs bulkily flexed with athletic torque as he became paralyzingly grappled into drags of a morphic fringe. Angling his head down shaggily his wolfish tresses hung grungily askew over his temples as his sensuous-bow lips widened agape; jutted extension of his incisor fangs curved with a predatory edge. In that breathless-alarmed wake of rampant confusion, as she painstakingly reeled back in conscious footing near a garage door, Natasha owlishly gazed at the pointed curves of his ears furrily sharpening into outstretched-bestial length as his throaty pants became gutturally coupled with quivery-ragged breaths."Vernis' (Get back)..." he choked out in Russian timbre, slurringly, tucked his cybernetic arm over the ballooning rotundity of his pudgier mid-drift-he was gruelingly plumping up as the whimpering cries of the baby pups grew heart-breakingly distressed. "Please you gotta...Arghh..."

His words had transitioned into a guttural growl that was animalistic-inhuman. The walls seemed to echo and shake in the midst of the intense spectacle that had Natasha watching with incredulity. She wasn't scared, not after witnessing such things as the Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk. But she was stunned by this unexpected variable that introduced itself with the Winter Soldier. His body began to shift and change before her very eyes. Bulking muscles of human athleticism were now covered with patches of growing fur that spread across his body like wildfire. His appendages bent and twisted, causing a sickening snap to be heard and a howl to escape his lips.

No longer bipedal but quadrupedal in his posture that resembled a wild animal. His steel blue eyes opened, and shimmered like a silvery moon in the darkness. His bared canines extended likes blades being unsheathed from their scabbards, glistening with drool. Moments passed and James Bucky Barnes-The Winter Soldier-was gone before her eyes. All that remained as an overgrown Siberian wolf laying exhausted on his side-spent of energy.

As her tactical instincts hastily steered her towards a garage door in urgent succession, Natasha haphazardly reached for a power control box, hammering her fist with bruising momentum into a button that automatically lowered the metal door. The nauseous of the rank of milk fluid wafted smellily off the taut swollenness chestnut-furred alpha's bloated girth. Rearing his canine off exhaustingly off a heap of his torn sweater, readily James shifted a massive hind paw, exposing his underbelly as one of the sightless baby pups raised her tinier head against the crate's edge, adorably whimpering for her-Daddy in squeaky pitch. "Do you trust me enough to bring them to you..." she urged, convincingly, feverous tension between them was skyrocketing to overdrive-propelling her into a chimeric throe."We both know how this plays out, right?"

"N-Need help…" Was all he managed to whine out. He didn't know if she could understand him in this form. His exhaustion prevented him from being more expressive in his speech and he was reduced to a weakened mess while his baby-pups cried out for him. His sight was blurry, but he could make out the distinguishable shape of Natalia standing close to him-close to his babies. His fight with her had taken what remained of his strength to endure the transformation, and now he had no choice but to trust her help that she now offered.

"B-Bring them…" He whined. His tongue hung loosely from his opened jaw, and the rise and fall of his belly felt like a crushing weight being pressed against him with each breath he took. He needed to release and nourish his off-spring.

The unwarranted barrage of detonative urgency was fused like a powder-keg, scrunching her nose against the vomitous reek glozing out of him, tactilely with evident swiftness of her cautious delicacy, Natasha vigilantly crouched a breadth near the crate with tentative ease, the smokiness of her grayish-teal irises roved over the dozy bundle of pudgy infant wolf pups fussily nestled over tactical kevlar of the Winter Soldier's jacket. The infant pups were heart-arrestingly precious within the cushioned snugness of their box; enchantingly adorned with cindery-chestnut downy fur as their clawed-paws furrily twitched on the blinded accord. "Well, that's kinda cute-" she quipped, jauntily under breath; driven by viscerous tenor of gentleness, she reached down to cradle a pup while kneading a featherlight caress of her gloved fingers over a shivering girl pup as her tinier snubbed muzzle nudged her palm. "It's okay malen'kaya milaya (little sweetheart), your safe with me..."

As the transformed soldier listened to Romanova's voice soothe his infant, he felt whatever lingering apprehension he still felt over this situation begin to fade. His weary eyes watched as she brought the youngest of his litter, Madison, over to him, with a gentleness he never would have expected from hands so used to wielding the cold grip of a pistol. Then again, he was not one to judge, given his own bloody history. "Spasibo (Thank you)." He rumbled to her as she set Madison down next to his swollen belly. Almost instantly he felt the gentle nipping and tugging that was uncomfortable at first but almost immediately, it paved the way for relief.

"The others, bring them too," he urged. His infant was feeding herself and Natalia didn't miss a beat as she wandered over to the box to retrieve his the eldest of his off-spring-the twins who entered the world at the same time.

Racking distress clashed tremored against her leather-clad arms, the pudgier male thrashed feistily against the voluptuous swell of her breasts, Natasha unerringly angled lithe contours of her forearm, as she cradled the daintier-tremulous female pup as she lowered to the canine alpha's grounded level. The luminous-voltaic sapphire of his irises glacially flashed banking menace as she consciously breached the heavier proximity of his exposed girth, shifting his twin pups against the milk-drench fur where the littlest of his litter suckled down hungrily."So I'm figuring that you've been hiding these furballs since Pierce cut you loose..." she coolly breathed, arching up an eyebrow, as she half-smirked, cannily. "He exchanged their lives for you to stop Rogers from deactivating Project Insight, he tugged on the right thread..."

Giving birth to a litter of pups was something he believed next to impossible, but now he began to understand much about it over the past few months since they escaped Hydra surveillance. After pulling the Captain...Steve...from the Potomac River, the Soldier knew Pierce was finished. His only thought was getting back to the safe-house and collecting his pups from the men Pierce had guarding them. They'd been on the run ever since.

"He's gone now. But Hydra is still out there...I went to the museum for answers...That man, Steve...He called me "Bucky"." It felt like a question and not a comment. He looked to Natalia for any hint of recognition. She wore her mask well enough to disguise any answer.

The murmurous croakiness of his gravelly timbre left her warringly reluctant to answer as soul-gripping tension electrified her into an unwarranted deadlock; without breaking her impassive poise, flintily Natasha downcasted a steeled glance her backpack -a reachable vessel of collected secrets that she had attained with decryption-hacking skills of HYDRA's encoded-corrupted database. "Names and faces are pretty much what to expect when you break out of amnesic fringe...They're what you can't push away when you finally wake up..." she whispered, regretfully. "The poster boy-Steve Rogers- who you fought on the Helicarrier wasn't pulling a stunt, he gave up everything to pull you off Pierce's control switch..."

"And I almost killed him…" He felt remorse. It was a surprising feeling that hadn't come to him quite often when he walked on two feet. Remnants of his programming still lingered-the cold indifference to human life. Sentiment. Detachment. He was a machine whose only instinct was to execute and obey. That all began changing when that man-Steve-entered his crosshairs and called him that name that felt so familiar. But Steve had never tried to retaliate except out of self-defense, he never tried to kill him. He wanted to help him.

The Soldier never realized that. But the Wolf was affected-the Wolf felt something humane. Perhaps it had to do with the trio of furballs that touched his stagnant heart in a way he had never experienced before. "Is he looking for me?" He asked Natalia, wincing as he felt Brennen tug harshly after finishing.

"It's complicated," Natasha answered in brusque pitch, back at the Maryland cemetery, she had delivered Steve the classified 'eyes only' Soviet personnel dossier file labeled: NO 17 -James Buchanan Barnes from SHIELD vault records, grainy black-white photos of boyishly handsome GI soldier was clipped over Cyrillic notes handwritten by Armin Zola that contained lab results of a cryogenic experiment—relevant information would come with an infinite-grievous price. That ignited choice of direction would damnably usher a cavalcade reckoning of HYDRA demons-a new threat was always composed in the shadows.

Nonchalantly bracing the curvaceous svelteness of her crouched form, with disarmed precision, Natasha splayed her leather-sheathed palm deftly over velvet-like mahogany fur of the dwarfed female pup who clingily nuzzled her delicate muzzle into the sniper wolf's undercoat, as he tautly scrunched up his long muzzle, raggedly emitting throaty groans another onrush of uncurbed hunger as the chubbiest of the litter-the male- greedily nipped with pinching force over his damp fur."Now with your furry makeover, I'm not sure if you want Rogers to find you...?" she deadpanned, snarkily.

"Its too dangerous to be around me." He visibly deflates as his wolfish ears fall low. It was difficult to mask his emotions in this form that was more visceral than his human body. It was like being attuned to nature itself and nature never holds back. "I'll have the biggest target on my back. Unless I can disappear, I'll always be looking over my shoulder." It wasn't the life he wanted for himself-for his children who were born into this world to be used as tools-as weapons. Even if Hydra were on the run, it didn't mean others wouldn't be interested in the fruits of their labor. The thought made him both frightened and angry.

"Vse budet khorosho (Its going to be all right)." He murmured into the downy-scented fur of his off-spring as they curled and snuggled deeper into his warm side to hide themselves. He would kill anyone and anything that tried to take them from him. He could feel the Widow's eyes on him and met her stare evenly. "I know I have wronged you, Natalia. ...But I need your help."

For a tactive moment of unstinted attachment-sentiment- Natasha riskily graced her palm over his silvered frontal paw, accepting the call of her unexpected mission. The arcane networks of surveillance grids had marked the Black Widow down as a relevant target of interest—the dockyards would be compromised by sanctioned orders of dispatched STRIKE team. Harnessing up steeled poise, guardedly Natasha recognized his teeming urgency-the starkness of visceral need felt calibrated; rampantly she gazed into his grayish-aquamarine irises that mesmerically slivered alight with lucent intensity-whitish sapphire melding into bestial heat. She was undeviatingly aware of the resurgence of invincible -soldiery valiance-Brooklyn spirit- that clamorously rode through his bulkier canine form.

"I'm not someone to trust on the sidelines,mal'chik-volk (wolf boy), but your little furballs are hard to pass off...she murmured in throatier pitch, raspily, the smokiness of her teal depths fixed a trenchant cast over the enchantingly adorable baby pups cozily wedged against the jutted length of his girth-they weren't disposable-trade-off- leverage in the mordacious HYDRA crosshairs, they deserved a chance to embrace daybreak. Conveying a semblance of vestigial trust, she half-quirked the plushier swell of her voluminous lips into a coquettish smirk, blithely."So I guess this means you're bunking with me...?"

An hour later, the container freight bound for a key-port in France began to ferry its way out from the harbor with all 300 passengers and crew docked. If any of the passengers or crew were suspicious about how a radiant young woman, traveling alone, managed to get approval to bring on a caged Siberian wolf, none of them showed it. The few that did notice the peculiar scene were immediately apprehensive with the thought of traveling with a wild predator onboard. Together Natasha and Bucky stood near the guard-rail on the stern side of the ship as the departure horn rang out. They watched as the Washington harbor shrank further and further away from them. They had left behind one battle-field and were on their way to the next.

Cascading tonnage of goliathan waves deafeningly barraged against the cargo ship's hull, within the isolated ambiance of a bunking cabin, braced against a rickey-framed mattress, vertiginously in a blearing reaction, Natasha gripped onto a blanket half-draped over the lithe contours of her denim-clad thighs. After boarding the outbound freighter, with a practicable charade of sire-like persuasion-didn't require a combative shuffle of acrobatic-honed graces that she balletically performed in the engine room ofthe HYDRA-compromised Lemurian Star, Natasha was voluntarily given the moderate excess to utilize a storage cabin as her voyaging refuge.

Quashing down a flintier chagrin of existing like a stowaway fugitive without harboring a lank slate contingency, Natasha vexedly evicted the hinged impulse to contact Agent Clint Barton by the ship's radio transmission-to station a rendezvous point of location in Prague; knowing that after she condemningly breached the uplinked encrypted files-his retired identity was jeopardized; how many conditioned-genetically enhanced Sleeper Agents under Vasily Karpov's cold-blooded ranks were now activated on civilian ground. She had no more cards to deck out.

After squeezing her damp-tousled copper tresses knottily with a towel, Natasha had stealthily gathered vending-machine packets of Doritos, bottles of water and peanut butter-infused Nature Valley bars—enough to sustain a bulked-out nursing wolf's unquenchable-vexatious appetite.

Inadvertently sitting on the floor of the cabin, through her mechanisms of distrust, Natasha listened to whimpery -babyish squeaks emitting crankily from the sightless pups, Natasha fixed all her attentive focus on the babies cushily nestled against the slumbering PSTD chestnut-furred sniper wolf's bushy tail while he was slackly laden on his side- groggily captive in deep-seat thralls of unstaunched exhaustion. James Barnes was no longer anesthetized to the deadened frequency of infectious static that devastatingly pulsed from the soul-razing tentacles of HYDRA.

Removing a package of Doritos out of her backpack stash, Natasha effectively popped the bag open as the powder-cheesy aroma potently sailed through the dense air, evoking her furred bunkmate-HYDRA's mechanized ghost operative- to noncommittally release a throaty gnarl as he muzzily shifted his deadweight over a makeshift nest of cloth tarps, viscerally aware of his baby pups dozily nestled against his swelled girth."Well, you must be hungry, given how much the little pudge-balls pack in, huh?" she coaxed out, huskily in a snarkier undertone, holding up a chip with tantalizing ease."Nothing fancy, since we don't have that luxury on this free-pass cruise..."

The wafting aroma of the tasty snack almost had the wolf drooling with an unabashed hunger that had been steadily growing for hours since their voyage had begun. To ignore the tell-tale pinching of discomfort, Bucky...He now thought of himself as Bucky-it felt right to for some reason. To ignore his hunger, he had gotten some much-needed rest to regenerate his strength. He had been on the run for weeks with his infant furballs, rarely sleeping, rarely eating. There was also the fight he had endured with Natalia at the docks which only served to heighten his already ravenous state of need. He sniffed and growled lowly as he took in the sight of the triangle-shaped chip that dangled in front of him.

"I've gotten by with far-less." He raises his snout and plucks the cheesy chip into his mouth, savoring the vivid taste that left only hungry for more. He didn't ask. He was far too set in wish to not be an inconvenience to his unlikely companion who helped him board this freighter. But it appeared Natalia had other ideas as she promptly dumped the rest of the bag of chips onto surface in front of him. "You're being too generous with me, Natalia. ...Thank you." He spent the next few minutes finishing off the cheesy chips that softened the hunger in his gut. She said nothing the entire time as she lounged back in deep thought, her only movements being the periodic bites she took from her nutrition bar.

The only sounds he could hear where the distant roars of the tides and the chattering of crew members and passengers moving outside their cabin. Their cabin for the most part was spacious enough for only one person with a single cot, chair and night-stand. But it was also big enough for someone to allow their pet to stay in as well. How convenient for him, despite having to sleep on the thin carpet on the floor. He wasn't about to complain, he really did have to survive with far-less in the past.

"How long do you think this trip will be?" He finally asked her once the silence began to become awkward-at least for him.

With an inscrutable flit of her grayish-teal irises, Natasha was underlyingly aware of the predatory heat radiating off the ensorcelled assassin-the Winter Soldier's beastlier hard-edged muscles—a revamped ferocity that wouldn't be contained in the morphic dregs of bestial fusion. Ghostlily echoes of their unforgiving past throbbingly raked over the bullet-scarred flesh of her leather garbed abdomen, like the surgical-driven precision of a Red Room scalpel, irrevocably cutting her deep. 'Ty ne mozhesh' bezhat' vechno, malen'kaya Natal'ya (You can't run forever, little Natalia)...'

Against feigned rapt of tenser vigilance, as she felt the carbon steel of her Glock against her booted calf, Natasha unmovingly became electrified in compromised tenfold, as her palm reactively splayed over her curvaceous side-another grievous callback of her underscored vendettas. She to foster onto a 'no-strings' attached reality-a pave a new road of salvation before 'teammates' close to vest became dead reckonings on her ledger. "If everything holds out we'll be docking at Port de Grenelle in three days...Tops, " she murmured in gritted pitch, offishly, as the baby pups squeaked demandingly in hungered unison.

Coolly she quirked up an eyebrow, registering the hefty sniper wolf's disgruntled moan, his canine muzzle stretched grimacingly wide against feverish panting of shuddery breaths, as heavier-intensified barrages of milk- sloshing contractions; nothing availed to his effusive resistance. "Hold on," she urged, placidly, watching his furred brow aggressively pinch while she clutched a frayed edge of a blanket to drape over his jutted underbelly-he needed a grounded semblance of privacy. The frosted aquamarine of his depths stormily lanced knife-point intensity, contrasting against his slitted pupils-he was in protective-mode, defensively aware of the vulnerability of his pups-also the convenient security of Natasha's untampered proximity. "Don't get used to my charitable tactics," she retorted, pointedly. "I'm only playing nice because of your cute furballs..."

The mention of his pups brought about a warm feeling within the Siberian wolf whose life had changed drastically over the past several months. Life as a Hydra instrument of death was no life at all. It was empty and cold, giving him no cause to think and feel anything beyond the orders he was given and the pain of injuries he would endure. But then Pierce decided to play god. To try and create something fierce and undeniably vicious to give Hydra an advantage over the super-powered heroes that were emerging in the world. Through his blood and genetics, three wolfish off-springs were born.

The moment they entered the world, something inside of the Soldier had shifted-the the manacles that bound him to Hydra's will had shattered irrevocably as his eyes first set sight on the three impossibly small life-forms that were birthed from his wolfish body. He had become not a 'soldat', but 'otets'-a father.

"I think they like you." He said after a moment of deep thought. It would have seen like a polite compliment just for the sake of levity, but it didn't occur to him until now just how much at ease his pups were around the redhead Avenger. Over the past few weeks, they trembled in their boxed-bed he kept them while around strangers. It was only his presence that soothed them. But around Natasha, they were calm-relaxed. It made him develop a new appreciation for his old-time student and former rival.

The feathering drift of her lithe fingers over satiny-velvet fur hushedly captured that instinctive awareness in that addictive breach of connective heat with the smallest of his restless litter; a wonderous fusion that she couldn't ride out. The ephemeral—chaste pressure irrevocably fused a soul-branding revelation—the murderously deceptive siren-the Black Widow conceived out of the Red Room stowed a heartbeat underneath hardcore layers granite.

Drags of unredeemable memories screechingly crescendoed a hellish volume of a damning pandemonium—innocent ghosts of orphans that morphed into banshees-a ghoulish requiem of symphonic-macabre vengeance. Blood always had a price. "I'm not good with kids..." she admitted, harshly in a condemning breath, wrenching her hand back from the squeaking pup as if her caress was poisonous. "If you peek at my file, you'll see a video link that SHIELD buried..." A straining tightness flexed evidently over her delicate jaw. "I guess it wasn't deep enough..."

"We both have a dark past. I am not one to judge." He uttered. There was much about his former life as James Bucky Barnes that he didn't remember. But the screams of death he invoked haunted his dreams like wailing ghosts. He remembered every life he took, innocent and guilty. It took insurmountable strength for him to not succumb to his guilt that begged him to sink into self-destruction. He held on. The three pups, two who were now curled beneath him, gave him newfound life and purpose. The third of his litter, the youngest had drifted and rolled closer towards the redhead who still looked torn.

"Go on. ...I trust you, Natasha." He urged her to give into her greater inclination to pick up young Madison, and not allow the cold darkness of her past to rob her of a newfound connection.

"You sure about this...?" A tenous raze of warred hesitance electrifyingly deadened her in those rigged seconds of genuine, full-measured trust, the young-exhausted- alpha painstakingly nudged his baby girl with an affectionate variance of cherishing reverence, urging the determined pup to stumblingly wobble closer to her opened reach. A euphonious fringe of hope quenched out the infective blood of her slaughterous-unforgiving past of being a penetration Widow operative-a battle-tested marionette of seductive charades who had her strings broken when Clint Barton's hawk-precision arrow tore into her sterilized reality. He violated his 'green-light' orders -staking down a compromised price with the dynamical exception of friendship-humanity. She had Fury-Steve Rogers, but Clint was always a callback of a heartbeat if she fell too deep.

A feverous rush cravingly answered that beckoning cadence of whisper-soft acceptance he tellingly conveyed with a broader-fanged smirk, readily, Natasha shaped her palm over Madison's daintier-angelic form, adoringly cradling the infant pup against her leather-garb chest with a contrasted tracery of pacifying heat as she angled her forearm, just enough to breathlessly watch tiny canine eyes flit open to squinty reveal decadent brandy irises that heart-stealingly gleamed with rebellious vibrancy -thievish fire. "krasotka( beautiful girl)..." she murmured whisperingly, in Russian timbre, accelerated-joyous- euphoria pulsed infectiously within the cabin, as the baby pup squeaked in melodious pitch, snuggling comfily as she glanced up at the blank-faced amazement tearily alight in her Daddy's cool -unblinking-aqueous depths."Vy lyubimy, malyshka(You are loved, little sweetheart)..."

Bucky's surprise at little Madison finally opening her eyes was matched by the shock he felt as Aurora and Brennen had begun to do just the same. It was subtle at first-a wrinkling of their snouts as their eyelids squinted in their shut-state. "Eto normal'no (Its okay)..." he rumbled while nuzzling their tiny paws and kissing them. A moment passed and then their beady eyes finally opened beneath his tender gaze. A vivid shade of blue, full of youthful innocence and confusion, it was a precious thing he vowed to love and protect. "Hello, little guys. Daddy's been waitin' for you."

Their paws flayed and tapped against his shoulder as if they were being begged to be picked up. It was a tender moment that was unlike any he'd experienced before, and Bucky could not help but grin with delight. His chestnut furred tail wagged and his eyes softened to a dim but lively shade of blue. "Good to see you too."

The boyish drawl of his roughen-timbre croakily breached her passive demeanor, as she delicately cradled little Madison against her leather jacket, Natasha felt neutralized by the dosage of hope-redemption this unabandoned connection-nexus had injected her; nothing flatlined between them. With a cautious flit of her grayish-teal irises, she gazed sidelong at the emotionally-compromised alpha-a Soviet beast machine who agonizingly outlasted HYDRA's traumatic-electrified raids of mind-butchering amnesia. A white-noise of concessive static of Zola's nightmarish-surgical hardware that deadened out his tenacious resistance, mutating cavalcades of his dispatched targets' faces into bloodied apparitions under his sniper-vision-mechanicalized wraith of the Sleeper ranks wasn't damaged goods...He broke out of the kill-switch programming because he was granted a new mission-relevance of daybreak.

"Get some rest..." Natasha urged, instructively, easing down the dozy mahogany-furred pup tentatively against his massive silvered forepaw. "I have a raincheck with a peanut butter sandwich..." A devious smirk naughtily quirked up her plushier crimson lips. "Can't let those fellas' out there be disappointed..."

Bucharest, Romania...

As the nectarous scents wafted off displays of crated fruit that were invitingly stacked in tented vendors; the market-bazaar plaza contrasted functionally against Brâncovenesc environs of 17-century Baroque-Romanesque style that became monolithic landmarks of post-revolution architecture; castellated Saxon cathedrals were gothically ornamented with iron spires-the Byzantine valance of conquered imperialism became a historic entity of brickwork terracotta and marble. It had been a caliginous province of survival, but now maddeningly congested with throngs of stink-faced vacationists that barricaded Romanian merchant stations.

Harnessing the instinctive usage of her tactical caliber, readily Natasha evaded sideswiping bicyclists as she purchased a traditional bakeshop dessert-Gogoși- spongy dough balls that were sugarily infused with cinnamon and vanilla; the only digestible pastry that slaked the nursing sniper-wolf's onerous-uncurbed- appetite. She wouldn't become grappled into the domesticity of cyclic errand-runs; against warred vulnerability, everything felt artificial as if compromised reality would betray her again. She needed to complete the mission of securing an undetectable-off-grid- safe house for the baby pups.

Gripping onto the hefty paper bag of her gathered rations, as her iPhone chimed a reminder text of the next 'feeding time' hour, Natasha shifted the observant periphery of her grayish-teal irises unwaveringly at a newspaper vendor with unfeigned awareness before she vexatiously reached the crosswalk-underground installations of traffickers had tantamount of auctioning trade-off breeds-wolf pups were stacked as highly valuable in the Eastern European industry in the shadow zones. The seedier governmental dynamos of the World Council had the Avengers fixed on their chessboards-every counter- move was rigged. Warranted measures of trust felt compromised-she had to remain unbreakable against the play of adaptable contingency.

Riskily, Natasha paced towards a high-point apartment building where the beastlier Siberian wolf used for a makeshift nursing den."He better not be complaining this time..." she quipped under terse breath, raspily, glancing down at her mobile screen at the blank message box that she labeled-Rogers. The First Avenger—the paragon Adions of liberty was more than an expandable-relevant dance partner that Fury had selected after the galactic invasion of the planet-ravaging Chitauri, Steve became a visceral heartbeat of chaste friendship—someone who had her back when the precision of betrayal shadow-crossed her—she couldn't; go all decent on him. "Everything needs to stay close to vest..."

Within the warm sanctity of the immaculate though quite dull safe-house, a different turmoil was constantly increasing in the face of an agitated predator glaring at a target marked for termination. Four paws ground into the rug of the living room, muscles tensed with burning ire as the fur on his body rose on end with anticipation. His target marked for termination, the high-definition tv that was left on when Natasha had left the apartment. His redheaded companion, in her infinite wisdom, had left the channel on a late-night BBC talk-show, where he had to listen to some irreverent idiot ramble on celebrity gossip and the state of the Avengers who were viewed as both heroes and sensationalized idols.

The one called Steve-the Captain-was a source of admiration and bizarre fawning over countless worldwide who romanticized him and members of his team. The wolf smacked his paw repeatedly on the remote control but lacked the precision to hit those tiny human-sized buttons. "I hate television," he growled as he picked up the remote between his teeth and chucked it at the screen, hoping that would offer some bit of satisfaction.

Controlling the hesitation flex of her lithe fingers that ghosted over the doorknob, edgily Natasha stepped into the darkened ambiance of the slummy apartment, faded sheets of newspapers were grimily taped over windows as a ratty cushioned sofa tactically obstructed a cornered kitchen-every measure of the dank space was enforced to become utilized if unwelcomed company-dispatched HYDRA operatives coordinately breached their undetected proximity.

Catching a potent whiff of milky fluid and drenched blankets stuffily enwreathing the air, reactively Natasha scrunched up her nose against the vomitous stench that went fabric-deep. Knowingly, she fixed her grayish-teal irises on the dismantled remote as batteries rolled on the carpeting-an obvious sign of the beasty wolf's powder-keg vexations. "Nothing good on...?" she teased in brisk pitch, easing down the 'doggie' treat bag on a dresser, gazing at the bulkier-canine shadow imposingly braced against the couch."I'm starting to think you need a better playlist..." She feigned back a telltale grimace as the reeking muskiness of his shaggier fur raunchily penetrated her nose. "Maybe a shower to cool down..."

Natasha's entrance had calmed Bucky's ire if only enough for him to merely snarl at her sassy quips to his clearly annoyed state rather than bark up a storm. "Took you long enough." He grumbled under his breath, grimacing at the lancing shot of discomfort surging throughout his body that made him softly whine. The hunger cramps were growing more constant ever since they had arrived here weeks ago. Natasha had explained to him that as a nursing alpha, he had a bigger appetite that needed to be sated to sustain not only him but his three pups who depended on him. The thought of his litter caused him to shoot a glance at the small box they were kept in at the corner of the room surrounded by blankets. They were sleeping soundly since the afternoon but Bucky knew any minute now they would awaken and be in a fussy-and hungry mood.

The thought made him realize what Natasha had mentioned and he gazed down at the dried milky stains on his fur and could only imagine how badly he reeked right now. "Later." He grumbled as he watched her set her keys down on the nightstand. "Did you get anything?" He asked, feeling his stomach twist again with hunger.

Opening up the paper bag, Natasha brusquely smirked as the cinnamony scent of doughed pastries temptingly elicited the moody Siberian wolf to droolingly jutted out his canine muzzle a breadth from her nonchalant position-he was driven by the accelerated onrush of stuporous hunger. Shifting his chubbier mass on his massive paws, clunkily against feverish grogginess, James paced his intimidating-predatory momentum closer as Natasha coaxingly leveled an open-handed gesture from him to swipe off a Gogoși at the palatable second his whiskered muzzle raptly grazed over her palm. The razored length of his barred incisor fangs consciously poised with knifepoint tension over her exposed wrist; it became a play of blinded trust-any betraying movement of distrust would retrigger unhinged impulses of his bestial viciousness. "Don't get used to these daily snack-runs, next time you're going out..." she addressed against huskier drags of breath, snarkily. "Unless you can't fit through that door, which might likely happen in a few days..."

"Very funny," Bucky grumbled as he wolfishly devoured the succulent treat with ravenous hunger. His tongue lapped up the scattered crumbs, uneager to let a single one go to waste in his increased state of craving. He was ignorant to the fact his tail was wagging in his excited state of bliss until he noticed the amused smirk on his companion's face which prompted him to forcibly calm his exhilaration. "Don't start," he shrugged as he turned and padded his way across the floor towards the make-shift bed he set up for his litter near the couch. The wafting smell of cinnamon and milk was intense as he watched his sleeping litter cuddled close to one another, absorbed in the warmth of each other's proximity and the safety his shadow offered them. An intense of feeling of protectiveness and worry gripped the Siberian wolf as he watched them-feared for them.

"Did anything go wrong out there?" he growled softly in Natasha's direction as she reclined on the couch. The worry of her being followed always weighed on him each time she left the apartment.

"I wasn't multitasking if you want to know, wolf boy..." Natasha quipped trenchantly, as the graveled-timbre of his roughened drawl exhaustingly conveyed tempered -defensive urgency; Natasha was aware of the jacked-up tension suffusing through him as ragged gusts of panty breaths amplified with contractive onslaughts of milk-sloshing throbs. Aggressively, the chestnut-furred alpha gnashed his incisor fangs in distressed accord-hinging down his floored panic-an instinctive extent of visceral protectiveness that he couldn't ride out. In feral tenor as the puppyish squeaks of his dozing baby pups hungrily beckoned for him, growlingly, James steered his whitish-sapphire orbs unwaveringly at the closed door-this was his den-site. "Besides I think you'll be busy tonight to even care..."

"Can't sleep. Something about this city…" His features became pensive in the face of an unexplainable feeling of dread that entered his body the moment they entered this city. Whether it was paranoia gripping his discipline or some precognitive sense that came with the nature of being a wolf, he couldn't say. But one thing Bucky felt certain was that he didn't want to stay here for too long. Hydra might be on the run after the fall of SHIELD that shone a light on the shadow organization and all its puppets that were controlled by it. He and his pups might be safe from the world at large, but there were still those out there who knew the truth about what he had become. "It feels familiar," he finally admitted to the assassin who had waited patiently for him to finish his thought. Padding over towards the couch, he gazed up at her with deep glowing eyes that didn't phase her in the least; something he appreciated.

"Have I been here before?" He wondered aloud. There was so much he couldn't remember. The faded images he saw in his dreams were of a different man-a different life. They didn't reveal the darker aspects of the Soldier and those unfortunate to have crossed his path. The Widow-Natalia-she knew more about him than he did himself.

The enmeshed-conventional weaves of SHIELD's paranoid deception were intricate by the evasive designs that Alexander Pierce two-facedly constructed in the operative STRIKE ranks of penetration espionage: Agent Clay Quartermaine was a jackbooted deviation-a showcasing protege of stern-faced Maria Hill who had been stationed in Romania after decoded encryptions of HYDRA viper nests were marked on governmental surveillance installations. Nothing was protocol.

The infiltration mission-an extension of Project Paperclip was compromised as the dossier file that Clint Barton had stealthily obtained for Fury revealed gruesome-concrete details- an underground division of genetic extremist butchers-A.I.M- had surgically mutated Agent Quartermaine into a monstrous crossbreed of lycan visage-a disposable-tragic asset to gain HYDRA attention of experimental network. An infusion of Gemma radioactivity was detected in the salvaged blood samples-it was a chimerical harbinger of weaponized -sadistic deviance of conceiving meta-humans.

"There was a file with recorded evidence that one of SHIELD's top agents was retired by an untraceable Soviet slug, a clean headshot...No mess for SHIELD's janitors to swipe down ." Natasha murmured in hitching cadence, grimly, flitting her steeled gaze at the amnesic sniper-wolf as he impassively hankered in a low- crouch, evident sway of his bushy tail conveyed stoking aggression-she was definitely wading through uncharted waters. Registering his breathy pants, coolly Natasha tossed another dough ball at his silvered fore-paw with distractive precision as he scowlingly gnashed his incisor fangs with a derisive snarl . "What I know is that Pierce had sanctioned that kill-order behind Fury's back..."

He should've known better than to ask, but every image, every memory fragment that came to his thoughts over the past 70 years was tied to death and destruction. Whatever memories that resurfaced were of a cold, emotionless weapon executing Hydra's will. The realization made the wolf feel despondent that there was perhaps nothing good to have come from his life-time other than the three little napping furballs that came from him. And her… The memory of an elusive kitten stealing away into the night was becoming dimmer like a candle flickering out. "So many are dead because of me-so many lives ruined." He whined as he rested his chin onto the floor, tucked over his paws.

The deceased agent she described wasn't someone he could remember, but the feelings this place evoked was one rooted in horror and tragedy. "Do you believe redemption is possible for those like us?" He was surprised at himself by asking. The Soldier didn't care for sentiment and self-righteousness, but the man who used to be James Barnes yearned for it. "Those trained to kill and execute orders? Or are we to be forever haunted by our crimes-our sins..."

The inevitable question wasn't avoidable-every grip of reality was corrupted as she became a defective-traitorous fugitive of her blood-smeared past; after deactivating the algorithmic safeguards of the Project Insight in front of the megalomanic World Council; Natasha released all decoded ciphers-locations of 'spider holes' that parasitic inheritors of SHIELD tried to clear the board with blank-slate protocols: fallback contingents.

Every untenable-faux- identity conceived in her inventive caliber was exposed to global media networks -the murderous firestorm that she covertly ignited at the Ukraine orphanage-ashes of her unjustifiable errors had marked the Black Widow down like a unrectifiable-vermined insurgent surgically bred out the Red Room. It was a trivial modicum of betrayal against the high-stakes gambit of survival-she was pegged in the red-zone. Maybe this nomadic mission of preservation would resurrect unbridle hope again-she wouldn't punishingly cheat herself out, not where infant-defenseless furballs had infinitely compromised her granite-sheathed heart. 'My postroyeny s boleye strogimi veshchami (We're built with sterner stuff)'

"Well, I think you have a good answer right there, James..." Pointedly, she gestured to the blanket-heaped crate as tinier canine snouts feistily jutted up in whimpering unison; the ensorcelled sniper-wolf against the chagrin of his warred sanity, tentatively clamped a frayed blanket with the jutted length of his incisor fangs, towing the fabric closer towards his restlessly adorable litter as he was inexorably grappled back into nursing-mode. The visceral routine kept Natasha distracted from evading rigged crosshairs of surveillance-cockroach operatives of HYDRA sleeper ranks would soon filter out their off-grid location. She needed to use tactical incarnations of her Widow spycraft -purchase new hardware of her arsenal and healthier rations to sate down Jame's insatiable barrages of appetite. For now, she was grounded near the rumbustious baby pups."Maybe you can be someone else for those milyy (cute) furballs since they can't really tell the difference..."

It was a humbling thought to the wolf as he took a moment to ponder its depth, its meaning. He believed Hydra had taken everything from him-his humanity, his memories. But they had also unintendedly given him the means to nurture something precious. The furry pups that had come from his body, conceived by the passion and genetics of both himself and another that he had loved but was now lost. Fatherhood... A strange term for an assassin who had spent so many years taking life after life, he had never stopped to think what it would be like to nurture one. To raise one. Could he do it? His mission was to protect the pups. But protecting and raising were different. For a brief moment, he contemplated what kind of father he had had, and what he could learn from him.

But he couldn't remember. Not his father, nor mother.

It meant that whatever ounce of goodness he derived from the memories, the soul of James Barnes, he would have to rely upon to see him through this life-changing situation. And for once, he felt welcoming towards it. The wolf glances to his redheaded companion and blows his nostrils, sending her a grateful glance that he hoped was readable to her. "I should feed them now. Thank you...Natasha." He rumbled.

Without a clashing deterrence of unwarranted tension, swiftly, Natasha lowered on her denim-clad hunches in balletic sync as the young alpha wolf readily eased down the chunkier bloatedness of his outstretched girth over a heap of blankets. A neasous strain of bone-deep exhaustion-akin to a deadening paralytic-had nakedly gleamed in his mesmeric grayish-sapphire depths; for an ephemeral moment, James was breathlessly immobilized, fostering onto rapturous cadence of addictive hope-deliverance that ratcheted in tenfold.

Angling his canine muzzle towards the wooden crate, sweatily James prepared for another continuous barrage of insatiable nursing. A subtle grimace rapted over his fanged muzzle became evident to milky treks of glozing fluid soakingly dampening over the jutted rotundity of his furred underbelly as he instinctively measured every ragged breath that coupled into beckoning whimpers-a visceral tenor of coaxing urgency that his snugged baby pups were harmonized to; he was disarmingly surrendering himself to the imperative needs of his precious babies.

"I'll admit this is slightly cuter than last night..." Natasha rasped out, banteringly, reaching inside the crate with a drive of tentative variance as she hefted up the angelic-daintiest of the stirring litter-little Mattie, splaying a feathery trace of her lithe palm over the downy sleekness of mahogany fur in embracing accord; while the pudgier male hellraiser rascally bolstered up his chubby mass against the crate on his hind-paws. Quirkily, Natasha arched up a reddish tinge eyebrow as the passive sniper-wolf unabashedly emitted a throaty groan against the errant surge of their hunger rush. "Slightly..."

"It takes getting used to," Bucky rumbled with a deep gravelly voice. In truth, the day he had learned he sired a trio of pups under the watchful eye of Hydra, he faced the reality with disbelief and denial. It was an unnatural act that men-that soldiers-faced having been transformed and conceiving pups. It took nearly a week before he worked the courage to face his off-spring and give them the loving attention they needed. Ever since then, the act of nursing had become as integral to him as the act of sleeping and eating. He found it somewhat astonishing how quickly he'd grown to trust Natasha as he watched her gently pull his litter out, one-by-one, and gently set them down in front of his round girth.

"The day they can learn to find their own food will be a relief," he joked with feigned resignation as the chubbiest of his litter instinctively rolled over to him and bumped against his belly, causing him to snort before wincing once Brennen found his mark and began to nourish himself. His girls followed and the Siberian wolf sighed as he laid his head down, gazing absently at the window, staring at the pale moon gleaming through the blinds. "It seems so far away, but I'm in no hurry to see them grow up so fast."

Soundlessly he fell asleep under Natasha's watchful caring eyes. That night he dreamed of dewy rainforests and running across rooftops.

As the whitish sconces of morning breached through plastic blinds of the slummy apartment, guardedly Natasha braced her denim-clad thighs against the granite countertop, her copper-auburn tresses gorgeously weaved into of a fishtail braided ponytail that fringed over toned curvatures of her garbed shoulder while she glanced down at her salvaged arsenal of ID cards-passports that she had Agent Maria Hill trustingly conceive while being a stray fugitive. The tourism sectors of Bucharest served as their harbor-point before a smuggling run that she was covertly planning with a Romanian cargo informant of rail -line freight.

It was imperative that she reached Chernihiv within the coming days before Thunderbolt Ross decrypted safeguard contingencies that hypercautious Nick Fury had invented for her, in case she needed to beat the rigged dodge. Nothing could be shut-down on the media networks- the macabre errors of her traitorous-weaponized past had bled out video links of unforgivable imagery-CSI reports- and ledgers of terminated marks-the murderous requiem of the Black Widow.

Keeping herself collectively poised near the stove, Natasha, clutched an iron-handle of a stew pot, that she filled with a carton of milk, as she keenly registered a long-drawn snarl emitting from the exhausted sniper-wolf bloatedly resting on his furred side with his dozy baby pups snuggled fussily against the protrusive swell of his jutted underbelly. He needed to break. "Well, you must've had a rough night..." she addressed quirkily, turning the stove's eroded knob with lowered heat. "Figured you needed backup..."

He was roused from his deep-slumber by the scent of warm milk covering his bed like a blanket. His jaw instinctively opened as he yawned, revealing rows of sharpened white incisors that gleamed in the light of day. His eyes peeled open and blue eyes glazed with fatigue as the world slowly sharpened into focus. When he saw Natasha standing over him with a pot of milk that she proceeded to pour into a bowl, the Siberian wolf released a rumbling noise that caused his furry body to vibrate. The little furballs nestled against him swatted his stomach but were immediately drawn by the alluring scent of milk so close to them. "S'thanks...its gonna take a lot to feed these hungry little destroyers," he joked as he began to nuzzle their heads and gently licked them, soothing their restless hunger. As he pulled himself up onto his paws, he spied the bowl and wondered if his pups were capable of feeding themselves now like this. "Can you give me a hand," he beckoned Natasha.

Feeling that her mechanized reaction needed to be tentative, coolly Natasha eased the bowl down with controlled steadiness as the chubbiest of the wolven litter groggily reared up his tinier muzzle in riotous cadence, detecting the wafting scent of heated milk as he thrashed wobbily to advance over the nest of blankets in an hungered—stubborn rush with no visage of strained effort. With lightning-quick swiftness of his canine muzzle, arrestingly Bucky nudged his rebellious-tubbier pup who ornerily emitted a high-pitch squeak, as he murmured in a growlier Russian timbre. "Ne tak bystro...(Not so fast)'..."

"O, paren' (oh boy)..." Natasha teased out breathlessly, flitting her grayish-teal irises at young Siberian alpha kneading his long muzzle featherily over his baby girls that dwarfed against the pudgier bulkiness of his wolven form, the addictive tracery of his contrasting heat shiveringly delivered a pacifying fervency on a reverent accord, as little Mattie kittenishly nuzzled his shaggier underbelly with ticklish nips. The cool radiance of his silvery aquamarine orbs smokingly melded with predatory heat against the hinged wake of unwarranted trust.

Inadvertently, Natasha warded off the stark urge to evade the wonderous -heart-compromising moment as James became consciously attentive to her unfeigned resistance. She didn't want to become emotionally attached to the squeaky furballs—this wasn't her charitable mission. Glancing on the jars of gooey peanut butter on the countertop with a knowing quirk of her eyebrow, Natasha rasped, jauntily. "I'm guessing you want some breakfast now...?"

A sharp refusal was at the edge of his tongue but Bucky couldn't suppress the churning hunger in his stomach that had been building for several hours now. When was the last time he'd eaten? His focus had been completely turned to his litter of pups who needed constant attention and nourishment since they'd left America and arrived abroad. Sparing a glance at his sated pups, the Siberian wolf released a grumbling noise of approval. "That...would be appreciated." He said, gazing at the tubs of peanut butter longingly and feeling his chops drool with anticipation. He followed Natasha towards the edge of the kitchen island where she opened the jars and began to dig out large clumps of that gooey sweet source of protein and chucked them onto a plate for him. She cleaned the spoon off by putting it in her mouth and placed the plate down in front of him. Bucky wasted no time and dived nose-first, dragging his tongue across the plate greedily as his senses were swarmed with delectable sensations.

Gazing at the young alpha moaningly polishing off the glops of peanut butter, coolly, Natasha gripped onto the spoon with a defensive flexion, her grayish-teal irises unwaveringly fixed on the protrusive bloatedness of his furred girth- a untampered sense of phantom detachment-heartache viscerally coupled with the puppy-like squeaks distressingly emitting from the recalcitrant litter nestled in the cushioned heap of threadbare blankets. Wobbling in straying paces, the chunkier pup-Brennnen-squeakily thrust his tinier muzzle over the empty fold, nipping at the material with his aggressive tugs. "Okay...You don't have to answer this..." Natasha hitched out, whisperingly, as Bucky snarlingly jutted out his incisor fangs, dragging the plate with his canine muzzle-those words had razed out a contractive grip of latent anguish that he stowed.."...but those adorable furballs can feel what you lost..."

Bucky wasn't sure how to respond to that thought. It was a deep harrowing reminder that despite having escaped the dreaded confines of Hydra enslavement with his litter, that some things had been left behind. His pups could sense it perhaps. An absence. A feeling of incompleteness. It had festered since after he had escaped the old Hydra facility they kept disguised as a bank with his litter in hand before the remnants of his oppressors could galvanize a form of control in the chaos. He had charged through and gunned down all the scientists, all the guards responsible for his shock-therapy and caging his children in a cold cell without him to nurture them. When he had entered that cell, expecting to find 4 baby pups cuddled together close, he found only 3. Heartbreak didn't begin to describe what he felt, but somehow it registered with his litter who had been crying out in distress ever since.

"I think they can feel what we've all lost," Bucky responded after a lengthy pause. "It wasn't enough for Hydra to use me, but they used my children to keep me in line. It started with four of them, now there's only three. They miss their brother."

Registering the anguished throatiness of his growlier drawl, with a tentative variance of caution, bracingly Natasha eased down on her denim-clad haunches, gracing her lithe palm tacitly over the distressed little guy's cindery-burnette fur, as he raptly whimpered in a cadence of heart- racking squeaks, burying his tubbier form into the snuggled warmth of blankets. A feverish dampiness tellingly steeped into the material as Bucky downcastedly gazed at his baby pup, doing his utmost to evict the heart-crippling onslaught of enduring a grievous failure. "Well, clearly you need to find the little furball..." Natasha rasped, huskily, gesturing for him to pacify the alarmed pup. "It seems HYDRA always has something to trade when playing..."

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bike42 · 3 years

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IAT 5/20 thru 5/24/2021

So excited to be back on the trail - seems likes it’d been a long time since we’d been up north, and finally we are into full spring.

Earlier in the week, we got the sad news in that Lynn’s father passed away, so she and Kent had to cancel. George Sanchez, BrightStar owner from Austin who is joining us in Tanzania, had already made plans to travel to Wisconsin to hike with us, so we decided to go ahead with the trip, and several of us have offered to Lynn that we’ll travel back up there in June to repeat those segments with her. Gary, Dan and Tam had met George in October of 2019 when he was in Wisconsin for the BrightStar owner’s conference, but Lynn and Kent still haven’t met him.

George flew into Madison Wednesday evening. Jeff and I picked him up, had an easy dinner at home and probably too much wine and bourbon since we had an early departure Thursday morning!

As we were approaching Antigo Thursday morning, Gary sent a text saying the meeting spot didn’t have a clear spot for parking, so he drove around and found the Town of Rolling Town Hall building with a large parking lot. The Knickmeier’s joined us there, and we shuttled to the Town of Polar to start our trek for the day. The weather forecast called for good chance of rain the next 4 days, so we were prepared with rain gear, and had to stop to don our poncho’s after just about 3 blocks!

Much of the next 12-15 days of walking will be on CR’s (connecting routes) with just a few segments (trail) here and there. We can walk faster on the roads, and when they’re quiet county roads, its also easier to carry on a conversation – so they’re not all bad. Once again, I was grateful for our group decision to hike the whole trail in consecutive sections – otherwise it’d be tempting to cherry pick the nice trail segments and procrastinate on completing the CR’s.

I like to walk the CR’s in my “trail runners,” and I use a fanny pack with water bottle holders. It also has space for snacks and rain gear. Today, I’d strapped on an umbrella, and that along with a light poncho worked great. The rain came and went – generally, if you took your poncho off, it’d come back!

At one point, Dan and Tam and I were walking three-abreast. I was on the left side, and to my left, I heard a deer crashing through the trees. To our dismay, she bolted onto the slippery asphalt right in front of us. Her hooves were slipping and she fell hard, onto her side – and then slid across the rest of the road. When she reached the right-side shoulder, she righted herself, stood, and bolted back into the woods. Other than gasps, we were all speechless. We walked to where she fell as there was a white swath left on the pavement – it was hair! Besides that, her hooves had made grooves in the asphalt. What a shock, but we were so relieved that she was able to get up and run off into the woods – no doubt, with some severe road-rash!

The rest of the trek was uneventful – quiet roads, some farms, mostly wooded areas. Our plan was to take a break and drive back to the Dixie Diner in downtown Antigo for lunch. Our original plan was ten miles, but we’d covered thirteen to our new parking spot.

As the Dixie Diner, we were greeted by the young waitress that said she remembered us from last month – not sure if that’s good or bad! It was fun seeing the menu through George’s eyes – but there we a lot of questions that we couldn’t answer. We’re not completely sure our waitress correctly answered the questions, but she got points for enthusiasm! She described “broasted chicken” as “like deep fried pressure cooker – like Kentucky Fried Chicken but better.” The oddest thing was a “Hot Hamburger,” which was white bread with a cooked hamburger patty, mashed potatoes on top of that, and gravy over everything. George also wanted cheese curds, and most of us had regular cheeseburgers or BLT’s. Food was so so, but it was great to have a break from walking the road, and as usual, we had lots of laughs.

After lunch, we picked up the Knickmeier’s car, then dropped it at the end of our route. We walked an additional 3 miles, of course with the rain coming just about as soon as we’d set out! Then a quick drive to the Dells of Eau Claire county park where I’d reserved a campsite for the next three nights. We knew it was going to be a rustic site (no showers, and vault toilets), but we were surprised to hear they still had the water turned off “due to COVID.”

Dan and Tam made dinner while we set up camp. Jeff and I took our Big Agnes two-person and gave the three-person to Gary and George (although before night fall, Gary decided he was going to hotel it in Antigo, as Dan and Tam had already planned that. It was a yummy dinner, and great together time anyway. Jeff and I had this blue sofa-thing that we’d gotten as a reward from MS fundraising. We had a lot of laughs watching Gary try to fill it with air.

Dan and George had started a fire, and we had a beautiful evening with no bugs. Only issue was I’d forgotten the chocolate for the S’mores!

Before the hotellers lefts, we scrounged all the water everyone had from their bottles and gave them the empties to fill at the hotel – needed enough water to make coffee and breakfast!

Just before dark, I saw a black cat walking down the road. As he/she approached, we could hear her meowing. I went out to see if she would approach me, and she was very friendly - rubbing against my legs. She followed me back to our site, and stayed with us about 20 minutes - jumping onto our laps and also onto our picnic table - sampling the left-over cheese curds and macaroons! Then she moved on. Jeff checked with the other campers to see if she belonged to them - they said no, but she’d visited them too. She seemed well groomed and healthy, not like a feral cat, but comfortable in her surroundings!

We retired to the tents about 9:30p, it was mostly quiet, save a hot rod truck now and then zooming down the nearby highway.

Overnight there was rain, mostly light, but some heavy. We stayed dry and snuggly in our two-person tent.

I awoke just before my 6am alarm, and dressed for the day, donned my raincoat and left the tent. It was a beautiful peaceful morning, with no one else up and about from the 4-5 campsites that were occupied.

Due to our limited water supply, first priority was a French press of coffee - then we used a little water for instant oatmeal (mixed with yogurt and homemade granola). Just a little water left over to do the dishes, and Tam brought water for our bottles and camelbacks for today’s hike.

We set out in two cars; really nice that the car shuttles are easy this section of our trek! We walked a quick 4 miles of CR before entering the Plover River segment. Of course, we got about a quarter of a mile and the rain started. We quickly donned our ponchos, yet the rain remained light.

Shortly after starting the segment, most people stashed their rain gear. The canopy of the trees was thick enough, and we got a few drops, but not much to worry about, and the day was heating up.

The segment had varied terrain - hills, beautiful large granite erratics, swamps, boardwalks, areas that had been logged. I’d thought the spring wildflowers along the road were amazing, but in the forest, it was truly magical. I found myself dropping back to just get lost in the beauty of the day: flowers, a cacophony of birdsong, and a comfortable warm day.

We crossed the Plover River a few times, once with a rock-hop, and I know I wasn’t the only one in the group that wished it had been more challenging!! Towards the end, we walked across really cool boardwalks, twisting around the trees. We lingered to look at the swamp a bit, but it was just starting to get buggy so we kept moving.

After the segment, we drove back to camp and ate lunch, which gave us the energy to push on to do the easy 3-mile CR and Dells of Eau Claire River segment. Its always fun to be camping on the actual route!

The Dells of Eau Claire was beautiful, but on a gorgeous Friday late afternoon, it was overrun with people! Few were walking on the Ice Age Trail, but there were dozens gathered along the river – some fishing, most just messing around in the water. Many of the rock formations reminded us of Devil’s Lake – but the beauty was accompanied by the awesome sound of the water rushing over the rocks. We lingered along the river, then a footbridge brought us to the other side, where we picked up the pace as fast as we could over rocks and roots. That side of the river reminded us a lot of the Grandfather Falls segment along the Wisconsin river.

Back to camp for dinner – Jeff and I had made the fixings for a burrito bar, so there was time to have a beer and snacks and unwind before dinner. After two long days, Jeff and George decided to head down to the “beach” above the dam and bathe in the Eau Claire River – they came back refreshed. Tam took a shot at inflating the “air sofa,” and the video Gary took was hysterical as the smoke from the fire gave it a mystical effect. We had a great dinner and lots of laughs. We got a text from Lynn letting us know that she and Kent were going to join us for the next two days – great news!!

The hotel gang left, and Jeff, George and I enjoyed some time around the fire – turned into a gorgeous evening. Friday night, and the campground filled up, but nothing too rowdy.

Saturday morning, we had a little more time since we were meeting Lynn and Kent at 9AM at the start of the Thornapple Creek Segment. We had a plan to make eggs and pan bread for breakfast, but there was an issue with the stove (gas leak in a valve?) and we were lucky just to heat a little water for oatmeal and coffee. When the hotellers arrived, Dan and Jeff borrowed some tools from the neighbor and took the stove apart, but it’ll still need some work. We shuttled two cars to Hatley, and drove back to meet Lynn and Kent. Hugs all around – so great to have the gang all together.

Kent is doing well mending his shoulder, but still playing it safe skipping the segment treks – he’ll join us tomorrow on the CR. We had 0.8 mi of road and we started out fast. When we turned to walk an easement along a farm field, I stopped to put on my low gaiters – good thing because we were soon slogging through a swamp. The swamp had 18” high grass, and soon we were picking ticks off our legs – ugh. We always joke that Dan is a “tick magnet,” but George gave him a run for his money today! We probably had about a mile of the ickyness, but soon we were out to logging roads and farm fields and it was better.

Being Saturday, we encountered 5 people – that’s a lot for the northern sections of the IAT. We stopped to chat with two folks for a bit – a women from the Twin Cities and her brother from Sheboygan. It was their first day of hiking the IAT, but they were excited to hear our tales and are going to try to do the whole thing too.

We moved seamlessly to the Ringle Segment, and were disappointed in no segment signs on either of todays sections. We encountered some boy scouts that were doing trail maintenance – fun to chat with them a bit and thank them for their work. The Ringle Segment was well maintained, with sections of thick woods with eskers, and also sections that went close to homes and farms. We went past a house where a guy named Tim was on his riding lawn mower. He stopped to entertain us for a bit with stories and jokes.

Eventually, the sound of the birds was replaced by the sound of heavy machinery. At first, I thought we were hearing Highway 29, but it was actually the sound of equipment at a landfill. The trail skirted the edge of it, and as we got downwind, the smell was awful. From there, we turned onto the Mountain-Bay State Trail and walked that to Hatley. The day was sunny and warm – well above 80, and the trail was in the sun. By the time we got to Hatley, we were parched. We got into the cars and went in search of cold beer – which we found around the corner at the “Barrell Inn,” along with some local color. We had a beer, and Jeff and George bought a six pack to go and we headed back to camp with a plan to meet the gang for pizza in Antigo that evening.

I joined Jeff and George for a river-bath – it was cold, but refreshing and felt good on my feet and sore muscles – three days with long miles so far! We had a beer at our camp, then drove to meet the others at BB Jacks in Antigo (recommendation from the bar earlier). We had fried appetizers, salads, and too much pizza. None-the-less, we followed it with a DQ stop anyway. Lots of laughs. On the drive back to the campground, we checked out an auto museum as well as a yard with some really bizarre sculptures. Both were attractions that we’d buzzed by a few times already, but this time I was driving!

Back to camp, I opened a bottle of wine and we had S’mores with dark chocolate – yum. We stayed up around the fire for a bit, yet its no wonder that I had trouble falling asleep when I did go to the tent (beer, pizza, ice cream and s’mores!!!).

Sunday morning, we had a plan to meet the gang at 8am for a few hours of road walk. We got up early, packed up the tent. Jeff was getting the stove ready and I found that the French press had broken in its box into many little pieces of glass. I grabbed my phone and found a café 10 miles away – so we woke George up, packed up quickly and headed to Trucks Place in Birnamwood where we found a friendly waitress and great food.

Perfect timing – we all arrived at our meeting place at the same time. Quick shuttle back to Hatley and we were trekking along County Highway Y – which will be a CR that we’ll have to complete next time, but we knocked 5 miles off today.

Dan and Tam, and Lynn and Kent were going to drive back to what we’d hiked on Thursday so catch them up a bit, we headed back towards Madison to get George to the airport. Along the way, he actually found he could switch to an earlier flight which would get him home at a decent hour.

During these few days, I reflected on how awesome it’s been to experience the northern IAT for all 4 seasons now. I don’t have a favorite – there are things I like and don’t like about each of them, but what I like best I guess is the variety.

It was neat to share with George and find that I do have a pretty good knowledge of many plants and the forests in general. I can recognize an old native forest, and can easily see when one has been logged and replanted. I’m sad when I see invasive species introduced to pristine forests, but I know how easily it can happen. I’m not so great at the geological terms that go with the glacial landscapes, but I’ve learned a few things (eskers, erratics, kettles, moraines). As we walked along the edge of quite a few farms, we saw great examples of fields with rocks – some that look like they’re being “farmed” for landscaping boulders. Farming in northern WI is tough – not just due to the shorter growing season, but wow what a lot of rocks!

We had a great variety of IAT experiences for George over these 4 days, everything but a beaver dam crossing and hiking in the dark! It feels like an accomplishment to be getting closer to home. We have five days planned in June, and after that we should be able to make day trips.

#IAT

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neon-fruitmonger · 3 years

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farewell to princess meatball, a very good & brave cat

tumblr’s utility as a conventional blogging site has always been questionable at best; nevertheless, it’s the only reliable stream-of-consciousness space I have outside of google docs.

importantly: putting this out here helps me. i’d like to think it can help someone else, someday, too. (be forewarned that it is very long and mildly graphic.)

the beginning

josh & I bought our first house in portland, oregon in the fall of 2014, two weeks before my 29th birthday. it was a freshly remodeled, mid-century ranch-style house a few short blocks from peninsula park. it came with retro-inspired light fixtures, charming built-ins, and a scraggly backyard-dwelling tabby cat. we purchased the washer and dryer separately.

we were not in the market for another pet. just as well, because this cat didn’t seem especially interested in being anyone’s companion. she laid out on our fence and occasionally peered into our windows, her docked ear the only sign that she’d been handled by humans. bearing the obvious marker of TNR and looking otherwise fed, we figured that could be enough.

i couldn’t tell you what possessed me to talk to the cat, but i did. there was nothing eventful leading up to our first conversation. we fixed each other with the same measured gaze -- me from the deck and her from her perch on the fence -- and i said, entirely conversationally: “hey, kitty.”

something about her face changed in that moment. she perked up and responded immediately with what I would soon come to recognize as her signature greeting: a confident and startlingly loud, “MEOW.” she slid down the fence, all claws, and came trotting up to me with an expectant gleam in her eye.

what else was I to do but feed her? josh told me not to feed her; I lied and said I didn’t. one day at dusk (otherwise known as 2:59pm during winter in the pacific northwest), I caught him spreading out a blanket on the deck and inviting her to sit with him, bowl of kibble in hand. “don’t start feeding the strays,” I echoed back to him, and he called back sheepishly, “well, she seems pretty hungry. what else was I supposed to do?”

but she didn’t become our cat at first feeding. it wasn’t until we noticed the huge, gaping wound on her chest -- red and visceral with a glossy, sickly citrine overcoat -- and subsequently wrangled her to the local vet for stitches, that she eventually started the journey towards being our cat.

by this point, she was coming into the house just a little bit; enough to keep her out of the rip city rain and safely nestled in a cozy bed-and-blankets nest near the back door, but not enough to put her in contact with our other pets. she didn’t much like being indoors, either. we bought her a little outdoor cathouse with a heated bed where she could escape from the downpour, and that’s where she’d spend most of her time.

...that is, until I coaxed her inside with treats, wrangled her into a cat carrier, sustained significant injuries from the attempt, and somehow got her to the vet with my life intact. they asked for her name; we’d been calling her “meatball,” because of course we weren’t planning on formally adopting her, so why not give her a ridiculous moniker? (we would only uncover her royal heritage later, sometime between her peeing on the new mid-century modern couch and using the above-ground pool as a giant water bowl.)

turns out meatball was very well-behaved for the vet, so much so that they were able to clean her wound and stitch her up with a bit of local anesthetic and some veterinary elbow grease. I had her vaccinated and dewormed, with stitch removal scheduled two weeks out. there was just one problem: sweet meatball had to remain exclusively indoors from the time we arrived home until here stitches were ripe for removing.

tl;dr: she hated it. she yowled and scratched up all the furniture and peed on everything. she whined incessantly at the back door, staring out through the glass at the freedom she had always known. she would look up at the ceiling and flinch away, seemingly claustrophobic for the dearth of endless blue sky above her. she kept us up at night -- every fucking night -- for two whole weeks. all in, I paid $700 to be tormented nightly by a nine-pound demon spawn and was decidedly not stoked about it.

when we brought her home for her follow-up appointment, I was convinced we’d never see her again. we took the carrier straight out to the deck and opened the door for her, expecting some calculating hesitation at the very least. but no, she bolted out like lightning and never looked back, a shock of mottled brown fur running full-speed into the unkempt shrubbery where our fence met the neighbor’s behind us. she didn’t even pretend to be grateful. I chalked it up to my good deed of the year and we made peace with her unceremonious bailout.

until, that is, she showed back up two hours later for her dinner.

princess meatball was ever after that our cat. she was mostly our outside cat, since that was where she felt most comfortable and at home. I had grand plans to convert her to an inside cat, but it seemed a cruel thing to force on an animal who had spent most of its life outside and loved nothing more than sleeping in impossibly tall trees, tightrope-walking the wooden fence, and yelling at all other animals that dared set paw in her yard.

not a year after we’d bought that house, I entertained a job offer in the bay area, in tech, a far cry from the boutique firm where I'd spent the last five years an underpaid editor, and where everyone was about to lose their job in an acquisition. we packed up the pets and drove 12 hours straight to san jose, where I hoped against hope that the yard in the house we rented -- a house we’d only seen through the lens of my local relatives who’d scoped it out for us -- was up to princess meatball’s lofty standards.

honestly, it’s hard to remember every detail from august 20, 2015 to december 21, 2020. between josh and I, we took enough photos and videos over the years to piece together a pretty accurate revisionist history, but there’s no need to rehash every detail. meatball’s days were mostly the same, in the best possible way: she spent her time outdoors, lapping up water from a bowl we filled with a garden hose, chattering at the many birds that nested in our trees, chasing butterflies, rolling around on the concrete porch, and sitting in the sunshine.

over the years, she acquired a two-story outdoor condo lined with turkish towels my aunt sent us for exclusive human use; we called it meatball’s summer house, but really it was an extension of her primary residence, and she gave no thought to the season. the princess had also commandeered the growing collection of patio furniture we amassed, along with all of the blankets and towels and everything else that made its way onto the patio. we joked that the back yard was “meatball’s house,” a concept that only grew in merit as she routinely greeted us every time we deigned to visit her.

it’s hard to convey through words alone, but the yard was her place. there isn’t a single inch of that space that wasn’t touched by meatball. when she wasn’t lounging in (or on top of) her villa, she was prowling in the bushes, taking shade under the hammock, or curled up on one of the seat cushions. she was everywhere, all at once. she was sunning herself on the deck. she was scaling the fence, albeit far more clumsily as she’d gone softer and, ahem, plumper from regular feeding and coddling alike. and if she saw you drag a blanket into the grass, she’d follow close behind, ready to lounge alongside you.

mindfulness often eluded me, but sitting in the grass with that little tiger-ticked tabby -- the breeze fluttering her dark-rooted whiskers and tickling her nose, ears twitching towards the sounds of bluebirds and finches, fur glistening in the warm california sun -- was the only time I truly knew peace.

she had dozens of fuzzy blankets indoors, but meatball could be comfortable anywhere. she could lounge in the gravel; she slept in the dirt; she’d nap on the ice chest. inside the house, where her humans dwelled, she would flatten herself under the furniture; nest in open drawers, however shallow; lie in loaf position, head straight down, on the back of the couch near the window. she slept on both beds, all chairs, any piece of cardboard -- box or elsewise -- and every other surface imaginable, save the countertops. some of her sleeping positions seemed supremely unnatural and yet, meatball was so at ease in every space she occupied.

so when, in the summer of 2020, meatball seemed less and less comfortable in any space that wasn’t the bottom of the shower, I knew something wasn’t right.

the end

one night, late in the spring, I'd remarked to josh that our princess seemed to be losing weight. she’d gotten fairly rotund up to this point, so the slimming didn’t seem drastic at first. even her increased thirst and cold-seeking behavior wasn’t totally alarming; we’d had unseasonably warm weather in the bay area, after all. deep down though, my conscience was nagging at me: something is going on with the cat.

meatball, like most other cats on planet earth, did not like going to the vet. unlike most other cats, meatball had been adopted semi-feral off the street and deeply feared all but the two humans who had dedicated their lives to socializing her. compounding this unfortunate fact were statewide covid-19 restrictions, which barred us from going into the vet’s office with her. nevertheless, on july 9th, we took her in for evaluation.

she was anemic, we learned. her bloodwork revealed some other anomalies, but nothing definitive. her x-rays were practically useless. the doctor guessed parasites; we gave her a dewormer and went about our way.

meatball maintained a strong appetite, but it wasn’t clear that she was gaining weight. against my better judgment, I googled her symptoms and her blood-tells. the internet’s vast crystal ball suggested hyperthyroidism and kidney failure and cancer. all of these were rare in a cat meatball’s age (or what we guessed was her age), but set my mental alarm fairies alight all the same.

near the end of that same month, I slid my hand idly along her flank, scrolling mindlessly through the phone in my dominant hand, and felt a lump.

it’s that same sick sort of feeling you get when you know you’re getting bad news -- life-changing, heart-rending bad news that will alter the trajectory of your worldview -- bad news that feels like a hard mass of something that doesn’t belong on your cat. I was not calm or collected; I was entirely mechanical as my feet dragged me to josh. I did not say, “I need you to come here” or “I need you to see this,” because those phrases were reserved solely for when the princess was being indescribably cute. instead, in a voice that felt unsteady and faraway in my own head, I said to him: “I need you to feel something on the cat.”

the results of this double-blind study were conclusive enough to warrant a call to the vet. the other vet. the really expensive vet with the on-premise hospital and compounding pharmacy and every type of specialist you could imagine. the vet that took three weeks to get into during the pandemic. that vet.

by the time we were able to take her in on august 13th, she was alarmingly thin: just under seven pounds despite extra treats and stealing her sister’s leftovers. the expensive vet took a biopsy of the lump and examined it under her microscope. “it looks waxy,” she said of the results. “it’s not what I would expect to see with cancer.”

vets have a tough lot. the totality of the healthcare system for humans in america is rotten enough on its own; naturally, most folks don’t have two nickels to rub together when it comes to preventive care and diagnostics for their pets. the typical next step for a human patient, said dr. blackwolf, was scheduling an ultrasound. but with pets, the expense was often tough for owners to justify, and she didn’t think it was urgent.

of course we opted for the fucking ultrasound. but the very soonest they could do it was september 5th. it would be ok to wait that long, she said, though the labor day holiday meant that we wouldn’t receive our test results back until the following thursday.

meatball remained as loving and good-natured as ever, but continued to lose weight. days before her ultrasound, she seemed increasingly uncomfortable, especially after eating. when the eternity between her biopsy and her ultrasound finally elapsed, we waited in the car, anxious and hopeful for the promise of a resolution. as with all appointments prior, meatball had peed in her carrier.

when the doctor called with her findings, she did so in the voice that people use when they’re breaking tough news to you. that voice that’s practical and giving you space to process, but feels pandering in the moment. “we shaved her belly and found more lumps,” she said somberly. “her spleen looks like swiss cheese. her intestines are very irregular-looking. her kidneys are failing.” every word a mach truck to my gut. finally: “the prognosis is likely very poor.”

she gave me options -- I don’t know what all of them were -- and advised me that they were contingent on the more conclusive lab results they’d get back. the doctor would not prescribe pain medication or recommend any therapy in the meantime, as this was highly dependent on the diagnosis.

it took nearly a week for the “conclusive” results, which were as conclusive as: maybe your cat has cancer of some kind? if it was cancer and we wanted to treat it with anything but “giving up,” meatball would have to go to a specialist at an even more expensive hospital, because changes to california state law prohibited the adequately-expensive hospital from administering chemotherapy within its current square footage. so I called the specialist. september 24th was the soonest available; sooner than I’d guessed, but nowhere soon enough. I took it, and then begged dr. blackwolf for the aid of any political capital she could summon. in her last mercy to us, she emailed meatball’s test results directly to the head of oncology. I received a call later that same day that dr. regan could do a telehealth consult that friday.

by this point, meatball was urinating in her sleep. she slept at the bottom of the shower and would wake up with her left hind leg soaked in diluted pee. when she wasn't in the shower, she would lie on the outdoor dining table or the metal cooler or even the dirty concrete. she no longer liked to perch upon blankets, especially the fuzzy ones -- formerly her favorites. her breathing was labored. she was clearly uncomfortable.

dr. regan was able to see meatball the morning after her consultation. she'd need to leech more of meatball’s precious blood, perform another ultrasound, and do all the things I'd wasted weeks and dollars doing before. but it didn’t matter, because help was on the horizon, and dr. regan was an oncologist.

I thought about chronicling all the particulars of meatball’s appointment dates and protocols, but I'm not sure that it’s necessary or even helpful to get it all exact, here. importantly, meatball was finally diagnosed with high-grade lymphoma; the lumps we had felt on her flank were actually her lymph nodes. the prognosis was indeed poor, and we could either choose to give her steroids until her passing, or attempt a chemotherapy protocol.

after seeing my coworker put her dog through chemotherapy only a year prior, I had silently promised myself that I would not put my pets, my partner, or myself through that emotional rollercoaster. and yet, when an expert is on the line telling you that you can buy your beloved best friend -- currently a shadow of the animal you once knew -- a few good-quality months or even years of life, it’s really fucking hard to remember those commitments you make to yourself, when your pets are healthy and your life is going just fine.

we told ourselves that we’d see how it went. if meatball felt better, we’d continue as long as she did. if the treatment stopped working, we’d stop taking her in. simple, really.

and the thing is, the treatment worked. we’d started her on a 16-week protocol and she got five solid weeks of marked improvement. she put weight back on; not a hint of her former paunch, but the muscle returned to her legs. she wasn’t peeing in her sleep anymore. she was active, even playful at times. she hated the daily dose of prednisolone, and she wasn’t a fan of the weekly hospital visits, but we’d reasoned it was a small price to pay to see her enjoying food and treats, pain-free. each week, the doctor had said her lymph nodes were feeling normal.

week six was her follow-up ultrasound and blood panel. once we saw how the cancer had diminished, we could put her on an every-other-week schedule, a much-needed respite from the weekly visits that sometimes kept her boarded for seven hours at a time.

unfortunately, this was also the week that the doctor felt meatball’s lymph nodes swelling up again, which meant the current protocol was no longer effective. every time we were at a crossroads with meatball’s health, I'd ask the doctors what they’d recommended. dr. regan said that we could try lomustine, a rescue chemotherapy protocol. there were risks, she’d said, but we could administer that to meatball instead of a now-pointless ultrasound and see how she responded.

if she’d responded at all, it wasn’t a good response. lomustine could only be given once every four weeks to keep its heightened immunosuppressive properties from overwhelming poor meatball. the first night, she threw up her undigested dinner on the bed. we’d brought her back weekly, still, for blood tests and monitoring. over the course of the next few weeks, she continued to lose weight and had lost her voice.

it was so important for me to be strong for meatball. I reasoned that she was enduring so much, the least I could do was provide her a source of stability and confidence. but hearing her signature loudmouth meow grow increasingly hoarse before falling completely silent nearly broke me. she ate haltingly, taking labored gulps from her dish. she could no longer alert me when she wanted in or outside, so she scratched at the door or simply sat and waited.

when we took her back to the oncologist, I thought that would be it; she’d tell me that there was nothing else we could do except “keep her comfortable,” an option that seemed out of our reach by then. selfishly, I wanted someone else to tell us when it was time to let go. but she offered to give meatball another dose of elspar and pursue another course of treatment from there, so I thought, may as well try.

and wouldn't you know it: our fierce little tigress, slayer of wayward rodents and champion of the tall grass, had once again bounced back from the brink. she put on weight. her meow returned in full force.

it was one of many gifts we had and would receive for the duration of the princess’ reign. denial had a powerful hold on me for weeks, as I'd started to feel the notches in her spine once more; but the doctor said her lymph nodes were feeling mostly normal, remarked that her being was more substantial, and we held on to that hope until the very last. we held on until dr. regan called us an hour or so after we’d dropped meatball off for another treatment and said, I'm sorry, but I can feel her nodes again.

somehow, I expected the call before I even received it. meatball’s quality of life hadn’t decreased in any manner of obvious significance, but over the final weeks and months of her time in this mortal realm, I'd grown so in tune with her health and the deviations in her body and demeanor, however minor. the prominence of her ribs was as clear a diagnostic as any lab test, to say nothing of any disturbances in her eating and lounging patterns. these changes, like the ones preceding her eventual diagnosis, were gradual, subtle; viewing them as individual points in time, you could almost mistake them for the signs of aging, even in a cat as young as we think the princess was.

every time the disease changed course, dr. regan (and all doctors before her, for that matter) would present me with a set of options, typically in threes. this time was no different: we could try another, highly specialized course of treatment that required trained staff to administer; we could continue giving meatball the gentle elspar that had been working so well; or we could simply keep her as comfortable as possible for the remainder of her life on steroids alone.

unencumbered by emotion, I'd always prided myself on my practical, often utilitarian thinking. just like I thought I'd never elect to put my cat through chemotherapy, so too did I assume I would inherently know the right path at any crossroads during treatment. and once again, I had grossly miscalculated the impact that unimaginable sorrow would have on my decision making. as with every inflection point in this ill-fated choose your own adventure: cheating death on behalf of your cat, I hemmed and hawed.

because what do you even say when faced with those choices? for so many people, the cost of life-saving or -extending care is infeasible, often for their human and animal loved ones alike. that doesn’t make the choice any easier; I suspect in many cases, it can even make finality of such a decision that much more gut-wrenching for its lack of alternatives. but we weren’t at the end of our rope, financially, nor had we apparently exhausted our options. to me, possibilities meant hope.

just like the law, there is both a letter and spirit to interpreting a course of action. taking another route was a literal possibility, but if the guiding principle behind every decision was maintaining a good quality of life for meatball, then pursuing that path had to be in service of her best interest.

as usual, I asked the doctor, “what do you think is reasonable?” it was a cop-out, maybe, and one that flirted with unduly burdening her, but I trusted dr. regan to give me an objective response. she had already let me know that there was no shame, no defeat, in simply keeping the princess comfortable from the outset. this was her life’s work and her speciality; in the absence of known monetary hurdles, which we’d define if and when the expense became untenable, she could more readily chart the boundaries into moot territory. she could be meatball’s health advocate in a way my heart might not allow me to be.

this time, dr. regan did not recommend the alternative treatment. we agreed to take the middle ground of administering the elspar once again, and then every three weeks until it was no longer effective. in conjunction with the daily prednisolone, dr. regan said it would likely give her a few more weeks of good-quality life.

this time, when we picked meatball up from treatment, it was a different nurse who carried her out into the parking lot and into my arms. she asked me if I had paid over the phone (I had) and said the doctor wanted to see meatball again in three weeks’ time. I asked if they would schedule us ahead of time, as they’d done before. “we’ll call you,” she said, and it felt non-committal under the sag of meatball’s carrier.

they never called. not that it mattered; it was obvious to us that the elspar was no longer effective. meatball seemed stable enough in the following week. then, the week after, she started a noticeable decline.

it hurts to think about the degradation of her quality of life at all, let alone in detail, but honoring meatball’s life means honoring all of her life, the hard parts included. she’d developed chronic diarrhea and was vomiting once a day. we reasoned that she was still eating, still purring, still perky. we ordered her high-fiber food and probiotic supplements. we babied her incessantly, and she ate it up. but starting that weekend, it became clearer that she wouldn’t make it to that next appointment; the one we never even made.

on sunday, she’d barely eaten. she had grown so fearful and resistant to her steroids, that the process of medicating her became traumatic for us all. after a very early and reasonably hearty breakfast, she vomited many hours later, in a voluminous splash that sounded like a hefty water balloon tossed onto the tile, all full of partially-digested food and mucus. it was then that josh made the call to the in-home euthanasia service, and we somehow agreed to a 1pm appointment the following day, gasping for breath between sobs.

usually after she’d throw up, meatball would want to turn back around and eat again. this time, she retreated quietly outside to rest in the sun. when she ultimately came back in at night, the light in her eyes had visibly dulled. she enjoyed a few freeze-dried salmon treats from josh’s hand, but little else. I made her a nest out of a large cardboard box and a duvet cover, where she spent most of the night and the next morning, tucked away.

in the middle of the night, she heard josh get up to use the bathroom. like she often did when he rose at night, she followed him. only this time, she wanted to eat a full meal. he sat with her, petting her while she devoured her late-night dinner, listening to her purr rattle in her tiny chest before she curled up with him in bed. then, after giving him that last gift, she crawled into her box-nest and stayed until morning.

I didn’t get up with the two of them that night, though I treasure the memory of her little crunching sounds echoing in the hallway. it’s a bittersweet feeling of happiness, tinged with sorrow; I wish that I had joined them in that last moment of meatball being meatball, but at the same time, I’m happy that they had a moment of shared tenderness and vulnerability. sometimes, knowing and observing is enough. in this case, it has to be.

in the morning, I laid on the floor in front of her corrugated hut -- another property to add to her empire, and proof that anything could be a bed to meatball. she’d bunched herself up against the back of the box and when she changed positions, slowly and methodically, we saw that she’d urinated in her sleep. as far as we could know, it was the first time since her formal diagnosis. cats are clean and prideful animals, but meatball was always immaculate. while it wasn’t embarrassing for her to soil herself, it was surely unpleasant, if not outright vexing.

as painful as it is to relive the loss of her life, hashing out the loss of her trust is somehow harder. over the last two or three days, she’d been especially wary of me. it seemed any affection she had left was reserved for josh, whom I'd intentionally positioned as the “good guy,” swooping in with treats and affection after I'd administer her daily steroid. selfishly, pitifully, I needed absolution before her passing.

so, against that damnably practical nature of mine, I put a small pillow on the floor and curled up near her, careful not to block her exit route. her eyes were dull and wide; she had little interest in anything but managing her own discomfort. I tried my hardest not to cry too much. and I spoke to her.

it’s important to note that my family believes in a lot of weird shit. at least, that’s how I always saw it. as a kid, my dad would talk to me about animals having a shared soul and collective conscious. a few years ago, my aunt had gone on safari in africa and met a purported interspecies communicator; she’s now convinced she can talk to animals telepathically. and while I can neither validate or invalidate their beliefs, I can say that, at bare minimum, talking to meatball helped me. I hope it helped her, too.

I started to tell her an abbreviated version of her life story as I knew it, and as I’ve written about it. I told her that she was one of the best things to ever happen to us, and I meant it. I told her that her legacy would live on with us, and that we would never forget about her. I told her that I wasn’t going to let her suffer any longer, and that I was so proud of how strong and brave she was, and that I only ever wished to help her. I told her that all of us did everything we could; the we knew she needed us to be strong; and that help was on the way for her. I told her how much I loved her, and how much I would miss her, but that both josh and I would be okay. I told her that it was okay for her to go, that she could rest, and that we would be here for her always.

as I spoke to her, she slow-blinked a few times, an homage to the fond way with which she’d regard us when we complimented her, petted her, sang songs about her, or even asked her questions she couldn’t very well answer. when I was done, I asked her to forgive me. and for the first time in days, she leaned down to my outstretched hand and gave my fingers a lick.

perhaps I'm guilty of anthropomorphizing; maybe I sound like a quack. but somehow, meatball always knew what we needed. and even if she couldn’t understand my words, she seemed to know that I needed her love and acceptance in that moment. (and of course, I promptly lost my shit, cried, and thanked her profusely for her grace).

another hour or so passed in the box before she got up, walked to her water dish, and then promptly exited the human house through the propped-open back door, entering her domain for the last time.

meatball was weak; a shadow of her usual self. she was gaunt, frail, and visibly tired. but she relaxed in her summer house one last time. she sat on the cushioned bench where she used to perch next to josh, grooming herself while he’d read. and then, one last time, she came to lie with us in the grass, on a blanket in the sun.

among the aversions she’d developed during her bout with lymphoma, she most distrusted the sight of the two of us together. to her, it meant we were going to tag team getting her to her her appointments, and she was not having that. but she relaxed and allowed us both a spot on the blanket. she no longer purred, but she gave us both a few final head-butts. she licked my nose one last time, despite the taste of sunblock I'd slathered on. and she let us pet her for hours, until the doctor -- the last doctor in a sea of too many medical professionals -- arrived.

by this point, meatball had grown suspicious. she could sense our combined anxiety; having to don face masks didn’t help ease her skepticism. I went to greet the doctor and go over logistics. by the time I escorted her into the back yard, meatball was back on her bench, next to josh, where she loved to be.

while friendly and infinitely loving, the princess was feral at heart. we’d spent a long time socializing her, but she really only had eyes for us two. she feared other humans, especially humans dressed like doctors, and we, in turn, feared that she would try to make a break for it at the sight of dr. cheung. the nightmare scenario was that meatball would spend her last moments afraid, and being forced out of hiding by the two people she loved.

meatball tensed lightly as the gentle doctor approached, but seemed to relax just as quickly. we went through the paperwork. we picked out an urn. we tried to give meatball some ice cream, but she was too sick for it. then, the doctor gave her the first shot, a combination of morphine and general anesthesia.

being true to meatball’s legacy and experience, and without having the human words to share her thoughts, I can safely say that meatball fucking hated that shot. for a brief, wild moment as her angry yowl culminated in a fierce hiss, my brain panicked with thoughts of, “these are her last conscious moments and they are filled with fury and betrayal.” she tried to run off, up the stairs and onto the deck, towards the house. she made it up, but not inside; the drugs worked quickly, and Josh and I followed her with reassurances.

honestly, I can’t remember what either of us said. I don’t know if it mattered. I think we both petted her. I think we both told her we loved her. and she began to settle, the drugs taking her pain and discomfort away. she eased into a peaceful sleep. at some point, I became painfully aware of my face mask filling up with snot. I felt like I was choking for air. I worried I would pass out there next to her.

dr. cheung clearly felt bad about meatball’s reaction. she came and tenderly folded a soft blanket under meatball’s little head. she let us sit and pet her for awhile. while we’d been forewarned, the sight of meatball’s beautiful, but unseeing eyes was disconcerting for me. I forced myself to look anyway.

her breathing was even and steady for the first time in days, unburdened by pain or nausea. her little front paw twitched involuntarily. dr. cheung, comforting us as well as herself, I suspect, told us, “if she knew from the start that we were giving her a peaceful end to her suffering, she would have held her leg out willingly.” then, even more quietly, she said, “I can feel the lumps in her belly. there are so many.”

I don’t know how much time we took, holding each other and crying, petting meatball and repeating assurances that she couldn’t hear, much less comprehend. I clipped a few tufts of belly fur off of her while she slept, a practice that felt mildly violative but still preferable to defilement of a corpse. at some point, not too long after, we gave the doctor the okay to administer the euthanasia.

maybe I'm a coward, but I couldn’t watch meatball take her last breath. I held her front paw, the one that had twitched, the entire time. seconds (minutes?) later, dr. cheung held her stethoscope to meatball’s chest and said quietly, “she has passed.” I opened my eyes to look at hers, which had dilated unnaturally under the bright sky. part of me sincerely wishes I hadn’t burned that last image into my brain; still, I didn’t look at her belly, no longer rising and falling in the gentle cadence of calm breath. I buried my face in josh’s shoulder and kept hold of meatball’s little paw until we signaled dr. cheung to take her.

as soul-crushing as it is to hold your pet while they breathe their last, to sit with their little body in death, to feel the oppressive weight of finality descend upon you, and to be so painfully raw and vulnerable in front of a stranger, it came with a sense of relief for an end to her struggle.

from her perch on the top step, the doctor slowly -- so very slowly -- removed the blanket from under meatball’s head and laid it out on the deck next to her. she gently shimmied the waterproof pad under meatball’s backside and used it to carefully lift her onto the blanket, supporting her head and she went. although meatball would not have known, in death, if she’d emptied her bowels, we were glad for her sake that she hadn’t. this day, she did not vomit. she went to the bathroom moments before the doctor had arrived.

dr. cheung swaddled meatball like an infant in her arms, leading us out to the back of her SUV where she lowered the bundle of meatball into a lined basket; a baby in a bassinet. finally, she peeled the blanket back from meatball’s little face so we could see her one last time, at peace, with yet another bed to her name -- as was her way.

life after meatball

meatball died on monday, december 21, 2020 at approximately 1:30pm. it was the winter solstice, and a day that marked the great conjunction of jupiter and saturn. somewhere, some sect surely believed this would be the day the world would end; for me, it may as well have been.

that may seem melodramatic, even to an avowed animal lover, but if you were lucky enough to be loved by meatball, it would feel like the understatement it is.

everywhere you were, there was meatball: loud, expressive, and a little bossy at times. she was so talkative, never minding the fact that we spoke in different tongues. over time, she only seemed to grow louder and more insistent, her meow often being mistaken for a screaming child in the background. strangely, she relished receiving pets while she ate. in fact, she would often consume her meal with more gusto once she had a hand gliding down her back and a familiar human voice praising her, bestowing formal recognition upon her as the very good eater that she was. we joked, once, that we’d created a monster by coddling her so; it seemed that after years of indulging her, well, indulgent behavior, she began requiring an audience for her meals.

demanding though she may have been, she gave back a thousandfold. every time we returned home, always entering through the back yard, she would greet us enthusiastically, meowing and chirping and sticking her little face through the gap between the gate and the side of the house. she knew the sounds of our footfalls and the scent of our presence drawing nearer. oftentimes we wouldn’t make it through the door without showering her with affection, petting her belly while she rolled around on the ground, flipping back and forth and purring.

our PDA didn’t hold a candle to hers, though. meatball was a connoisseur of hand hugs, stretching out her limbs while we’d stroke her chest, then retracting them in a firm embrace around the hand whosever hand was tending her, nuzzling her face into the touch with a small, accompanying squeal, eyes squeezed shut. she loved to kiss and be kissed; we would take turns kissing the patch of golden fur on her forehead before presenting our own faces, upon which she graciously reciprocated the act.

but she needed no invitation to lavish you with licks from her sandpaper tongue. meatball would approach the both of us at eye level and lick our foreheads, cheeks, noses, chins, and hair, wholly unsolicited. to this day, and for at least the year prior, I’ve sported a perpetual small, circular red spot at the tip of my otherwise bloodless nose; a physical testament to her unending devotion. earlier this year, I had resolved to discourage meatball kisses in the hopes that the mark, so obvious against my pale flesh, would eventually go away. it’s thoughts like those that make me feel so sick and sad. fortunately, I lacked the resolve to keep her at bay for long.

meatball loved to press her forehead against yours; rub the side of her face against yours; nuzzle you unabashedly and for absolutely no discernible reason. if you held a book or beverage or device in your hands, well, she would head-butt your hands and whatever thing that occupied them. at the risk of assigning human motivations to a tabby cat, we never got the sense that meatball’s sole objective was commanding your attention. rather, meatball was a cat that took matters into her own paws: if your fingers weren’t available for caressing her, she’d pet herself on them while you went about your business.

similarly, meatball could make her own fun. she never lacked for toys (or cardboard boxes), but when her mortal nemesis, rainbow snake, was nowhere to be found, she would just... attack the blankets. or the grass. or launch herself at a piece of furniture.

more than anything in the world, meatball loved life. her vigor went beyond the unmistakable survival instinct that connects humans and animals by a spiritual thread; everything captivated meatball. every sound, every smell, every sun beam, every breeze, every little movement or flash of light. she took such joy in drinking fresh rainwater out of the divots in the deck; in watching the squirrels run along the fence; in being brushed; in receiving treats of any sort; in having one of us spoon her wherever she lay.

to write about her like this almost makes her seem needy; to the contrary, she was fiercely independent and happy to be part of the action without inserting herself at its center. she wasn’t a lap cat, but she was a lover through and through. and while concepts like time and gratitude were much too human to project unto her, I know that she spent the rest of her short life expressing her gratefulness to us for having saved her. I felt her thanks in every lick, every slow blink, every purr.

2020 was a tough fucking year for so many people. I know that josh and I are among the luckiest of the bunch: we didn’t get sick, none of our human friends or family members fell ill, and both of us were able to work from home. we have good neighbors, a big back yard (that meatball generously let us use), and live in the heart of silicon valley, where we could have everything delivered to us with relative speed and ease.

but comparing the suffering of one human to another is apples to oranges. despite our position of relative privilege, we suffered heavily under the demands of our respective jobs. like everyone else, we were robbed of our routines, unable to see friends or be part of the community in the ways that we so enjoyed: the farmer’s markets, local coffee shops and restaurants, our favorite small businesses, and even the occasional trip to the coast. the stress of us politics and global events weighed on us. quarantine was depressing, the world was depressing, and life as we knew it just... changed. it was ok to grieve that loss.

the one bright spot: we could spend more time with our pets. meatball, in particular, loved this. for one, it meant that she wouldn’t have to choose between indoors and outside; we would leave the back door propped open with the metal, cat-shaped doorstop, allowing her an easy transition between spaces at will. it also meant that we could take lunches and breaks with her out on the patio or in the grass. and if she wanted a morsel or two of food she wouldn’t otherwise get outside -- we didn’t want to attract ants or other critters, after all -- well, then, that was just a bonus.

the sensible part of me is glad that we had this time together, in light of her diagnosis. it allowed us to be present for her and to maximize the remainder of her life with us. it also gave us flexibility with scheduling medication and feedings, and the peace of mind that we would always be around with her if a complication arose.

the irrationally angry, still-grieving part of me is so unbelievably gutted that the universe saw fit to take away my one silver lining of this fucking pandemic. that, by acknowledging what was most important to me, I somehow doomed her to be taken away.

and I know, I know: it’s better to have loved and lost. barring another tragedy, I knew we’d both outlive meatball, and that even another decade with her wouldn't have been long enough. I know she’ll live on in our hearts; I know that loving her made us better people. but right now, I'm struggling to breathe under the crushing, suffocating, unfathomable absence of her. the back yard is overwhelming in its energy and the absoluteness of never hearing her curious and joyful meows again.

because for all the routines we’d abruptly given up in march of this year, meatball so often was the routine. it might not sound rational or healthy to say, but in many ways, our day-to-day life revolved around meatball (and our other pets, past and present). despite my misgivings about enabling outdoor cats, meatball’s origin story made it entirely impractical for us to imprison her in a house, and the assortment of california fauna that might scrabble its way indoors in her stead had rendered the possibility of a cat door equally futile (to say nothing of the fact that we’ve been renting for the last five years, anyway). this meant that meatball needed a perpetual doorwoman at her beck and call; apparently, this was my true life’s work.

it would be dishonest of me to suggest I always accommodated her willingly and happily. leaving the door open was fine during the day, but at night, we’d close and lock it. if meatball wanted inside, she would have to yell to get our attention, scratch mercilessly at the back door, or both in tandem.

sometimes it would only be once a night. more often, it would be two, three, or even four times she’d want in and out: to get a bite of food, to cuddle in the warmth of the bed, or for some unfathomable, attention-seeking reason I couldn’t comprehend at 3am. sometimes I groused about it; occasionally, I would have a meltdown about it. but I always did it. I never wanted meatball to feel like she would be abandoned by us or that she couldn’t have access to food or fresh water. similarly, and despite the obvious toll the cumulative sleep loss took on my health, I wanted reassurance that she hadn’t been captured by a nocturnal predator, hadn’t ventured outside of the yard and gotten herself injured or worse, and wasn’t suffering in an unexpected storm or drop in overnight temperature. and if she was in some sort of trouble, then I would never forgive myself for sleeping through her distress.

so many other rituals revolved around meatball’s wants and needs (or our various interpretations of them). she would wait outside the bathroom door if you were in it, waiting to be greeted. she would frequent “treat station,” a grassroots cat treat co-op sprung up from the bench at our dining room table where she’d sit and wait silently for one of us to give her some goodies. she would simply sit between us on the couch at night, watching whatever was happening on the big screen while her humans were preoccupied with their small screens, taking turns at absently petting her.

her loss is felt in every corner of this property. I struggle to resume the search for a house to purchase, because leaving here means leaving a part of her behind. we can open the back door and glance two paces ahead at the spot where she died, a few of her little hairs sitting dormant until the next rainfall. we can take with us the furniture and the many blankets she loved, but the yard she owned and championed, the space where she lived her best until she ultimately perished, cannot be taken with us.

the ugliest side of grief

writing this out has been cathartic, in many ways, and painful as a motherfucker in others; I don’t know that the two are mutually exclusive. but still, it feels like the journey through inexplicable loss has just begun.

the thing is, we were trapped in a cycle of mourning for meatball with no foreseeable closure until now -- and even now, truth be told. cold fear had me gripped in the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, bone chillingly aware of how bad a sign unexplained weight loss was in cats. we feared we’d lose her before her treatment would even begin. then, her incredible response gave us such hope. we wept and grieved when she lost her voice; we cried any time she showed a sign of illness or discomfort. we knew that we couldn’t save her life; only buy her some time and solace.

I used to think that when meatball did eventually pass -- innumerable years into an abstract future, as I'd imagined it then -- I would have no regrets about the life we provided for her. and on the whole, I really don’t. right now -- today and all days following her passing, though hopefully someday with decreased frequency -- I struggle with the kind of guilt only wrought from hindsight.

was there anything I could have done differently? was I not careful enough in administering her medication? did the droplets that leaked from the corners of her mouth or ricocheted off the insides of her cheeks make a difference of weeks or months? should I have at least tried the alternative treatment? was there anything else I could have done for her pain? should I have called the vet about her diarrhea and vomiting sooner?

if I knew that princess meatball would die on december 21, 2020, would I have still explored all of the treatment options I did? was it worth it?

did she know how much I loved her?

did I force her to prolong her suffering on my account?

so many of these questions have answers I can’t possibly know. I know that I did my best; we both did. I know that we gave her a merciful end, even if she was angry about the needle part at first. I know that she isn’t suffering any more. yes, we could have called a day or two sooner and prevented any further decline; but with her ability to rebound after a bad day, it felt almost premature. I feel absolutely certain that the timing was right based the information we had.

she knew that I loved her, even if she couldn’t understand why I constantly subjected her to things she didn’t like. she knew that I didn’t like those things either, I think. whether there was anything I did or didn’t do: who knows? everything I did for her was out of pure love, and for most of the treatment cycles, she was relatively comfortable and happy. she didn't like going to the vet, but she loved sitting on my lap for the car ride home. she hated her medicine, but she enjoyed being rewarded with tuna water and brushes under her chin. the treatment side effects, when they did manifest, were mild and few. and for awhile, we saw her enjoy herself as she used to.

her loss is profound, and it chokes me throughout the day. I want to fight against fate, or give up and die, too. but that would be very silly of me to do, when a little tabby cat who weighed no more than five and a half pounds at the time of her death could fight so hard to stay alive for her people.

rest well, my golden-crowned princess. your light lives on in us.

#pet loss #grief/mourning #pet death tw #needles tw #bodily fluids tw #all the fucking sad in my body just dumped here on the page #hyperventilated at least twice while writing this #cried constantly but it's fine #honestly feel like i could write an entire trilogy about my grief and still have plenty of sad leftover for the footnotes #loved this cat more than i love most people #2020 is dumb af

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storiesof2018 · 4 years

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"He wanted an army. He wanted a better leash to control me at the same time." The mention of Pierce triggered an onrush of anger inside of him. He let it fade away just as soon as it passed through him, knowing his litter could sense were so attuned to him, they could sense any negative energy he would be feeling. He murmured with a groggy tone as she set down both Aurora and Brennen beside Madison. The twins wasted no time and joined their youngest sibling in nourishing themselves. A pinch of pain shot through him by the roughness of his only boy who he reckoned would be a handful as he grew up. Paternal intuition, he believed. Giving birth to a litter of pups was something he believed next to impossible, but now he began to understand much about it over the past few months since they escaped Hydra surveillance. After pulling the Captain...Steve...from the Potomac River, the Soldier knew Pierce was finished. His only thought was getting back to the safe-house and collecting his pups from the men Pierce had guarding them. They'd been on the run ever since.

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Cascading tonnage of goliathan waves deafeningly barraged against the cargo ship's hull, within the isolated ambiance of a bunking cabin, braced against a rickey-framed mattress, vertiginously in a blearing reaction, Natasha gripped onto a blanket half-draped over the lithe contours of her denim-clad thighs. After boarding the outbound freighter, with a practicable charade of sire-like persuasion-didn't require a combative shuffle of acrobatic-honed graces that she balletically performed in the engine room of the HYDRA-compromised Lemurian Star, Natasha was voluntarily given the moderate excess to utilize a storage cabin as her voyaging refuge.

Removing a package of Doritos out of her backpack stash, Natasha effectively popped the bag open as the powder-cheesy aroma potently sailed through the dense air, evoking her furred bunk mate-HYDRA's mechanized ghost operative- to noncommittally release a throaty gnarl as he muzzily shifted his deadweight over a makeshift nest of cloth tarps, viscerally aware of his baby pups dozily nestled against his swelled girth."Well, you must be hungry, given how much the little pudge-balls pack in, huh?" she coaxed out, huskily in a snarkier undertone, holding up a chip with tantalizing ease."Nothing fancy, since we don't have that luxury on this free-pass cruise..."

The wafting aroma of the tasty snack almost had the wolf drooling with an unabashed hunger that had been steadily growing for hours since their voyage had begun. To ignore the tell-tale pinching of discomfort, Bucky...He now thought of himself as Bucky-it felt right to for some reason. To ignore his hunger, he had gotten some much needed rest to regenerate his strength. He had been on the run for weeks with his infant furrballs, rarely sleeping, rarely eating. There was also the fight he had endured with Natalia at the docks which only served to heighten his already ravenous state of need. He sniffed and growled lowly as he took in the sight of the triangle shaped chip that dangled in front of him.

"How long do you think this trip will be?" He finally asked her once the silence began to become awkward-at least for him.

The feathering drift of her lithe fingers over satiny-velvet fur hushedly captured that instinctive awareness in that addictive breach of connective heat with the smallest of his restless litter; a wondrous fusion that she couldn't ride out. The ephemeral—chaste pressure irrevocably fused a soul-branding revelation—the murderously deceptive siren-the Black Widow conceived out of the Red Room stowed a heartbeat underneath hardcore layers granite.

"Go on. ...I trust you, Natasha." He urged her to give into her greater inclination to pick up young Madison, and not allow the cold darkness of her past to rob her of a newfound connection.

"You sure about this...?" A tenuous raze of warred hesitance electrifyingly deadened her in those rigged seconds of genuine, full-measured trust, the young-exhausted- alpha painstakingly nudged his baby girl with an affectionate variance of cherishing reverence, urging the determined pup to stumblingly wobble closer to her opened reach. A euphonious fringe of hope quenched out the infective blood of her slaughterous-unforgiving past of being a penetration Widow operative-a battle-tested marionette of seductive charades who had her strings broken when Clint Barton's hawk-precision arrow tore into her sterilized reality. He violated his 'green-light' orders -staking down a compromised price with the dynamical exception of friendship-humanity. She had Fury-Steve Rogers, but Clint was always a callback of a heartbeat if she fell too deep.

"Get some rest..." Natasha urged, instructively, easing down the dozy mahogany-furred pup tentatively against his massive silvered forepaw. "I have a rain check with a peanut butter sandwich..." A devious smirk naughtily quirked up her plushier crimson lips. "Can't let those fellas' out there be disappointed..."

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theliterateape · 5 years

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Losing a Best Friend 10 Years Later — Remembering Mike Zigler

By David Himmel

On Friday, October 16, 2009, one of my best friends, Mike Zigler, died.

It was a stupid death. One that was completely avoidable if Zigler hadn’t been the man he was, and maybe, if I hadn’t left Las Vegas two years before to continue my life in Chicago. When people ask me how he died I joke and say, “With his hands at two and ten” — the textbook instruction on where a driver should place their hands on the steering wheel. Zigler died in his car, in the garage of my Las Vegas house, which he was renting from me.

It was accidental and completely unsurprising. See, Zigler was an alcoholic, and if I had a dollar for every time he passed out in his car after a night or three-day bender of heavy drinking, I’d have about fourteen bucks. That’s what he did. Get drunk, get home safely and pass out figuring he’d deal with going to bed properly in the morning. Thirteen of those fourteen times — and I’m both under- and overestimating here — he parked the car in open air. Car ports and parking lots and driveways. It was that last time in the garage that put him in real danger.

The months leading up to Zigler’s death were good months. He had been sober. I last saw him in May when I traveled to Las Vegas. He looked good. He sounded good. When I left him, he was good. We spoke on the phone every day without fail. Sometimes two or three times. We were each other’s sounding boards and biggest fans and most honest critics. But we didn’t talk the day before he died. Work had been whupping his ass. He was recovering from an injury garnered playing in his intramural basketball league. Not one to mope, Zigler, like me, was quick to beat himself up when not living up to self-imposed standards.

The night he died, he fell off the wagon. I wasn’t there but I can only assume that it was really more of a step off the wagon. But with both feet. More a jump off the wagon. And he drove home with too much booze in his blood. Probably not enough to render him completely out of his mind — the guy had a professional drunk’s tolerance. But why’d he leave himself in the car? Knowing my dear friend the way I did, I’d bet my last dollar and the best parts of my soul that he pulled in with a favorite song playing on the radio. He let the song ride out to the end, but drunk enough to be a dipshit, he closed the garage. The carbon monoxide knocked him out then took him out.

See? Stupid.

At first, the coroner ruled it a suicide. But Zigler’s father contested the ruling. Following a series of interviews with Zigler’s family and friends, including me, the cause of death was ruled accidental. Because here’s the thing: Zigler’s mortal enemy was himself especially when he put people out or couldn’t be the incredible friend/son/brother/boyfriend he wanted to be. If Zigler was going to kill himself, he wouldn’t have gone quietly the way he did and he sure as shit wouldn’t have left his corpse in my house for me to deal with. Or more to the point, for me to live with every day after. That wasn’t his style. He would have headed off to some distant desert nowhere and offed himself in solitude. Like an old feral cat. Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know that leaving his corpse behind for his girlfriend to find in my garage would have appalled him.

But this was the man he was, in small part. So, in that way, there was no escaping this kind of inevitability. Unless, I’ve convinced myself, I had been there.

Maybe he wouldn’t be living in the house and, therefore, wouldn’t have had access to a garage. Maybe my proximity to him would have given him a safe place to seek shelter from his shitty week. Maybe I would have gone to the event with him that night and would have steered him clear of the booze. After all, he’d been doing so well sober and, overall, things were really on the upswing for him.

People have tried to convince me it’s not my fault. And it’s not. But they’ve also tried to convince me that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. And I disagree with that. Not my wife, not my therapist, not anyone can convince me that my presence in Las Vegas that night could have saved him. Maybe he would have died another way, another time. I don’t know. But with the facts that we have, I’m sure I could have, at the very least, staved off his death on October 16, 2009.

✶

And so it’s been a decade since he’s been gone. Mike Zigler and I were a part of each other’s lives for about ten years, which means that on October 17, 2019, Zigler will have been gone from my life longer than he was in it. And that’s strange.

But he lives on. Of course he does. Memories, photographs, videos, his writings, the stories… My son has his middle name.

I have no idea what life would look like had Zigler lived through that car nap ten years ago. Things would be different, for sure. Better? Worse? Different. Of course, none of that matters because this is what it is. We have no choice but to miss him and remember him always. And since our lives are like puzzles that we’re constantly rushing to find and fit the right pieces in the right place, my puzzle will always have a piece missing. You can make out what the puzzle is but the table will always be visible from where Zigler’s piece once was. Such is life when faced with death.

✶

At his very strange memorial service a few days after his death, planned not by his family or friends but by the giant corporation he worked for, I got up to say some things about the man. It can only barely scratch the surface of him and our friendship, but it’s something. And the feelings in those words are as tangible and raw today as they were a decade ago. Here they are.

Zigler’s Eulogy According to Himmel

I have maybe millions of Zigler stories I could tell. Many of them not suited for discussion outside the confines of him and me, a few select friends or a road trip to some western Americana.

But here’s one…

Back in college, Mike, Tom Carrow and I decided we were going to take a weekend and drive to Lake Tahoe to go skiing. We hopped in Mike’s truck and about ninety miles out of town we approached a small town called Beatty, NV. The three of us being eternal adventurists, Mike turned to us and said, “Let’s stop off here, have a beer, see what this town is about. We walked into a tavern called the Sourdough Saloon. It was a great place: A large bar in a horseshoe shape with a fire burning and books on the wall. There was a jukebox full of Credence Clearwater Revival, The Animals and Dion and The Belmonts. Right off, we were smitten.

We saddled up to the bar and ordered our Miller Lites. Mike was sitting next to a big burly guy in a flannel shirt and trucker’s cap. Always quick to make friends, Mike turned to the guy and said, “So, what do you do for fun around here?”

The man took a long pull from his bottle of Budweiser and said, “Well… there’s a stop sign at the end of the corner that’s fun to look at…” Mike looked at Tommy and me as if to say, ‘You guys gotta here this.’

The man went on. “It’s the wrong time of the year, but in the summer, when people are paintin’ their houses… it’s fun to watch the paint dry…”

Right then the bartender, who was this Amazonian monster of a woman, began screaming at a guy across the bar from us. And he was screaming right back. And there were curse words and swear words and four letter words I’d never heard of and it was getting violent and louder and threats were made. And the three of us are wondering what the hell was happening. We looked around and no one else in the bar seemed to notice this. They’re going about their drinking, chatting and thinking of stop signs like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Then I made eye contact with a little old man in chinos and a button-up shirt and an old ball cap and glasses. He sort of nodded at me and started to make his way around the bar towards us. I told Mike and Tommy, “This is great. Looks like the only normal looking guy in the bar is going to explain what’s going on.”

The old man came up to me and pulled something out of his pocket, held it to his neck and spoke with a raspy, mechanical voice, “mmm… It’s OK, they’re brother and sister.” The man spoke through that little device one would wear after a tracheotomy. Upon realizing this, we laughed and watched the siblings continue to shout it out and ordered one more round – and a Budweiser for our new friends.

I tell you this story because the thing about Zigler is that he was always up for an adventure with his pals. Twice I was called by Zigler saying, “Let’s go. I rented a Jeep, we’re going off-roading.” And just a week or two before I left town, he and Kara came to my house early on a Sunday morning and said, “We’re going to the Grand Canyon.” And I said, “Okay, I’m bringing my bb gun and we’ll shoot cacti.” Kara was very excited about that.

Zigler and I were best friends. We taught each other how to get into trouble and how to get out of trouble. Mike and I went back to Beatty several times and always returned with a new cast of characters for our stories and more often than not, our trivial stresses and concerns of daily desert life worked out and understood.

Because Zigler and I were always a support for each other. Through good times we were each other’s cheerleaders and biggest fans. And through tough times we were each other’s cheerleaders and biggest fans. A co-worker and college friend of ours, Krista Kulesza once asked us, “Don’t you ever get sick of being around each other?” To which we both looked at one another and turned to her and said, “No.”

Cute, ain’t it?

Zigler loved a philosophy I’d stolen from my mentor at UNLV, Dr. John Irsfeld: Give people permission to be who they’re going to be. Zigler did that. He gave permission to his parents, his friends, his co-workers, even his political rivals and often to the hitchhikers, downtown drunks and Beatty bar barons he so often shared stories with. Another theory and I lived by – also an Irsfeldism — was living by The Platinum Rule. While The Golden Rule tells us to treat others as we want to be treated, The Platinum Rule says to treat others as they would have you treat them. It’s a less self-absorbed way of living in a functioning society. And Zigler lived by that Platinum Rule.

When friends or even acquaintances would come to town, he would bend over backwards to hook them up with a show, dinner, passes to Studio 54, a place to stay… He was always running around, but he always had time to have lunch with you. When I came back to town in May and needed to fix a few things in my house he was renting, he spent two days patching and hammering and helping me install a new door even though he was about as handy as a three-year-old. He did do a great job of running back and forth to Home Depot, Lowes and Subway for me though…

Zigler and I were likeminded in nearly every aspect of like-mindedness. We understood each other. He understood me with such an understanding that he never once questioned my decisions or made me feel guilty or thought any less of me. He just understood and was there for whatever I needed: A ride to the airport. A job. A beer at the frog. A trip to the Indy 500. Talks on my patio until four in the morning about love and family and that voice in our heads that always told us, “Go do something spectacular…”

I live in Chicago now and I spoke to Zigler nearly once a day. The night before I left town two years ago, Zigler was over helping me pack. He was up with me all night. He told me that he didn’t want me to leave, but he knew and understood why I was going. “To chase the dream, be with the girl, do something spectacular.” I just wrapped a show I co-wrote and produced at a Second City stage — part of the dream. Mike designed the programs. And every Saturday morning following the Friday night show he would call just to see how it went. An hour before Jarret Keene called me and told me what happened to Mike, I received word that another show I pitched got picked up for a run. Zigler would have been just as proud, maybe more so.

And I admit that for every step I make that’s closer to spectacular, it won’t have the same feel because Zigler won’t be there to share it with me. And I won’t get to see him write that book he was talking about or bring Liberty Watch back to newsstands or make his way to the national stage and make Ann Coulter and Bill O’Rielly, that putz on MSNBC and his boyfriend, Rachel Maddow and all the other pseudo journalists cower at his brilliance. And that is crushing.

Zigler and I became friends by challenging conventions. By writing news and opinion at The Rebel Yell. By forming the UNLV Student Radio Association battling mean old administrators for some kind of student involvement in their campus radio station. By questioning religion and politics and taxes. And knowing that spirituality and fewer politics and no taxes were a much better way to go… We both agreed that sometimes things seemed so absurd and so lazy and thoughtless, but we laughed and regularly found such beauty in that absurdity and in the irony of it all.

Zigler never believed in heaven. But he did believe in legacy. It doesn’t matter what each of us thinks about where he is right now or who he’s with or if we think nothing existential like that at all. He’d be fine with us just thinking. What does matter is the legacy, the fact, the proof that Zigler was here. Because to Mike, the facts were what mattered. And the fact that his generosity and loyalty and friendship and alibi and wisdom and humor and fairness were unmatched.

There was a restaurant on the corner of Sunset and Patrick called Venice Beach a few years back. It overlooked the landing planes at McCarran Airport and at the right time, the setting sun. Zigler and I would go there, order the same thing every time and sit in silence while we filled our journals. Then we’d chat about what we’d just written.

For me? I can’t say I’m alone or don’t have great friends and people who will be there for me no matter what. But I can say that I feel a little lonely — a little misunderstood. And if there is some kind of heaven, which I think there is, I’m hoping the first stop on the way there is a place like Beatty. And I’m betting Zigler’s already got a few dozen friends and a million new stories to tell.

But if not — and I don’t know for sure — I’ve got plenty of Zigler stories to last me just a little bit longer.

#Mike Zigler #Losing a Best Friend #Death #Alcoholism

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