#Ghost Ship Publishing

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Dice-slinging deckbuilder SpellRogue exits Early Access for its 1.0 release on April 24th

Continue reading Dice-slinging deckbuilder SpellRogue exits Early Access for its 1.0 release on April 24th

[dynamos-games]

experienced my first drilldozer death today, and it was not pretty. I had an autofill team of all gunners, and we were doing so good. then suddenly, the left side went down, then the right. not two seconds after the right exploded, Doretta decided to combust and 3/4 of her health disappeared. despite all of us getting on to repair, she gave up on us, and we failed. I have no clue what happened, idk if it was lag, but I hope I never have to let Dottie down again.

[hmslusitania]

Just remembered being 12, exploring ff.net for the first time, not knowing literally anything about fic conventions yet, and seeing bunches of fics with something like “AU” or “pure AU” or what have you

And thinking to myself

“Au like… the chemical symbol for gold?? Pure Au like you’re declaring your fic to be pure gold?! Hmmmmmmm idk guys that seems Way too bold a claim to make.”

[mokulule]

A Man has Needs part 3

First

Fandom: DP x DC Ship: Dead on Main (Jason/Danny) Summary: In which Jason keeps up ending up in Danny's bed and not even for any fun reasons.

Part 3

Daniel James Fenton, 20 years old, born and raised in Amity Park, Illinois. Graduated high school with barely passing grades. Currently enrolled in Gotham U’s aerospace engineering program, with (ironically) a Wayne Foundation scholarship of a type that was reliant on entrance exam test results rather than high school grades. Either his high school teachers hated him or he spent the gap year studying his ass off to ace the exams.

At least it explained what he was doing in Gotham of all places, Jason thought as he leaned on the kitchen island chin in his hand, laptop open in front of him. The WF scholarships for Gotham U were very good, yet still most people had the sense not to move to Gotham - and Crime Alley at that.

Him being from the Midwest might even explain some of the strange hospitality, though Jason felt he probably took it a level above most people.

Of family there was an older sister - like he’d mentioned. Jasmine Fenton was currently doing a PhD in the field of Psychology.

The parents, Jack and Madeline Fenton had doctorates of their own, though what little he could find published from them was from very disreputable paranormal sort of publications. They seemed to have very little basis for their theories - one of which was that ghosts were inherently evil - which was just absolute hogwash. They apparently lived off the payout of some early inventions they’d made and sold to the government.

Beyond that there was only an aunt.

Friends were much harder to judge. Danny’s social media presence was practically non-existent. He’d only just opened an account on Mugshot, Gotham’s favored social, this Monday, apparently due to encouragement from new Gotham U friends.

Jason absently drummed his fingers on the counter, as he stared unseeingly towards his laptop. Maybe Tim or Babs could find more, but Jason found himself reluctant to involve them, they would want to know why he was looking into the guy, they would want a reason to dig deeper than the basic background check Jason had already done.

Jason could not- would not, tell them about this… attraction? Jason rubbed his face tiredly. Attraction was a terrible word, that implied other things, but it was the best he had.

The oven timer had the kindness to beep then, signifying that batch of cookies was done, and distracting him for a few minutes as he transferred them to the cooling rack and got another plate going.

It was a limited reprieve however and all too soon he was back in front of his laptop. He had no other avenues, there really was only one thing to do.

Oo o oO

“We need to talk.” He flung the words out the moment a surprised Danny opened the door. The surprise however quickly gave way to a grimace as he registered the words.

“Do we have to?” Danny asked honest pleading in his voice.

Jason felt really tempted to say no, but forced himself to say “yes.”

“Okay,” Danny sighed, leaving the door open for Jason to step inside.

Jason closed the door after himself and felt his shoulders relax from their tense position and his breath come out in a relieved sigh. Safe.

He looked to Danny who wrung his hands.

Jason had meant to say something, ask something, he’d had a plan. He wanted answers. Answers… Jason opened his mouth, sound getting stuck in his throat. Just ask him what was going on? But what did it really matter?

“Ah! Please don’t say anything,” Danny interrupted Jason’s internal struggle. “I have been trying so hard not to make this awkward.”

Jason grimaced when he saw how uncomfortable Danny looked. Jason was making him uncomfortable.

“Okay look,” Danny took a deep breath and held up his hands, and looked at Jason with his big blue eyes, “will you please, just let me start, and if you really feel like you need to say something you can do so afterwards, yeah? Though it’s really not necessary.”

“Okay,” Jason managed mouth dry.

“I don’t know how to make this not awkward, but here goes, it’s okay.”

“Okay?” Jason reiterated brows raising in confusion.

“Yes, it’s okay, truly. Fuck, how would Jazz say it,” Danny looked thoughtful for a moment before meeting Jason’s eyes again. “You have needs, and that is okay.”

Jason frowned bewildered and alarmed. Needs?

Seeing Jason’s frown Danny unfortunately rambled, “I know it’s not exactly socially normal no matter which way you look at it, but it’s fine. I have a big bed, truly it’s fine. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, or apologize-“

Overwhelmed, Jason held up his bag of cookies and Danny thankfully stopped talking.

“Coffee?” Danny croaked after a moment’s silence.

“Please,” Jason agreed.

Five minutes later they sat at Danny’s small table a plate of cookies between them, looking down at their steaming coffee, awkwardly avoiding looking at each other.

Jason didn’t know what to think. Had he gotten any information out of this? Needs… Jason had needs, and those let him to Danny’s bed? He cringed away from the thought.

Across from him, Danny poked the handle of his cup. “Can we just pretend this conversation didn’t happen?”

Maybe Danny had the right of it. For both their sanities, maybe that was best. Aside from his confusion, Jason had felt better after both times he’d slept at Danny’s. Would it be so bad to, just for once in his life, not question things? Jason was unsure how much of this was his brain being muddled in Danny’s presence, but he agreed with a nod, and took a sip of coffee.

Oo o oO

Danny wanted to scream. He had made such a mess of things! All his good intentions and he’d gone and made things awkward anyways. It was a relief his guest was willing to just go with it after all.

And, Danny lamented, his guest had even spoken earlier today, like in a full sentence and now they were back at single words or nonverbal. Poor guy. It had to be so uncomfortable to wake up in a stranger’s bed. If only Danny had an easy way to give him straight ectoplasm, but then that might actually overwork his starved core and make everything worse. The slow absorption of Danny’s ambient energy, probably was best for him.

Half still lost in thought he took a cookie and promptly groaned in pleaures, it was perfect and there was no way he could keep his train of thought. It was crisp on outside and chewy in the middle, and the chocolate bits were so rich.

“You made these?” Danny exclaimed between heavenly bites and was rewarded with a quick shy smile and a glance of blue-green eyes. Fuck, why did Danny’s guest have to be both hot and cute? Life was so unfair.

But it seemed the ice had finally broken, and they were back to something comfortable.

Oo o oO

Later in his own apartment, Jason tried once again to make sense of things.

Facts. Jason woke up in Danny’s bed twice, it was likely to happen again.

Apparently Jason had needs. He shuddered at the thought, because what did that mean? But in a twisted way it also made sense, because he had woken up twice in that man’s bed through no conscious decision of his own. There was something about Danny that drew Jason to him and while it was kinda freaking him out, it was also kinda not. Which in itself was freaking him out if he allowed himself to think about it.

But another fact was that Jason felt better, lighter somehow, than… actually he didn’t really remember when he’d last felt so good. Maybe he really had just needed some proper sleep?

And Danny himself?

Jason had no idea what his deal was. It was very odd how accepting he was of the situation - he’d said it himself, this wasn’t socially normal no matter how you looked at it.

He was clearly not normal no matter how you looked at it. But neither was Jason really.

-

And this is the end of part 3.

They almost talked? They gotta get props for trying right?

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Next

[sylvesterelle]

Meditations in an Emergency Part 1

Fem!Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.

Part 1 of 3, 5.8k words, mature, cw: alcohol, cannabis, bisexual lusting in every direction

Read on AO3 I Read part two | Read part three

"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "

Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"

“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off the plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we sayit, you know?  Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.

Kat nods and gives you a second cherry because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.

It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week, and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours late into the night, remote so you can write in coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts. 

The problem is you devote so much time to other people’s work that you’d promised to use weekends for your own ideas. Easier said than done, without an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. The other problem with your ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to complete one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition. But routine helped, so there at the bar you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months, even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu. (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t have a menu to be off of.”)

It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction and many of your most delightful ideas have come from chance observations and surprising interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments in the first place.

“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”

She rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile from Kat. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”

You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, strolling until you make sense of its curves and corners and spirit.

The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the late fall snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth to a blinking neon sign and a door just opening, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night. 

Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows, instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally deign to comment on your more interesting trains of thought; offer some piercing observations of her own if she was in a good mood.

Fast-forward a month and change, and now you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you breeze in for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you pop off the lids in a dance thrilling in its routine.

Your coffee’s slowly melting beside you, abandoned in lieu of the syrupy-sweet mess Kat had waiting for you. She sips at the dregs of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.

“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”

“I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”

She flips you the bird causally as she goes to greet the two regulars slipping into place at the end of the bar. It’s early in the night and still mostly empty; only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on—the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found among the chaos was when you were at your best.

“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you pick back up when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”

You wave this aside, already mentally on a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical, salt-air in your face. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily, propping your chin on your hand.  “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"

Kat makes a face. It’s upsetting how prettily she pouts.

“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing a copy from the local library, like you usually did. You kept a collection of those library cards rattling around in an old Altoids tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.

“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” Kat offered, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it,” she finishes, as animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is only slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a touch further, three degrees more derision in her tone.

Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for story ideas.

You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you live most of your life in your own words and your own worlds, so it doesn’t quite bother you in the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…

“You know, all of that is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own thoughts and issues, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”

You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did: share little observations about other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it tonight.

"Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat her, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.

You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.     

“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you beautifully.

“Oh Kat, some things can’t be taught,” you tell her with a pitying shake of the head.

She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, greeting a nicely-dressed couple as they sink onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the gaze of one of the women and smile. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.

…

You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean, but Baader–Meinhof is a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look the more you see to appreciate. 

Like Bobby, the union electrician who wears his name in blue, embroidered on the pocket of his work shirt. Not machine-stitched but hand-made, the careful stitches illuminated when he leans over to call out his order. His wife’s handiwork, he shares when you ask. “Paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do all of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he tells you proudly, unabashed even when his friends rib him good-naturedly. 

After Bobby comes the lady whose leopard print nails match her furry coat, the one who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Then there’s the burly biker who sits down to share a themed photoshoot of their toy poodle when you compliment the photo on their lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.

Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.

Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she spies when customers lean close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes combing through the catalogue with him, cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough yacht rock to last a fair few hours.

All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna” sends you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, can sometimes be a challenge for you.

Not tonight, and you grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.

“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask her, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and words mumbled as she chews.

“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”

You perk up. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance—always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.

Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘self-evident superiority of whisky over bourbon’ as he ordered a Maker’s for his friend.”

You hum, craning your head. “See where they sat?”

She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”

Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.

“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”

If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely zilch about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering but only blinked when you’d asked if she was a Capricorn or a Scorpio.

Kat pushes her bangs off her sweaty forehead and checks the clock, then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really. 

The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest, but the sky is clear—a thousand tiny pinpricks visible in the heavens.

You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.

Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.

You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and the curve of those mouthwatering thighs long enough to bother with anything else.

Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those muscles not being just for show—there’s too much strength, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from power in repose.

“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat, his accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he nods warmly to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.

“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.

Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he purrs, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is broad and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.

“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.

“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin goofily at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.

“Jesus Christ,” Kat’s eyes shut briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight. Noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis as she clears off the chairs, kicks snow off the garbage can.

“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats.

You pull out the battered Altoids tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints.

“Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding one up.

They shake their heads, amused.

“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, plucking it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.

“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.

It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.

Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says, voice a little strained.

And that was just…well, fair, actually.

“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.

You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little frisson through your blood.

“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.

“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”

“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.

“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.

“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”

“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.

“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”

“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”

Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”

Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.

“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.  

��You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you feel lightheaded with desire, literally dizzy with it.

This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.

You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.

“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…

“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.

“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment—turning down a free drink was against your moral code.  

He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”

“Ah can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles low, stretching his feet out into your space.

“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you ask, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”

He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”

“‘A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”

You toy with the Altoids tin, debate lighting up another one. Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly.

“Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own.

When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.

You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you murmur, putting a fervent hand to your heart.

“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as he kicks the door shut behind him, muffling the chatter from inside. “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.

He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, a pink plastic sword stuck with three cherries on top.

You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”

“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.

You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”

Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”

Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”

Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.

Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off in there, the sadist.

“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made a fucking unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Reminded me of a friend of ours, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.

He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with SOAP scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air, then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.

“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”  

“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.

You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as good as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.

But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re leaning in for a closer look, balancing with one hand on his thigh. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.” You give him a businesslike pat on the knee and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with an adoring thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, right Johnny?” Ghost say. He squeezes gently once before letting go, settling back with a satisfied smile. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.

“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T.,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—

Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.

Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.

Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.

“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.

Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.

There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.

You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry; a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.

You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.  

People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, traveling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.  

And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.

All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.

“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.

“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”

“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) is anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.

“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in a neighborhood like this.”

“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street; drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”

“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Soap’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.

The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught.

Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.

You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.

Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.

“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.

“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.

“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.

And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets. 

Read part two

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 7.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, violence, swords & firearms, abductions, hurt/comfort, torture references, nakedness, needles, gore, etc.

A/N: Alright, and that's a wrap on this mini-series. Biker/mechanic!Ghost is next on the list.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You hit the water and immediately push back to the surface, ignoring the burning of your open wounds. 

“John!” Your high and panicked call can’t be heard above the yells to arms and the distressed wails. “What are you doing?!” Bodies get chucked from the side of the ship and all you can do is watch as they meet the water around you—skin cut open and eyes dead. 

While the sea was numbing your pains, your heart was hurting enough for all of them; hands flailing to try and help keep you above the waves. But everything was so dark, only the light far above giving you a sliver of perception. 

“John!” You scream again, eyes snapping back and forth along the ship. Your arms burned with heat.

“Go!” The words ring out and make you cringe, graveled and ragged—an order. But how could you? Vile grunts and skin meeting skin sound out, no more shirking blade edges or the boom of pistols. Fists meeting ribs, bared teeth.

“The Mermaid was wearing tags! He’s part of the King’s forces!” The leader. “If we can’t have the beast, we’ll have the coin from a turncoat!”

“Deserter!”

“Traitor!” 

“Tie him to the post!”

Your ears twitch and pull at the horrible words, lungs near hyperventilating and black waves going red. If you weren’t able to ingest water, the way your head was slowly sinking would have left you sputtering and choking. 

What will they do to him? Why can’t I help? It was the only part in your life where you regret having a tail, because now you can’t save John in the same way he saved you. Your eyes lock helplessly to the upper deck, far, far above. You can’t drag yourself up or even find the energy to stay above water. 

Your strength was waning quickly—you needed to be tended to; healed. But it felt worse than a betrayal to see not even a glimpse of John’s brown hair or his large arms. To not feel the hold he kept on you. You wanted his lips and his flesh to be pressed into you, to venerate your image as he always did. 

A Hierei that worships at the shrine that is you.

“Curse you,” you say aloud to the men above. The ones that tie your raging love to a post; you hear his low growls and biting expletives like blades in their own fashioned way, the sea garbling your words. “Curse your greed and your violence!” 

But no one listens, and with a heavy and weighed heart, you have to let your dead muscles rest as they give out completely against your will. Sunking under the battling waves, you feel like dead weight; no different than the various bodies around you that John had dispatched. 

You felt useless. 

Above you was John, being tied up and taken—taken to a King that wants your species dead. You don’t want to leave, but the current is snatching you away like seaweed, limp and broken. Whatever John had done to your wounds, the fabric of his shirt was holding fast to your shredded flesh, but it didn’t stop the agony or the inner conflict. 

He was right above you…why aren’t you strong enough to help?

Your eyes flutter, hair and arms floating. 

Everything grows dark, but John never once leaves your mind. Perhaps the Fisherman was worshiping you, but you did the same unto him. 

The eyepatched leader’s words loop in your brain, paired with storm-blue eyes. Gentle praises.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Your body sinks with the rest.

—

The sand under you is coarse and dry as your eyes barely open, chest rising and falling but shakily, stuttering in its course. Small noises groan in the back of your throat, fingers like stones beside your face. 

Everything hurts, but something has woken you up. Noises. Muttered speaking.

“Now why would she have these?” There was a moment of clinking metal and a low huff. 

You groan louder and curl into yourself more, only to stop when the tears in your flesh pull. Your lungs inhale sharply.

“Oh, Christ,” the accented voice is smooth as it gets closer. “Easy, then, Ma’am. Shite, I was hoping you’d stay under a bit longer, I’m not bloody done yet.” 

Forcing your eyes open, you hiss at the burn of morning light, laying on your stomach with…your brows tighten…were you wearing a tunic? A hand meets the back of your shoulder and you cry out, jerking.

“Woah!” More force is applied to keep you down but it only makes you struggle more. “Please, I’m trying to stop the bleeding!” 

You stall at this revelation like a bird, panting. Muscles tight, you cautiously look over your shoulder to weakly stare at whoever this man was.

Brown eyes meet your own, and a dark-skinned complexion over an oval face. They blink at you with concern and hesitation, sparing only a nervous smirk and a chuckle. You stare widely, saying nothing. 

“I…I’m just trying to stop the bleeding. Whoever got you,” this man trails off, glancing down at your tail. “Well, they did some proper damage.”

“Who are you?” Your voice is damaged from all the screaming you’d done, cracking and frail. You stifle a cough and survey the land with frantic snaps of your orbs. This wasn’t your cove. 

Where were you? What had happened to the ship? To John? Your hand travels to your neck but lands on nothing. It’s like the world stops turning.

The necklace. 

“My name’s Kyle, Miss, but I’m just as well off being called Gaz—” Your hand snaps to his shoulder, wrenching him down in a violent slam to the sand; with a shove of your ailing body, you cross an arm over his chest to pin him. 

Brown eyes widen, and one hand easily raises in a placating manner. You don’t bother to look at the other, your head broken into bits of instances and images of horror.

“Where is it?” Your lips hiss out. You didn’t know you could make a sound like that. 

Kyle, dressed in a fine outfit of a Bookkeeper, furrowed his brows at you. He didn’t look off-put by your brashness, or by the fact that you were of the Merfolk. 

“I’m sorry, Ma’am…I’m not following. Where’s what, exactly?” There was a glinting at his throat, and you snatched at it with a glare and snarl of ‘thief’ on your tongue. 

A blade presses into your side and you freeze. Kyle stares up at you with a frown on his face, body tight. “I think you should let that go, Miss, yeah?” 

The metal discs are the same as John's, but they hold a different name entirely. 

“Kyle Garrick, Sergeant, 141st company under the King.”

“One Hundred and Forty-First?” You whisper in a hushed voice and the blade loosens from you. Mouth opening and closing, you forget for a moment what Kyle is. Your eyes go glossy with hope. “You know John?” 

Eyelids blink at you in astonishment and all at once the knife is sheathed at his hip once more. Gaz gapes, his slight stubble shifting on his face as he talks slowly. 

“Yes, I do…how do you know the Captain? No offense, but I didn’t peg him for the type to run off with…well…” he trails, chuckling. “Not run exactly, then, is it?” 

You glower and push back, flinching at your aches but waste no time in speaking frantically to the man as your tail flaps. If he was on the same ship as John was, they certainly knew each other well; Kyle had to assist you.

“Please, you need to help me,” The man’s face goes serious and he pushes himself up, “—there’s been a terrible event. John has been taken, don’t you understand?” Your hands grasp at his collar, forgetting to ask about the missing necklace in your mounting hysteria. “They took him. They’re bringing him back to the King and it’s all my fault!” 

You don’t know if it’s the pain or the fatigue, but your emotions spill from you in droves, silver tears falling like drips from a blacksmith's smelter to the beach of this foreign place. Your body feels unable to hold itself up—so much blood lost. 

Gaz gains a sheen of panic at your state, gripping your shoulders lightly above the given tunic. 

“Now, now, Ma’am, steady. You’ve lost a lot of blood, eh? We need to get you sorted.” But internally your words disturbed him. John had been taken? His Captain? And he had known a mermaid?

“I don’t need to be sorted,” you mock, shaking him, “I need my John back! And you’re going to help me.” 

Kyle gazes around awkwardly, clearing his throat and trying to comfort you as his upper half gets forced back and forth.  

“First,” he stops you with a firm squeeze on your shoulders, “we’re getting you stitched and wrapped, Ma’am. If what you’re telling me is real,” Gaz pauses, glancing at the sea lapping at your tail, “then I need to get in contact with the others.” 

Your body slightly sags, panting and shaking. While you should have asked who the others were, your adrenaline was too great to allow you to think above the fact that Kyle was going to help you. He had known John—that was enough for you to know he was a good person. 

“Easy,” the man mutters, face pulled in concern. There’s a moment of tense silence before Gaz shifts a hand to the pocket inside of his tweed frock coat, slipping to the side of his green notch vest. He blinks his brown eyes at you before he lightly takes John’s necklace from the depths of his clothes. Kyle presents them as your shoulders loosen with a small sliver of comfort. “I believe you were looking for this, yeah?” 

He spares a friendly, boyish, smile.

Your fingers brush his as you delicately take the metal up, fingertips weeping with torn flesh. Staring at them, you bring the item to your lips and kiss it gently after a moment of agony, a few more tears slipping down your cheeks. 

“Oh, John,” you whisper, “you fool, what have you done?” 

“I’ll be needing to move you, Ma’am,” Gaz clears his throat and looks back to the grass-coated road. The beach where you had washed up was near the bottom of a slight hill, and along with sand, there were a lot of pebbles. The wind was chilled. “I was just finishing up with a temporary binding when you woke. We can speak more when I get the larger wounds stitched.” 

You see his gaze fall down you once more. 

“I’d think there’s a lot to catch up on.” Shuffling John’s necklace over your head, you allow Kyle to take bandages from his Gladstone bag which he had brought down from the road with him. He says he found you on the beach unconscious not five minutes before you woke back up as he takes out John’s tunic strips before packing the wounds with fresh material. 

“You stopped?” You ask quietly, body shaking. “Why?” 

“Well, I left the same time that the Captain did,” he explains, looping fabric around your tail as you shudder and clench your teeth at the long cuts over your scales. Kyle spares you a glance before continuing. “Same reason too. The minute innocent beings were being hunted, everyone in the One Hundred and Forty-First deserted. They weren’t too happy with us, I’d imagine. I do what I can to help anyone, regardless of species.” 

Gaz pulls back and finishes up, brushing his hands on his folded legs and sighing. 

“We all separated and led our lives the best we could—got jobs, hid ourselves, the like.” While the story was fascinating, as John was rare to talk about the King or his service beyond a clenched jaw, you truly were suffering from blood loss.

Every moment it became harder to keep your upper-half vertical and your eyes open. Gaz’s words slurred in your eardrums as the sand under your hands got pushed back by pressure like a rock being dragged. Your head must have swayed, because the next moment you’re being lifted with a grunt and a steadying of feet.

“Can’t say I’ve ever carried a mermaid,” Kyle grumbles to himself, blinking down at your form as our head rests limply on his chest. “Certainly not one that knows Price of all people.”

You focus on your breathing as he ascends the hill, going slowly and holding your form tight so as not to drop you. While not John’s size by any means, the man was still strong in a more lean and lithe way where your Fisherman’s was upfront and bare with it. 

You’re carried down the trodden path to a lone house on the upper hill above the water, small and quaint, it’s only a single square room. 

Truly this event speaks to your luck—how on earth had you found perhaps one of the only men on the planet that knew John and sympathized with magical creatures?

Kyle sets you back on his bed softly, pillows pressed into indents of your head and cheek. 

“Alright then,” he sighs, “let's get this figured out, yeah?” 

You’re offered food and water, but all you care about is sleep. Your tail hangs off the end of the bed and your fins ache with torn skin. Without even looking at your scales, you know they’re damaged immensely. Most will be left with great scars. 

Merfolk could be called vain in their lifetime, and the sentiment wasn’t entirely untrue. You were beings of elegance and beauty—ethereal lustfulness hardwired into your DNA. Image was important to you, and this loss was great. 

But the loss of John hurt more than any torture someone could inflict on you; any wounds. You needed him back. 

As Gaz prompted you to tell your story, which you did with failing consciousness, your hand traveled to your necklace to grasp it tightly. Lips quivering. When the first push of the man’s needle entered your hard flesh, you never even felt it.

—

You awoke for the second time, once more, to the sound of speaking. 

“Well, he’s sure gotten up to it while we’ve been away! Fuckin’ bastard.” This accent didn’t belong to Gaz, and thus your eyelids pushed back with slight unease. Had John’s Sergeant sold you out? With a struggle, you blink back to reality only to find a pair of bright blue eyes stuck on you. 

For a moment you startle, those shades so similar to John’s that for a moment you had forgotten what had transpired. Then the pain in your tail strikes up and you balk back sharply. 

“Soap!” Gaz hisses, grabbing the large and built man away from the bed. “Get the hell away from her, would you? Christ, she’s been through enough without having to look at that face when she wakes up, Mate.” 

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap, as he’d been introduced, was the epitome of a blacksmith—ash still on his square jaw and his large black apron tied at a stiff waist. His arms were as bulky as your head and while he was shorter than Gaz he made up for it in sheer muscle. 

Blue eyes darken with annoyance before they swivel back to you, but they lighten just the same when they spot your fear-spiked expression. 

“Sorry about that, Little Lady. Just curious, is all.” You swallow the saliva in your throat and turn to look at Gaz in question. “Not every day somethin’ like this happens.”

“Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish,” the man offers, rubbing at his neck apologetically. “Served with John and I. You can trust him.” 

You blink and turn back to Johnny, and, sure enough, around his neck were the common silver discs that Gaz and John wore over the tunic and apron. 

“A…” You try to remember what your Fisherman had told you about human customs. With a frown, you carefully extend a hand and hold it aloft while your tail rests and your other limb keeps you up. “A pleasure, Johnny.” 

A wide grin meets your eyes and a hand is clapped into your own; shaking it firmly as yours remains limp. 

“Ah, please, the pleasure’s all mine.” When his grip leaves you look down at the various stitches and thick wrappings around your body before thinning your lips and gazing back at Gaz. He stares and tilts his head when you lock eyes with him. 

“Thank you, Garrick. I…I owe you a large debt.” He’s already shaking his chin at you.

“Negative, Ma’am,” Kyle denies. “The only thing we need to be focusing on is getting the Captain back. Simon should be along by the evening.” 

“Sure the man’ll show?” Johnny raises a brow and stands to his full height, going over to the small table in the middle of the room and sitting down with a huff. He picks up a flagon and takes a sip of ale. “He’s far off cuttin’ stone.” 

“I sent a rider out and said it was urgent. He should be getting it about now, yeah?” 

“Well, hell, I’d sure hope so else we’re out of our favorite Ghost. Can’t have that.” You watch and stare at the ease these two converse with the other, years seem to bleed from their mouths like waves in water. They had it all figured out, and noticeably, they weren’t at all panicked. 

“How are the both of you so calm?” You can’t help but ask. Brown and blue turn to furrow their brows at you.

“They took the bloody Captain. Only person worse than that to steal away would be Simon.” A chuckle. “I’m more worried about the bastards themselves than him.” And it was left at that. 

At times throughout the day, Gaz would bring you bread to nibble on to help settle your stomach, water, and ale whenever you needed it. When the dryness of the air and the fireplace got too warm for you, Johnny would be the one to carry you down the hill to the water where you’d soak your wounds in the surf. In those moments you could finally take in the pure silence under the waves and let your anguish take hold.

But you always had to break the surface at some point, shimmy into the dry tunic that Soap offers with respectfully averted eyes, and let him carry you back with his bulky arms. 

As it always did, the water let your wounds heal far faster than a man’s, though the aches were still intense. 

John’s eyes would not leave you. His crown of stars or the lantern light on his face—the way he whisked you away from danger and put himself dead center into it. Keeping you to his large chest as he held aloft a sword in your honor.

 “...I think he loves the beast!” 

Oh, and you loved right back and you hadn’t told him. 

It’s hours upon hours later when the door is shoved open as you sit up in the bed; tail limp and dim on the floor below. You look up in shock at the man whose frame nearly takes up the entire doorway, shoulders wide and thighs vast under work pants and a large tunic, cowl over his head and clasped with a brooch at his left pec. Under shined a deep brown gaze and pale brows, but his entire lower face was covered by cloth. 

Intimidating, his visible expression was entirely blank. You wondered if perhaps a vampire had walked into this place without proper entry, but then you remembered the man Johnny and Gaz mentioned. 

Simon. Ghost. 

Well, he certainly fits the part, stone dust on his clothes and large boots stacked with scrapes. A Stonemason.

“There’s the man!” Johnny exclaims, raising his hand which has another cup of ale in it as he’d downed the other some time ago. 

“Where’s Price?” Deep was Simon’s voice, and he spares you a glance but nothing more. Gaze falling down your tail with hidden flickers of intrigue and wafting back up to stop at John’s necklace. His brows pull in as he turns. 

“Gone—taken to the King,” Gaz explains from where he leans against the fireplace, face serious. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon grunts, walking in and closing the door behind him. “Where was he last?” It’s mildly amusing to you that he doesn’t seem bothered or even surprised by a mermaid in Gaz’s home. 

“Just off Harpies Nest,” Johnny pipes in, itching at shaved sides of his scalp. “Where the old beasts used to fly from.” 

“I’m guessing she’s the reason for that, then?” Everyone was anxious to act, even you. These men were close, and while circumstance had forced them away from one another the loyalties still lay. 

“Affirmative. Price’s been in good company, seems.” A stale glare is sent his way and he chuckles and puts up his hands. 

“Is there anything we can do?” You ask, looking at each in turn. Seeming to still hold that ingrained ranking that all men in the service do, Johnny and Gaz look to Simon. Brown eyes blink slowly, turning to look at you in a narrowed thought.

After a while, he speaks in a monotone.

“They’ll be bringing ‘em to the castle to stand trial. We’ve already lost a day’s time and there’ll be no ship that can sail as fast as we need it to.”

“By land?” Gaz wonders. Johnny’s shaking his head.

“How do you expect we get the Lady through that?” Eyes turn to your lack of legs. Body stiff, you huff and grit your teeth. If they thought you weren’t going along, that was foolish of them.

“I can swim to the docks,” you pause, “but you’ll have to tell me the way, for I do not know it.” 

John had talked about docks—places ships went to rest. You’re sure you can make it, even like this. You had to. 

Johnny stares before he chuckles twice, sharing a glance with the others and motioning to you. “I like ‘er.”

Gaz and Simon look at one another with a side-eye, before Kyle sighs and shakes his head. Simon hooks his thumbs into his pants and huffs out, “Sure you’re up for that?” 

“I’m helping John.” Pushing, you meet those brown eyes head-on and steel yourself. “I need him back.”

There’s no further fight, and Ghost takes everything you say at face value. “Fine.” 

And that was that.

—

The plan was so stupid you wondered if these men had gone brain-dead, but inside the castle dungeons, John had no way of knowing that. 

He frowned deeply as his pounding skull tipped back to connect with the cobblestone wall, blood dried over the right side of his face. A growl on his lips as the chains keep his hands high above him and hanging as his backside stays seated on the floor. His limbs had long since gone numb, circulation cut out in an uncomfortable state of numbness. 

But inside of him, there was a sense of accomplishment despite everything. He’d gotten you away from dirty hands—away from hooks. Away from danger. 

John could die happy with that.

On the ship, before he’d been brought to the castle, the crew had tied him to the mainsail mast with a ragged rope that had skinned his flesh in just minutes of the rocking waves. They’d taken his vessel as well, and all of his belongings were confiscated in the docks. From there it had been amused jabs at his stomach with fists and knife-throwing practice. 

John had cuts along the sides of his arms and the meat of his thighs—clothes shredded and torn from blades. His forehead had a long gash from the scalp to the temple, dried now but pulling with red aggression. 

The fisherman hums under his breath and thinks only of you. 

It was a fact that you had brought music into his life; a melody of waves and scales that could not be denied. Songs that sounded like sea-foam and a lapping of a tail across the water. When he’d seen you that day from behind the black rocks, John had lost a piece of himself to your wide eyes and tilted head. That spark of connection. 

He had never been so thankful for choosing a new place to cast his nets, because he’d unwittingly caught the greatest creature he ever could have—one people have been running after for years. 

You. 

John’s lips pull in a tiny smile, eyes going soft. Above him his chains rattle and his arms flinch, wounds burning, but for the life of him, he can’t stop smiling. Wherever you were, he hoped you were safe and that he gave you the best chance of survival. He hoped you could forgive him.

Footsteps echo off the ground, and John looks over to the iron bars of his cell stiffly, mask re-falling to his stern face like a curtain. Two guards in armor clink down the hallway, expressions hidden by hoods and cloth. One produces a rusted key from his belt and slips it into the door, the metal rattling as it gets forced back and forth until the telltale click signifies the opening of the lock. 

“Finally letting me out, then?” John speaks dryly, voice holding a rasp. 

No one answers, and soon John’s chains are dropped and his arms seized. Yanked up, the fisherman grunts in pain as his legs drag behind him across the cobble—being taken somewhere. Probably, if John had to guess, the noose. 

Desertion isn’t something you can get out of shy of a life sentence; to hell or to a cell was entirely up to the King. And the King wasn’t entirely fond of John and his One Hundred and Forty-First. 

John was forced out into the open courtyard, a dichotomy of brightly flowering bushes and expensive finery to the platform placed in the very middle. The brunette's lips thinned at the sight of the large and imposing body made of wood and rope belonging to the gallows, a grim reaper of earthly material. There would be no great fight from him, no roar of a death rattle, just a kicking of his feet and tight wheezes, but no more. 

He knows his final thoughts will be of you—what you’re doing right now, how you’ll live the rest of your life. John hopes you don’t cry for him. 

The two guards shove him forward, and already a crowd has formed below the viewing platform for the monarch himself, who sits in all of his finery. Wyvern leather for his gloves, unicorn horn for a scepter, and…John’s eyes go tight, scales that make up a crown of opal and gold. Vibrant scales. 

Unmistakingly Merfolk, anyone who’s met one of the species would know it. It has the same shine as the one John holds in the pouch on his belt; the fisherman clings to the fact that, against all of it, you were still with him in even a small sense. You’d be with him. 

So John grits his teeth and glares up to the dias defiantly as the guards hold him under the noose, shoving his head to the side to grab the rope. He feels no fear.

“Fuckin’ watch it, Muppet,” the fisherman hisses, snapping his head to the side to stare into the glinting brown eyes from under the hood. He pauses, brows furrowing. “What…?” 

As his hands are forced behind him, they’re not tied as the excited murmuring from the crowd begins, the King’s forward-leaning attention. 

They’re given a knife. 

John hides his surprise and looks over to the other guard as he fits the noose over his neck. Amused blue, and around his neck the glint of silver discs. 

“Oh, bloody hell, you’re takin’ the piss,” the former Captain growls lowly. He knows those damned eyes, just as he knows his former Lieutenant’s. 

MacTavish and Simon. 

“Chin up, Captain,” Johnny jokes under his breath hidden by cloth. “Show’s about to start. Let’s give ‘em a proper scare, yeah.” 

Blue eye glare, but they lack the venom. A barred-teeth smile grows. How had this happened? Johnny steps back and goes to his side, the wood under their feet creaking. The crowd falls silent, looking to the King for the verdict. 

The King’s fingers raise and John memorizes his face in that instant…because it’s only then that he sees Gaz.

Gaz, who was on the upper terrace of the courtyard’s walls, holding a musket with the stock trained to his cheek; body still and ready—tutored to a perfectly motionless trance. There aren’t any guards to be seen near him. It’s a moment of pure silence, a ruling energy. The crowd is waiting for the King to verbalize an answer that he’s never able to give. 

As the monarch’s lips open there is an eardrum-bursting boom that shatters the call for John’s doom and instead spells his own in his very castle from one of his former men. A poetic ending, John would say, but he’s unable to verbalize it as he’s suddenly falling through the gallows hatch as Simon reems on the handle. 

“Knife!” It’s all the Ghost yells in warning.

With a rush of air, there’s a split second to cut the rope before it breaks his neck, and with a snapping motion, John perfects it in an instant—instinct as sharp as any blade that could be put into his hand. He hits the ground with a loud grunt of pain and struggles to sit up until Johnny and Simon jerk at him from where they’d jumped down as well. Not a second too soon, as lead balls from rival guns were already hitting the gallows. 

Not all the guards were dead, then, and apparently, the three had known that would be a possibility.

John would have to scold them later. 

“What in the hell is going on?!” The fisherman barks, but he’s being dragged before he shoves their hands off of him and follows to where they beeline into the fleeing crowd.

“What?” Johnny belts out laughter. “No ‘thank you?’ We just saved your neck!”

“Left!” Simon shouts, and although John’s body can’t take much more, they all dart into the cover of the castle walkways. “Make for the docks—the Sergeant’s meeting us there.”

“Bloody fucking Christ!” John growls but quickly goes onto the most important topic. “She’s behind this, isn’t she?” Johnny’s smirk only confirms it.

“Proper girl you’ve got there, Gaz found her on the shore. Else we’d never have heard about it all before you were dead and gone.” John blinks at him. “Getting reckless without us, now?”

The former Captain ignores the remark. “Where is she?” 

“Oi!” Ghost hisses, looking over his shoulder as the three hurry on as shouting rings from behind them. “Get your head in the game. Focus on not getting shot, yeah?” 

Brown meets blue. 

“You’ll see ‘er soon.” Simon ends, dead eyes shifting to a form that rampages through the hallway behind them. “Behind!” He calls loudly, and John ducks just as a knife is thrown with pinpoint accuracy. A sound of a body hitting the floor echoes over the distant screaming and calls of alarm. 

The King is dead. 

All of the men reach their destination by sheer luck and the knowledge of how to use a blade, cobblestone leading to open streets and back alleys. Finally, the wide stretch of sea was visible, and a shadow slinked out of a corner quickly. 

“Hell,” Gaz blinks at them, “do you think I’ll ever be let back into the castle?” 

Johnny pants a laugh. “You’ll be lucky to get into the province, ya sneaky Bastard. Fine fuckin’ shot.” 

Simon looks at them. “Gaz, Johnny, get to it.” 

They’re by the open water of the dock, long wooden walkways stretching out with ships shifting in the waves. John wonders if his boat is here in the back of his mind, but his eyes are already combing the waves greedily in search of you. 

Were you here? Oh, he hoped you weren’t. You’d be placing yourself in the middle of a very real and present danger. 

“Get to what?” John questions, looking at each man in turn. “What ‘ave you planned, eh? Seems I’ve missed the meeting where we decide to assassinate the bloody monarch in broad daylight.” 

Gaz places a hand on his shoulder as he shimmies past. “Best to leave the heavy lifting to the ones who can stand fully, Captain.”

“Aye,” Johnny confirms. “You’ll want to be here more than anywhere, bet ya.” 

Simon shares a look with the blacksmith and grabs John by one shoulder, leading him to the water as Johnny takes the other. The brunette blinks quickly in confusion and grunts an expletive. 

“Get your hands off of me you pair of—!”

“Have fun!” Johnny and Simon both shove him into the water with a final push and dart off like wisps. 

Water rushes into his ears, covering his head and soaking his clothes before it drags him under. John’s arms flailed to propel him back to the surface. A jolt later, his head is breaching the water with a venomous glare and a barked order on his lips to a vacant audience. The boys had already sprinted off to who knows where.

“Son of a…” John trials, weak legs kicking to keep him afloat. Something brushes his thigh as water drips from his nose, cleaning away the blood with a reddish tint to the liquid.

The fisherman startles, head snapping down just as your hands grasp at his abdomen, sliding up as you press your lips deeply into his in one swift motion. He gasps, grip instinctually moving to hold onto the small of your back. 

You press into him tightly, pushing every emotion into the locking of your mouths with desperation and longing. Sighing deeply into the kiss, John melts into you as your tail brushes his legs, torn fins visible and shimmering stitches pulling at flesh. Scales glint somewhat brighter under the waves, water dripping along your shoulders and wetting your hair. 

John brings you closer when he realizes it’s your form around him, eyes fluttering closed and fingers weaving behind the base of your skull. It’s as if the world stills for that quick and reverent second as if everything is right. The both of you break the kiss with soft eyes, and after a moment of staring your chest releases a chuckle; hands coming up to capture your fisherman’s cheeks, weaving through those beard hairs once more.

The brunette stares at you and lays his forehead into yours, not knowing what to say. A smile plays on his lips.

“...It seems my fisherman had more of a reckless side than I anticipated,” you speak for him, whispering into the air. Your eyes flicker over the cuts and bruises visible on his pale flesh and a flash of fear alights in your expression. “Oh, John…What have they done to you?”

“Just scratches,” the man reassures delicately. “It’s alright, Love. I’ll live.” 

But you both know this conversation can’t happen here. With a few more pecks of kisses to his lips, you ask in an ethereal voice, “Do you trust me?”

Your hand is locked to his wrist, pulling him along the waters as your head tilts at him and tail sliding along his flesh. 

John wastes no time. “Of course.” 

Lips flicker to a small, loving, grin and then you drag him under the water. 

—

“Do they hurt?” He asks you carefully, running a calloused hand along the tears in your fins you know will never heal fully. You sit on the rocks below Gaz’s home, the water still dripping off of both of your bodies. 

Out farther in the water the three other men are sailing back in John’s fishing boat, a few minutes out. You blink down at him and move a hand to shift his jaw upward to you, humming.

“Not when you touch them like that,” confessing, you keep close to him, held tightly under the crook of his arm and breathing in that scent of rope and wood oil. You practically vibrate with comfort, all of your worries able to be put aside at last. 

John looks down at you and chuckles, putting a deep kiss on your scalp and taking a deep inhale. 

“Cheeky,” he teases. You smile.

“And yours?” Your voice speaks out in question as the water brushes your tail. 

The man peels back to look down at you slowly. “Already better…I owe you, Sweetheart.” 

Huffing, you shake your head, “You owe me nothing. The only reason you were there was because of me.” 

John’s brows furrow, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your head back to him. He stares into your eyes for a long while until your face starts to heat with emotion, blinking up at him innocently. His blues dart over the healing cuts and marks with hidden emotion.

“I’d do it again,” John whispers. “A million times over, you hear? I’d be a bloody fool not to.” 

He kisses you as you both wait in the setting twilight for the others, bloody and beaten—more scar tissue than anything else—but still your John. 

“Thank you,” he mutters into your lips, and then again when he nips at your flesh. The man plays with his necklace at your collarbone as he traces patterns in your scales and smirks when you shiver. 

He wonders how he got so lucky when the others anchor the boat near the shore, hopping off and wading the rest of the way to the beach. John kisses your forehead and says he’d be right back. 

You watch him with glinting eyes as he walks over to his men, taking each in a heartfelt handshake and conversing honestly. Your eyes blink at the care they display for one another and raise a hand when they peel off, back up to Gaz’s home to rest. 

They reciprocate and disappear atop the hill. 

What’s he doing? You ask as you watch John climb aboard his vessel and rummage around his fishing barrels, opening some and tossing the tops to the deck. Hands shifting along the rocks, you can’t hide the amusement or affection in your eyes at the sight of his ramping annoyance. What was he looking for? 

Your fingers go up to play with his necklace and watch. 

You can’t say you feel much heartache at the loss of your cove—even with the king dead, you were still hunted for your scales—though you had grown to see it in a new light. The place was only a home when John was there, and you knew wherever you went as long as he was there it would be alright. 

The both of you wouldn’t let anything happen to one another. 

John comes back carrying something tucked in cloth, a small parcel held in one hand and longer than it is wide. Your interest is immediately piqued, curiosity straining your eyes. 

He holds it out to you with a mischievous glint and a smirk. 

“Go on,” John motions. Blinking at him, your brows furrow as you carefully take the item from his hands, settling it in your lap before you shift the cloth away. 

Your fingers go to cover your mouth, small gasp entering the air. 

It was a golden box, engraved with movements that resemble lace and waves—shimmering in the low light. 

“John,” you stutter, “what is…?”’

“Open it,” the man insists, kneeling down in front of you as if his muscles didn’t ache. “It’s the reason I was late that day.” John grunts, rubbing at the bottom of his beard and watching intently; crinkles beside his eyes. 

You stare for a moment with burning tear ducts before you grasp ahold of the lid and open it after running a digit over the make. 

Inside sits blue velvet and, strangely, your own scales, but atop that…the blinding gold of a pair of twin cuff bracelets—stones the same shade as your tail. It was perhaps the most elegant piece of jewelry you had ever seen. 

For a solid minute you’re rendered speechless, mouth opening and closing as your tail hangs limp in the low tide. Chucking, John takes the pieces out and your ears twitch to the sound of your scales clacking together like glass. 

“Why would you…” You can’t make sense of it.

John slips them over your wrists and you gape in wonder. They fit just perfectly. 

You look up into your Fisherman’s face and feel tears drip down your chin. A hard hand comes to wipe them away as you laugh through a sniffle. 

“Do you like them, then, Love?” He asks lowly, beard pulled back in a smile. 

“Yes,” you say immediately, giggling. “How could I not? John, they’re lovely. Far too beautiful for me.” 

The former Captain grunts and his brows pull in, frowning. “Now why would you say that?” He brings your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Can’t make me change my mind on that, eh?” 

Your eyes bore into him, lips parted. After a moment your face feels like it’s on fire and you cover your cheeks. 

John laughs loudly, grabbing your arms and lightly squeezing the flesh before taking your grip back down to your lap. You smile so widely you’re afraid your face might crack open.

“No need to hide,” he hums. “Let me see that face.” 

“You’re good to me, John.” His face softens, wrinkles fall away, and his chest swells with pride. You kiss his lips and whisper, “I bare my soul to you.”

It wasn’t an ‘I love you’ but something far more precious. 

The man’s face deepens with devotion, gruff figure more than easily leaning over yours as you’re carefully laid back to the tiny pebbles behind you—a hand behind your head and at the swell of what would be a hip.

In the darkening night, the sun shines its dying light across the waves just like the extending fingers of John’s firm grip; dragging you into him as sea-currents would. Wrapping you both in kelp and a salty grave. His voice is the grating of sand, the slide of a rope across a wooden deck. 

“Then I’ll take care of it for as long as I live.”

Your fisherman damns you to a crypt of land and air, and you couldn’t worship it more. To live and to die beside him is to have existed just as you should have.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[bucky-barnes-diaries]

Bucky Barnes Drabbles

• This is my side blog for writing so any follows/likes/replies/comments/asks are from @just-another-fangirl-69

• This blog and my writing is intended for people over 18+ only. If you are a minor, do not interact!

• All my work are with Female!Reader in mind! I try not to describe the reader in detail since I want to be as inclusive as possible.

• I do not consent to have my work posted, translated or published anywhere. The only place you will find my work is on Tumblr, Wattpad and on AO3 under the same name. If it’s found anywhere besides those mentioned, it has been reposted without my permission.

• I don’t do taglists so please follow @bucky-barnes-diaries-library and turn on notifications to never miss out on my writing!

• All fics are under 800 words in this masterlist.

Main Masterlist

Fluff || 💚

Smut || 🐍

Angst || 🌿

Dark || 🪴

Trigger warning || 👒

Fics over 1K notes || ⭐️

Fics over 2K notes || 🌟

Fics over 4K notes || 💫

• Nights & Mornings TFATWS!Bucky (💚🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: How you and Bucky go to sleep and how you and him wake up.

• Nightmare (💚🌿)

↳ Summary: Bucky comforts you after a night terror.

• Sleepless Nights (💚)

↳ Summary: Bucky comforts you when you can’t sleep.

• Cuddle Emergency (💚)

↳ Summary: You’re in some desperate need for cuddles from Bucky.

• Bucky buys you tampons (💚)

↳ Summary: Bucky has no shame in buying you what you need.

• A Piece Of Her (🌿👒)

↳ Summary: Bucky loses an important thing of yours after your death.

• Alpine (💚)

↳ Summary: You adopt a cat that Bucky isn’t so very fond of to begin with…

• His Love & Comfort (💚🌿)

↳ Summary: You comfort Bucky after a nightmare.

• Rainy Mood (💚)

↳ Summary: What better to do on a rainy day than lie in bed with your husband and cat all snuggled up.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #1 (💚) ⭐️

↳ Summary: Bucky giving Y/N a kiss before going to work and they are still in bed.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #2 (💚)

↳ Summary: Bucky and Y/N walking through town, holding hands while it snows.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #3 (💚🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: Bucky: “No need to fantasize when the real thing is right in front of you.”

• You Don’t Care If They Can Hear (🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: You and Bucky don’t seem to care that people can hear you fucking at a party.

• Ghost From The Past (💚🌿)

↳ Summary: A ghost from the past comes back to haunt your beautiful and peaceful life.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #4 (🐍) 💫

↳ Summary: Y/N is someone who never swears. Never. Until Bucky is inside her, thrusting with reckless abandon, and taking great pride in the fact that he can reduce Y/N to this disheveled, lustful state, unable to say anything but his name and swearing from how good it is.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #5 (🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: Bucky and Y/N are on a motorcycle together. The constant movement and touching is getting them kind of excited...

• Dirty Talk (🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: Day 2 of Kinktober 2022.

• Farmers Market (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 6 of Flufftober 2022.

• Preparations (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 9 of Flufftober 2022.

• Warm Cuddles (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 12 of Flufftober 2022.

• Haunted House (💚🌿)

↳ Summary: Day 25 of Flufftober 2022.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #6 (💚)

↳ Summary: Reader is reading a book and is talking about how they ship two of the characters together because of [insert cute reason here], and then Bucky says “that sounds like you and me right there.”

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #7 (💚) 🌟

↳ Summary: Bucky is about to leave for a mission. Reader asks him if he’s forgotten anything, and Bucky gives her a kiss. Reader becomes slightly shy and opens her hand to reveal Bucky’s wallet, saying “I meant this, but thank you.”

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #8 (💚🌿)

↳ Summary: Bucky and Reader getting sick at the same time.

• Prompt Event (Drabble) #9 (💚)

↳ Summary: Bucky and Reader getting lost in IKEA.

• Christmas Tree Farm (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 3 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Christmas Decorations (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 4 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Cozy Morning (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 5 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Christmas Goodies (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 6 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Christmas Drinks (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 7 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Under The Mistletoe (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 10 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Cozy Night (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 11 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Coffee Shop (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 12 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Christmas Market (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 13 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• Santa (💚)

↳ Summary: Day 14 of Advent Calendar 2023.

• That Walk (🐍) ⭐️

↳ Summary: That walk. That goddamn walk of his that’s laced with sex and confidence. Fuck, you can’t get enough of it.

[oficmag]

ISSUE #11 IS HERE!

We're back from our winter hiatus and so jazzed to be entering our THIRD YEAR of publishing fantastic fucky stories for you. In this issue, we have God and gods, and ghosts who haunt the narrative (sometimes literally and sometimes figuratively). We have ships traversing waters from life to death and ships sinking night after night. Codependent twins with blood magic. A sk8er boi with a gore fetish. And you’ll never look at mangoes the same way again.  

PURCHASE ISSUE #11 HERE.

WAYS TO ENGAGE WITH OFIC:

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THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT. HAPPY READING AND HAPPY SPRING!

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[savingcontent]

Guntouchables is a new co-op shooter coming to Steam Early Access in Spring from Ghost Ship Publishing and Game Swing

Continue reading Guntouchables is a new co-op shooter coming to Steam Early Access in Spring from Ghost Ship Publishing and Game Swing

[dynamos-games]

super excited for the new season of DRG. I’m glad they’re letting us pick what season we want to play, because I’m so done with the rockpox plague theming, and it’d be nice to go back to the simplicity of season 1. every update that Ghost Ship releases further shows how amazing of a company they are.

[hmslusitania]

The real problem with getting back into comics in such a big way is that — although there are several majorly written about ships I enjoy very much (and care about, and write myself) — I keep ending up in rarepair hell against my will

[diminuel]

Considering not everyone in Kaidos and Big Mom’s crews were around when Rocks was and their strong will to just let the ghost do what it wants don’t engage In just picturing them commissioning posters with Rocks picture that say “If you see this person: Don’t interfere with what they’re doing, don’t engage in any sort of battle, and let them do whatever the hell they want”

Rocks takes one and hangs in his ship next to his old bounty (the marines are pretending he doesn’t exist too, better for moral)

I love that! X'D It also makes for a good PSA on what the rules on Rocks' ship are!

Other than that your post has made me think of two things though:

a) what happened to Rocks' ship? Did he manage to retrieve it? Has he gotten a smaller one? (His ship must have been huge to accommodate people like WB, Kaido and Linlin)

and b) if the World Government is suppressing information about Rocks that means there would be no bounty and he most likely also wouldn't step on the stage as either a Warlord (he never would agree to join anyway) or as a Yonko. Maybe it suits him well as he moves through the Grandline on a path only known to him.

But what about information that Morgans might publish? He does usually go along with what the WG wants if the money is right or he thinks the story he can spin would garner more interest than the truth. Maybe he's watching and waiting too.

[syndrossi]

Halloween trick-or-treat prompts masterlist

For my own personal tracking, a semi-up-to-date list of the prompts and whether they've been filled for eventual treating on Halloween! Feel free to chime in in the replies with ones you'd particularly like to see filled if it's not getting love. I kinda picked the first one in the list and will otherwise do them as fancy strikes me.

Eventually I'll probably link these to their actual fills once published on Halloween.

What is trick-or-treat?

It's basically me sourcing a bunch of prompts for short fills (likely around 100-500 words apiece) in the Resonant 'verse that I can give out on Halloween as "treats" when people send me a "trick" ask!

Note that it's highly unlikely that I'll get to all of them, since there are over 60 of them, and I probably won't do more than 1 a day. Bold = complete, bold italics = up next.

Original post with prompts if anyone wants to comb through the replies to read the "fuller" prompts.

Missing Scenes

Caraxes POV of growing fond of the hatchlings

Laenor + Rhaenys + V boys discussing twins

Viserys POV of learning of boys

Random person's POV of the court discovering Rhea's treason/Daemon has trueborn twin sons

Erryk, Arryk or Harold's POV/thoughts on Jon and Rhaegar

Ser Willam's POV/thoughts on anything at all

Laenor POV when he found out about Daemon's twins

Laena's POV on being told that her betrothal is over and a match with Daemon might be incoming

Aemond’s POV about the twins, seeing his perspective of how wonderful Rhaegar is and his slow dawning resentment of Jon

More courtier reactions to Daemon and the boys

Jeyne’s reaction to Rheas confession and the arrival of Otto to the Vale

Ser Perkins' POV during the time the boys were "reborn"

Watercooler discussion of Daemon’s prodigy children

Alternate POVs of Canon Scenes

Caraxes POV of meeting the boys

Viserys POV of debrief scene

Rhaegar POV of first waking up/meeting Jon

Viserys POV when the twins take him to task and he’s left alone with the crown

The kidnappers’ POV 🚧

Rhaegar's POV when Jon gave him the bracelet

POV of Aegon/Aemond on the new family members

Ser Kelwyn arriving at the keep or POV on Daemon and the twins

Rhaegar from Daemon's vision reacting to him in his final moments

Halloween-themed Prompts

Qelebrys + apple cider round 2

Shadow + discovering a pumpkin

Twins + hatchlings + piles of colorful leaves

Cousins telling scary stories around a candle in the dark

Jon&Rhaegar discovering an old spooky room lost in the tunnels

Daemon + kids who swear they are not scared but also who can't seem to sleep because of Things That Go Bump In The Night

Rhaegar + singing and/or harp playing (bonus: if it's a ~haunting melody~)

Shadow (and Qelebrys) meeting a stray black cat

Jon and Rhaegar dressing up as Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, bonus points if they convince Cargyll twins to play along

Jon and Rhaegar going to a costume party as Caraxes and Vhagar to echo Aemon and Baelon

Daemon dreams of Aemon and Baelon meeting the boys

What-ifs

What if Rhea didn't die?

What if Rhaegar was also 19 when the twins get Summerhalled?

What if Jon and Rhaegar’s pre-Summerhall ages were flipped?

Reversal!AU: Daemon's reaction to suddenly having eight-year-old twin little girls

What if the twins were born right after Rhea and Daemon's wedding? plus bonus Jaehaerys POV/reaction

What if Ghost is reborn in the Resonant 'verse and finds Jon?

What if the boys wake up at age 5 and Daemon finds them earlier?

Miscellaneous Prompts

Rhaenys rescues twins from Otto

Jon&Rhaegar + dancing

New Otto POV in which he schemes and/or thinks about how smart and gifted and annoyingly perfect Daemon's children are

Daemon POV wherein he thinks about how smart and gifted and perfect his babies are

Candle's POV on being dropped to the bottom of the ocean where it can only watch the fishes

Jon having another Little Lord Commander moment and/or punching someone who deserves it

Jon + Jace/Luke/Joffrey playing with his new wooden ship toys

Viserys + Jace/Luke besieging him with requests for Vermax/Arrax to be allowed in the Red Keep too

Jon + Rhaegar + Daemon + hugs, tears and manipulation tactics for nefarious purposes

Jon + getting his hair braided

Jon and/or Rhaegar getting sick + Daemon being traumatized by every sneeze/cough/etc

Jon + Rhaegar introducing Jace/Luke to the words "stick 'em with the pointy end"

Rhaegar + Alicent or Daemon with harp playing/singing

The boys foiling someone’s attempts to flirt with Daemon

Some funny scene related to Daemon's marriage hunt

A scene from Jon/Rhaegar's past lives, people reacting to their disappearance

POV of someone from the Kingsguard watching the children play 

Helaena, Jon and Rhaegar interactions? She deserves to have a twirl around the ballroom or play with the hatchlings again.

Someone “joking” that Otto is besotted with Daemon the way he keeps talking about him

Another sleepover? Daemon and/or Rhaegar catching Jon trying to get up early and just squishing him

Daemon learning what the twins gave each other for their last name day

Sassy and manipulative Rhaegar scene (destroying Viserys or random courtier)

Rhaegar singing to a larger audience and the reactions people give

Jon biting someone who’s keeping him and Rhaegar from their dad, bonus points if it’s a TG member

POV of someone thinking how similar the twins are to their father

Daemon accidentally overhearing the twins being sad, feeling destroyed, and trying his best to cheer them up

A meeting between Daemon and canon!Rhaegar in a vision

Daemon running on instinctive dad-mode rescues one of the Green kids from a minor peril

Daemon overhears an upsetting song

[katakaluptastrophy]

Five Fifth fics under 5k

I've seen lots of people recommending fics with various themes, and though I'd share a few shorter Fifth-centric fics I've really enjoyed:

Under Your Skin by pipistrelle (@neornithes)

"You're not yourself."

"No, you're quite right," Abigail said, and smiled. For just a split second the candlelight gleamed unnervingly on that smile, showing teeth too sharp and somehow too crowded in her jaw; then a pair of chattering couples passed in front of the candelabra on the sideboard, casting cheerful shadows, and in their wake the distortion was gone.

This is the polite but feral Fifth fic for me.

I'm resisting the urge to write a long and loving description of every perfect detail, but suffice it to say that this is a delightful and troubling snapshot of what "The House of the Fifth always skinned itself over with such airs of civilisation, with so many manners and niceties, but they were spirit-talkers and speakers to the dead. And the dead were savage." might mean.

Selected Excerpts by @liesmyth

I'm not going to do a better job than the original blurb: A reading from “Why do we pray to Lyctors? The role of Necrosaints in devotional practice” published by Abigail Pent, PhD, in the Journal of Early History, Vol. 876, No. 1, with oral commentary by several of the Emperor's Saints. Coffee to follow.

Heavily footnoted observations on the development of saintly patronages and the purpose of prayer, interspersed with snarky observations from the objects of those devotions.

the sea and its waters by @darlingofdots

Again, I can't do it better justice than the original summary: 'au where Gideon wore her real sword to breakfast on like Day 2 of Canaan House because fuck Harrow amiright? and from across the dining hall Abigail Pent was like, “oh my god that sword is possessed. That sword is VERY possessed.” *walking over* “Did you know that your sword is possessed by literally THE angriest - I’m gonna talk to her. Is anyone else going to - I’m not waiting for an answer, I’m talking to this ghost.”'

“It’s Two Thousand Years Old, It's Essentially Public Property”. by KaiserJo

Lyctor!Abigail and Mercy clash on the Mithraeum over Abigail's research.

So now Mercy rushed through the corridors of the Mithraeum like a tsunami, based on a tip off from Augustine that Pent had discovered some “Rather boring letters”, but that it would be “best to stop her before she attempts to draw academic conclusions.'

Brew the Dead by terribletressym

“The coffee,” Pent repeats, and there's a slight hitch to her voice as she shifts, jarring her broken arm, “is haunted.”

The coffee shop AU, but things take a rather alarming turn. Another little gem of humorous yet horrifying engagement with possession and its mechanics.

---

OK, there may be more than five recommendations here...

Have some fics that are not Fifth, but still under 5k:

Near–Far Problem by @heliocharis

This one isn't Fifth. But it does involve my second favourite ship involving a formidable woman with too many degrees, the wildly underrated rare pair that is We Suffer/Juno Zeta:

There is something nearly voyeuristic about it, coming to recognise the voice of someone who most likely doesn’t know you exist.

If she were to examine it any more, she might come to the conclusion that this is because the voice has something quite attractive about it. This is a ridiculous thing to think.

Push Your Luck (Revised) by anonymous

Samael and Anastasia backstory, set amidst the dour religion and robust mining unions of the not-quite-yet-Ninth-House, told in a style that reminds me of Pratchett's Watch novels.

Sam didn’t feel equal to raising that issue with the Holy Councils, but he asked his union rep to negotiate his dowry. Drearburh was getting a whole missile defense system, the least it could do was kick his Ma some cash.

Locus Desperatus by sigaloenta

You know how in HTN it's suggested that Harrow and Ortus have been arguing for a decade about whether Nonius fought a Lyctor? Here's a 13 year old Harrow debating paleography with Ortus. This is full of delicious details like the Ninth's library classification system, bindings inlaid with rare and precious wood, modern academic register as an almost indecipherable ancient way of writing, and lovingly rendered manuscript lacunae.

But Ortus stood his ground. "Is it not written, my lady, that palaeography is the offhand—the lesser sister of the dyad whose dance is the critic's art? The scholar must be prepared to write 'philosoraptor' if the sense requires it, where the manuscripts have the monosyllabic interjection 'o'."

The Lillian Sitta Memorial Lecture Hall by the_ninth_house_glared

Again, I'm going to let the original summary speak for itself: Necromantic duels aren’t common on the Sixth, unless there’s an accusation of plagiarism that doesn’t get resolved through Oversight. Then it’s on, in the Lillian Sitta Memorial Lecture Hall, with everyone jockeying for position to see two hoary adepts try to maim each other with necromancy they haven’t used outside a lab in fifteen years.

[lukesskywalkerr]

i had a payneland idea inspired by @thefutureandonceking’s post about dps and dead boy detectives and the second i read that i had an idea

what if edwin started the dead poets society and was the first member? what if when charles went to st. hilarions he was a pledge and then became a member?

what kind of ghost stories could come out of that and how would they be described in terms of the societies history, i mean it’s founding member died under mysterious circumstances right? he would be a legend, not just because of his infamy of never bringing in a piece that wasn’t his own, pieces that should have been published for the world itself, but for also dying mysteriously and possibly violently like all the great poets.

charles was already a surprising member having poetry be something he wouldn’t seem interested in, however be the most inthralled with poetry out of anyone at the time. maybe not writing the best poetry out of anyone but being able to find and read poetry with the emotional weight of a naval ship. a member who would have made the founders proud. now of course he dies and joins the ranks of those others in the club who had not just lived but experienced life.

imagine charles confusion as he hides from his once friends and he figures he’s hallucinating the face of the founder of his club whom’s face he’s memorized just like all the others in the societies past. he probably figured he was dying already and wanted a face he could not only recognize but relate to. now of course imagine his confusion as he realized he’s not having death visions he’s actually seeing the ghost of edwin payne, the myth and legend, who created that little club.

[starsexplodeatnight]

John PricexFamily

John was deploying again. John knew it, you knew it, your kids knew it. It was apart of life right now until John’s retirement process started.

You and John have 3 kids now, he’s not risking his ass just to come home in a box to the life he’s been dreaming of for so long. It took him this long to get one, to get a family. But, as it stands? He’s got a few more deployments.

You two have 2 boys, and a little girl. Oldest is 8, middle is 6, youngest just turned 2.

You’re shipping him off, holding your daughter on your hip. Your sons stand next to you, obedient as hell. They’re good boys, like their father- kind of.

Your oldest boy has admires John and has been stoic since he’s been given the news his dad is shippin’ off. Your middle boy thinks John’s job is cool, he’s excited for John to come back with souvenirs and stories! Your youngest, is oblivious. She just know’s the base as where she gets to see uncle Soap, Gaz and Simon.

Too soon John kisses you all goodbye. Your eldest’s forehead, the top of your middles’ head, your babygirl’s cheek, your lips. Then he turns and climbs in the truck that’ll transport him to the airfield tarmac.

You know? You think you’re getting better at this! You used to sniffle and cry every time, your sons aren’t either! Your daughter though?

As soon as he climbs into the truck and it starts up, baby girl starts crying. Eyes scrunched, face red, mouth open wailing!

Then, your middles' excitement morphs into a pout. The pout turns into tears and tears to wailing.

You oldest, poor baby. He tried so hard, he did. Stiff upper lip until tears began rolling down his face.

Craaaaap.

Yeah, you begin to bawl with them... Just standing there- surrounded by wailing kids. Captain John Price's wife.

The truck that had been pulling away with your husband then, stops?

Your John hops out, misty eyed and runny nosed. A rarity. He jogs over, huddling you all close and calming you all down. After a moment of consolation, John has to go.

You all watch with wet eyes as he leaves.

By the time he calls you for an update. He'll tell you this: You and your kids made everyone on that truck cry.

Soap was tearing up, ruddy nose and talking deep breaths. Gaz had a grimace on this face, watching the mirror. Ghost had been the one to stop the truck.

"Get out." Ghosts eyes are misty under his balaclava.

"What?-"

"Get out and comfort them!" Gaz snaps.

"Please-" Soap pleads.

So, John got out. Thats why the truck stopped.

.

So, this is based off of true events!

When my grandma visited up from michigan. She was getting on her bus to go home, I was just a wee snot.

My mom was doing good until I started crying. Then my sister started crying. Then my mom. The entire bus load of people began to cry and the driver made my grandma get off and hug us one more time.