#I typed that chapter title and cackled

[allthegoodusernamesaretakenagain]

the next chapter of the curious minds is called ‘boys night out’ and i will say no more on the matter

[reallyromealone]

Seconde chapter of little god?

It just came out so you dont have to

Title: little god 2

Fandom: Jujutsu kaisen

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Megumi, itadori, nobara

Fic type: fluff

Pairings: -

Warnings: male reader, reader insert, child reader fluff, god reader

Notes:

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Every morning was the same routine, Gojo woke up his tiny son who ran around in circles in the yard before coming in for some breakfast that consisted of a variety of foods for the little gods health, (name) pleased as he ate fish and other dishes "thank you papa!" He said as his tail swished, dressed in a more casual yukata compared to his godlier look "no prob, kiddo" Gojo said as he drank his coffee and ate his own meal, smiling at the difference in their tableware.

(Name) Had a cute kid set with zoo animals and plastic cutlery and Gojo with nice china "so today, we get to meet friends of papa"

"Su?"

"No no, not Suguru but he will be there later" Gojo chuckled as the boy looked confused "they're papas students, remember how I told you that I was a teacher?"

" we go?"

"After breakfast we are going" Gojo said happily and (name) bounced excitedly and continued eating his food.

(Name) Sat on his dad's arm as he was carried into the school grounds and Gojo watched as his kid sniffed around curiously "you sniffing, bud?" Gojo teased his son who looked focused "monster" (name) said as coldly as a toddler could as he locked onto Yuji who was waiting with the others at the steps "you can smell sukuna?" Gojo asked and (name) hissed at the mention of the king of curses "you know him?"

"Smelly man"

Gojo cackled at his son who wiggled to be put down, holding his dad's hand as they walked to the student's who looked at the child curious "uh, should a child be here?" Nobara asked as the little one dead stared Yuji "(name), these are papas students" Gojo pushed the boy forward "this is (name), he's my son~ isn't that right?" He crouched to the toddler who pulled some coins and held them out to the teens "it's you!" A mouth opened from Yuji's cheek "smelly!" (Name) Yelled angrily as his horns appeared "whoa, dont go fighting" Gojo held his son back who was ready to throw down.

"Pathetic little cretin, I could rip you--""aaand that's enough!" Gojo lifted his hellion son who tried kicking his dad's student with a growl "we will train at 1130, head to class you three!" he said cheerfully and took his little one away, Yuji tripping up the stairs as if he had two left feet "did you give him misfortune?" Gojo asked the tot who looked angry and frustrated "I know you don't like sukuna, none of us do but you can't hurt my student" he scolded the boy who pouted.

(Name) Was eating salmon and broccoli with cheese while his dad trained the students, abandoning the chop sticks in favor for his dragon form, tail swishing happily as he dived in. "Alright, we will be splitting into twos, let's work with people you aren't used to being teamed with" Gojo paired them up, seeing as his son watched curiously now in human form, face messy as his chubby hands held a piece of salmon "let's do some sparing, I will be right back" Gojo walked to his son and lifted him up "let's clean you up"

"I heard you had a son, didn't believe it" a Zenin clan higher up stated while staring at the toddler, the Gojo duo walking to the rest room "I do have a son, is that a problem?" Gojo stated coldly while adjusting the boy who looked between them, seeing papas glare and decided to match it.

Is it true he's... A god?" They tried to step closer but Gojos infinity halted him from doing so "if you don't mind, we have some business to attend to" the two walked off and (name) stuck his tongue at the Zenin member who glared back.

(Name) Let his dad wash him up, babbling nonsense happily "after school, uncle Suguru is meeting us to take you shopping" Gojo spoke softly, he loved telling his son everything that was happening and their plan. He wanted his son to be included and able to make choices- something he didn't get as a child.

"Susu?" (Name) Asked curiously and Gojo chuckled "yeah, susu"

[the-way-astray]

Still on anon because Katie, Isa and Alayda are the only ones who know! Keep guessing, though... I find it fascinating.

Here we are with chapter 4! Good to know I'm the non-cringey-strieefe-fic-writer (also known as the North Carolina anon, Noodles Cold anon, Nutritious Chickens anon, Nearsighted Cows anon, Nefarious Cackling anon, and anything else that abbreviated to NC because Stria apparently cannot use context clues <3 said with love of course)

and naturally, stria, to ease your concerns: you are the first to read these. No, alayda, katie and isa do not get to see it first. These are not beta read and typed directly into your ask box and sent.

—————

Title: Never Change chapter 4

Pairing: Stria x Keefe

—————

Who was Stria, and why was she hailing Keefe?

Sophie frowned at Keefe's imparter, which was the one currently buzzing in her hands. Should she answer? Obviously Keefe couldn't. The thought made another dizzying storm of worry kick up again in her chest, and she glanced over in Keefe's direction, wondering if he'd suddenly wake up to tease her about how concerned she was about him.

He didn't.

In a split second decision, Sophie answered. "Hi... who is this?" she asked.

The girl on the screen, Stria, blinked a few times, as though adjusting to having the sun in her eyes. "You're not Keefe."

"I'm Sophie." She wasn't owed answers about what happened to Keefe. Who was she?

"I know." Stria caught herself, cursing softly under her breath. "I mean..."

"It's fine," Sophie said curtly. Most people recognized her by her brown eyes. "Not to be blunt, but who are you?"

"No, that's a perfectly reasonable question," Stria agreed. "I'm... I met Keefe about a week and a half ago. He'd heard the rumors that I... he'd heard some rumors about me and wanted to talk."

And he hadn't told her about it?

Rumors that she what?

Sophie trusted her boyfriend, of course, but something about how frustrated and furious she was with him right now led her mind to go spiraling down insane roads. "So you talked... and you're hailing to talk again?"

"Well, we were going to grab milkshakes, and he canceled with no notice or explanation, and I was worried something happened to him." Stria looked away. "Especially since the Healing Center is closed..."

Sophie blocked out the part of her mind that was telling her that sounded like a date. She didn't have time for unwarranted jealousy right now. If Keefe had never mentioned her, it was probably because she was irrelevant—not because he was trying to hide that they were talking. It fully made sense that this girl would be worried about a last minute cancel.

"So... is he okay?" Stria asked hesitantly.

Sophie automatically wanted to say yes. But it would be a lie, and Stria, whoever she was and whatever she thought Keefe intended by going to "grab milkshakes" with her, deserved the truth.

But Sophie couldn't say the truth.

There was the fact that she couldn't get into any Black Swan/Neverseen details, but also the fact that recounting Keefe's absolute stupidity before she'd even had the chance to talk about it with him (or just yell at him, which also might become necessary) felt wrong.

Sophie went with, "He's injured."

"How bad is it?"

Sophie glanced over at Keefe. His chest was rising and falling at a normal pace now, though Elwin was still keeping him sedated. Sophie had to look away quickly. The sight of all the bandages... it was worse than it had ever been for him.

Was he ever going to learn?

Or would he keep testing fate until it killed him?

Sophie didn't realize she hadn't answered until Stria whispered, "Bad, huh?"

Sophie turned back to the imparter screen, choking out, "It could be worse." She couldn't talk about this with a stranger anymore. Everything was still too fresh. "I'm sorry, Stria, but I have to go."

"Of course. I... well, thank you for telling me."

The screen went dark.

Stria stared at the blank imparter screen, still digesting the news.

Sophie looked like she hadn't slept in days. Given what she'd read of the books, this didn't surprise her, but she'd been a mess. And the way she'd looked away from the screen, like she was glancing over at Keefe on a hospital bed, recovering from a potentially fatal injury...

Somehow, she could feel Sophie's pain herself, just from the expressions. Stria had a sudden realization in that moment, though she wasn't sure why her brain decided to supply it to her now:

She wanted Keefe to live.

Irrelevant, of course. She wouldn't wish death on anyone, even if she hated that person. But her brain then supplied her with a far worse realization:

If Keefe died, and the last thing she'd ever told him was how much she despised him...

Why should she care?! She did despise him, and there was no reason to feel guilty about it just because he got injured, probably mostly by his own fault!

She should be allowed to think that! Why did it feel awful to think that?

She stood up abruptly, sliding the imparter into her pocket. She needed to go for a walk. She needed food or a drink or something. She needed to walk with a really bad coffee drink that tasted bitter in her mouth to give her a reason for feeling so... whatever this was.

As soon as she stepped out of her appartment, she began to walk briskly through Atlantis. At one point, she passed by a milkshake shop. In the window, they were advtertising her favorite flavor. She was looking for a drink, after all.

She walked past the shop as fast as physically possible.

She focused on her feet hitting the ground, one after the other. She looked down at her feet, watching them carry her along, and then—

—she walked straight into someone.

"I am so sorry!" Stria gasped as he regained his balance. Neither of them had fallen over—thank God, that would have been embarassing for them both—but his sketchbook had fallen to the ground. She reached down to grab it for him. She hardly registered that the book was flipped open to a certain page until she glanced at it, barely thinking about it.

Then she did a double take.

She recognized that art style.

And the guy in the art.

She knew this art style. And that character.

She contemplated telling him that it was a really good drawing of Keefe, just to watch him lose faith in the world for the last time, but decided that was too mean. "Max?!"

Max snatched back his notebook, looking at her warily. "How do you know who I—hang on. You're from KOTLC tumblr too, aren't you?"

"Yep."

"Give me a hint."

Stria wanted to say, I depsise Keefe, because she was sure he would get it right away, but the topic was too sensitive right now. "Aldella."

"Stria?"

"Yep."

"What are you doing on this side of the fourth wall?" Max asked, looking oddly perplexed for someone who was also on this side of the fourth wall.

"What are you doing on this side of the fourth wall?" Stria countered.

Max glanced down at his drawing. "He does have short hair. I confirmed it."

"You met Fintan?!"

"He also does follow American politics. And he reads warrior cats. Yes, he is the Fintan tumblr blog."

"So you came over to this side of the fourth wall to find Fintan?"

"What? No, I met Fintan back on our side of the fourth wall," Max explained, "and then I realized walking through the fourth wall was possible, so I thought, why not go get some solid art reference?"

"But you're still drawing Fintan."

Max shrugged. "I think it's in my genes."

"Wait wait wait. If Fintan is the tumblr blog, and he ships himself with Bronte—"

"I'm looking into that as well," Max added. "Now back to my original question. What are you doing on this side of the wall?"

Ouch. She actually had to say this, didn't she? "I kind of... wandered in with a group of people, not realizing this was where we were going."

"What group?" Max asked.

"Katie, Isa, Maddie, Lisa, Alayda, and Katie's cat."

Max blinked. "What were you even doing with that group of people?! I mean, not to say you can't have whatever friends you want, because obviously you can, but—"

"I was talking to Katie!" Stria sighed. "Well, arguing is a better word. But we were having a great time. And then, bam, I was on this side of the fourth wall."

"And you didn't go back because...?"

"Well, I'm not exactly opposed to finding out more about the Lost Cities," Stria pointed out. "I've been going to Foxfire."

"Seriously?"

"Look, I walked over with Katie's mutual circle, does anything surprise you at this point?"

"I think anything short of you going on a date with Keefe," Max said wryly, bringing up her famous hatred. She shouldn't have been surprised.

"Well..."

"You did not."

"It wasn't really a date."

"Stria."

"And he canceled on me this time!"

"Stria."

"Look, he's literally in a hospital right now, so maybe talking about how I'm supposed to hate him isn't the most productive—"

"Remember who you are, Stria!" Max said, shaking her by the shoulders, and wow, yeah, she'd really needed that.

"I think I needed to hear that. It's so refreshing to have another Keefe hater here with me besides Katie's cat," Stria said truthfully, even though it felt alarmingly simplistic to just use the term "Keefe hater" now that she was here and it was real.

But here was her perfect opportunity to get her mind off things. "Want to go get weird gnomish food somewhere?"

—————

I'd actually toyed with the idea of bringing in Max as another Keefe hater to be there with you, and then you brought it up, and I was like, well now I have to do it! Sorry Max. I'm so sorry to involve you in this drama. But I'm also not sorry because it's funny.

I'd love to see your guesses for my identity at this point!!!

Sincerely,

Never Change author

ch. 1, ch. 2, ch. 3 for the uninitiated :) i'll stop doing this soon and maybe just start making a masterpost or something. but for now it's not too unmanageable.

"Sophie frowned at Keefe's imparter [ . . . ]" you should know that the second i realized this chapter was in sophie's perspective, i went insane. because like. she's going to hate me :( ugh this is so not worth it. sophie keep your toxic-ass boyfriend it's absolutely not worth it to make sophie dislike me over . . . who was this again???? keefe????

"The thought made another dizzying storm of worry kick up again in her chest, and she glanced over in Keefe's direction, wondering if he'd suddenly wake up to tease her about how concerned she was about him." ooooooh, the plot thickens.

""It's fine," Sophie said curtly. Most people recognized her by her brown eyes. "Not to be blunt, but who are you?"" sophie, who's able to fucking. hex code everyone's eyes. doesn't notice i have brown eyes???? interesting . . . also in my canon the elves have normal eye colors. all of them. including sophie. promptly ignoring this, as i do with shannon, as well :)

"Sophie trusted her boyfriend [ . . . ]" ANON I MAY HAVE TO MURDER YOU. LOOK. I HATE SOKEEFE, OKAY. I REALLY DO. BUT I'D RATHER HAVE SOKEEFE AND SOPHIE SPEAKING TO ME THAN FUCKING. ME AND KEEFE AND SOPHIE NOT TALKING TO ME. BY A LONG SHOT. IF THIS IS A STRIEEFE FIC THAT MEANS THAT THE INEVITABLE SOKEEFE BREAKUP IS GOING TO HAPPEN AT SOME POINT . . . no . . . sophie's going to hate me :(

"Sophie blocked out the part of her mind that was telling her that sounded like a date." if keefe and sophie are still dating in the canon of this fic then why didn't keefe say something like "i have a girlfriend" when i slipped in the second chapter and called it a date (which i would never do by the way)???? like, as much as i despise keefe, he's not a cheater (although shannon did make some weird decisions in the first book by implying he looks up to alvar for being a cheater . . . ).

"[ . . . ] but also the fact that recounting Keefe's absolute stupidity before she'd even had the chance to talk about it with him (or just yell at him, which also might become necessary) felt wrong." yeah, if keefe did this to himself, that checks out. fucking idiot. why is he so fucking stupid. can he stop hijacking plans for even a second . . .

whatever happened to keefe is so fucking interesting though. someone needs to tell me what happened right this second.

"Was he ever going to learn? Or would he keep testing fate until it killed him?" well if shannon messenger has anything to do with it, probably not. but i have more faith in anon.

"Sophie looked like she hadn't slept in days." classic example of keefe ruining sophie's mental health because he's arrogant as shit!!!! i don't care that his arrogance comes from his abusive childhood!!!! he's still not only stupid, but thinks he's smart!!!! ewwwwww.

"Somehow, she could feel Sophie's pain herself, just from the expressions." not at all what i'd be realistically feeling. i'd be more sorry for sophie, and thinking about how she deserves better than this fool. dump him, sophie. come onnnn you know you want better than someone who will do nothing but ruin your mental health and treat you like shit by taking your choices away from you . . . you know you wanna soooooo bad . . .

"She wanted Keefe to live." inaccurate. with the rage i feel at this idiot right now, he could die and i'd say good riddance, nobody to fuck shit up and worry everyone anymore. *sobbing* he's so stupid . . .

"Why should she care?! She did despise him, and there was no reason to feel guilty about it just because he got injured, probably mostly by his own fault!" i would not be feeling guilty, i'd be feeling angry. at keefe. which is something sophie almost never feels at him, which annoys the crap out of me. come on, sophie, stop pitying him, start being angry with him.

"She needed to walk with a really bad coffee drink that tasted bitter in her mouth to give her a reason for feeling so... whatever this was." fun fact: coffees (lattes) are my favorite drink of all time. unfortunately, the elves probably aren't the coffee kind.

"In the window, they were advtertising her favorite flavor." that would be coffee.

"She contemplated telling him that it was a really good drawing of Keefe, just to watch him lose faith in the world for the last time, but decided that was too mean." this about the first person to tell max his keefe art looked like fintan :)

"Stria wanted to say, I depsise Keefe, because she was sure he would get it right away, but the topic was too sensitive right now. "Aldella."" i'm not fully certain max is aware of my aldella obsession. but a nice thought nonetheless.

"Max glanced down at his drawing. "He does have short hair. I confirmed it."" ANON DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU'VE DONE. NO. THIS IS WRONG. WRONG AND INCORRECT. no . . . you can't make max more valid than me in my own fic . . .

""He also does follow American politics. And he reads warrior cats. Yes, he is the Fintan tumblr blog."" fintan pyren, the kotlc character, is the same as fin, the tumblr user, in this fic's canon confirmed. although i'm hoping that was a mistake and that fin just lied to max. because it would be funny to have not one, but two people that are clinically insane about fintan stalk him in the lost cities.

""What? No, I met Fintan back on our side of the fourth wall," Max explained, "and then I realized walking through the fourth wall was possible, so I thought, why not go get some solid art reference?"" that's hella goofy. also i feel like max should be having a stronger reaction to realizing he's been mutuals on tumblr dot com with the person he's been obsessed with for years now.

""Wait wait wait. If Fintan is the tumblr blog, and he ships himself with Bronte—"" actually, he ships himself with shakespeare. and king dimitar. he's got quite a bit of explaining to do. so realistically i'd say that and max would faint from having heard an allude to finitar. or something.

""I'm looking into that as well," Max added." in character. also fin shipping himself with bronte? also in character.

""Katie, Isa, Maddie, Lisa, Alayda, and Katie's cat." Max blinked. "What were you even doing with that group of people?! I mean, not to say you can't have whatever friends you want, because obviously you can, but—"" i'm pretty sure max doesn't even know who half these people are. but interesting.

""I was talking to Katie!" Stria sighed. "Well, arguing is a better word. But we were having a great time. And then, bam, I was on this side of the fourth wall."" LMFAO NOT OUR ARGUING RUPTURING THE FOURTH WALL. also why were isa, maddie, lisa, and alayda there? i doubt they were participating. they were playing uno while me and katie argued . . .

""Well, I'm not exactly opposed to finding out more about the Lost Cities," Stria pointed out." yeah i need to know more about the pyrokinesis ban immediately actually. and more about the general public's attitude towards shades.

""I think anything short of you going on a date with Keefe," Max said wryly, bringing up her famous hatred. She shouldn't have been surprised." technically it wasn't a date, because keefe apparently has a girlfriend *side-eyeing him so hard right now*

""Remember who you are, Stria!" Max said, shaking her by the shoulders, and wow, yeah, she'd really needed that." hello never change anon, sorry but this made me cringe out of my soul and i'm certain max would never say that. it's so shannon . . . someone help me . . . ack.

[block limit]

""It's so refreshing to have another Keefe hater here with me besides Katie's cat," Stria said truthfully, even though it felt alarmingly simplistic to just use the term "Keefe hater" now that she was here and it was real." i can continue to be a keefe hater regardless of circumstance, because i have magical powers. hope this helps.

""Want to go get weird gnomish food somewhere?"" ooh, weird gnomish food with max chapter???? i still think fin should be a separate person from fintan, and it turns out he's been tricking max the whole time. then max can write this all down in his little detective notebook. or something.

in conclusion, i think quil should be the next one to walk through the fourth wall. hear me out: quil would support my anti strieefe agenda and also be detached enough because of desperate attempts to find everglen and stalk fitz vacker to the point of collapsing on the floor in a keyboard smash manner once successful. also quil's a neutral party that doesn't particularly like or hate keefe so that would be nice to have. or something. idk i'm not writing this.

currently wondering if you know max, like in an interactive way. evidence points to the contrary, since i can't imagine he hates keefe enough to really care whether or not i'm going on smoothie "dates" with him. and i'm officially out of guesses. i have an anon in my inbox that is very certain you are katie and a liar, but i feel like. that would take the fun out of it? like if mr. forkle did turn out to be sophie's bio dad or something. idk. also this reminded me that i've read a fourth fanfic during my time in this fandom by max, which helps exactly nil. so basically i still have no idea who you are. help me, anons.

tagging everyone mentioned (tell me if you'd prefer not to be): @myfairkatiecat @crescentpaws @fintan-pyren @permanently-stressed @queefsencen @lisalovesapplesauce @alaydabug2

[only-lonely-stars]

Orange is the New Black (Chapter 4 - The Kids Are Alright)

[Chapter 3] // [Chapter 4 - you are here!] // [Chapter 5] – (FFN) (AO3)

Part of @ninjago-fic-fest!

Summary:

A rift opens in the sky above Ninjago City just as Cole continues his track record of falling from tall places. The place he wakes up in isn't the same as the one in which he fell... and who's the kid with a man bun who looks just like him?

Chapter summary:

Cole sees what all the fuss is about with Garmadon's constant attacks.

NOTE: The title is a reference to The Kids Are Alright (by Fall Out Boy)! Can you tell I went through a mild emo phase?

The whole world shook with the sound of heavy footfalls, engines, screaming, and maniacal laughter.

A familiar voice called out over a loudspeaker, cackling and overflowing with ego. 

“Say my name, Ninjago City!”

The city replied in the form of terrified screams. “GARMADON!”

“What’s my name?!”

“GARMADON!”

Cole looked out over the city. From the docks, he was able to see a full picture of what was happening. A small army of mechs, boats, and planes– and a couple of sharks?– were assaulting the city’s coastline. At the head of the charge, a mech which had a full three meters’ height on every other vehicle around it was marching across the sandbars. Based on how it walked, the driver had clearly been there before.

And, of course, the mech was black with purple detailing. Cole wasn’t unfamiliar enough to have trouble identifying Garmadon when he saw him.

He turned to the bridge, running to find Master Wu. “Master! The city is under attack!”

Wu was looking out the bridge window, toward the city skyline. “I know.”

“What do you guys do when this happens?”

Wu shrugged, tapping his staff against the floor. “My students will retrieve their mechs. Go have fun with them.”

“Have fun?” Cole wondered if he’d gotten a concussion when he fell. “Master, I think I hit my head harder than I thought. Did you actually say–”

“Yes, I did.” Wu pointed toward the warehouse with his staff. “Now go.”

It wasn’t worth it to try reasoning or arguing with Wu, so Cole did as he was told. He walked off the deck of the Bounty, down the gangplank and onto the docks, all the while with Wu watching him go.

The day had been so strange already. Could Wu tell how unsettled he felt? Even the thought of being watched left him with shivers running up his spine, and not the pleasant kind.

As soon as he was out of view, Cole ran for the warehouse at full tilt. 

He slipped in through the back door, where he was greeted by the sound of voices and doors slamming.

A moment’s investigation revealed the source of the sound was the red lockers he’d seen the day before. At the time, they hadn’t been worth any thought, but now he heard the Secret Ninja Force’s voices coming from inside them.

“Come on, let’s just get this over with quickly.” It sounded like Lloyd’s voice, but Cole just couldn’t be sure– everyone sounded just a little different from what he was used to.

“You got it, Green!” Nya’s voice was the gimme, the only woman on the team. A slamming sound accompanied her stepping out from one of the lockers, dressed in a gi with cyan and gray detailing. She looked over at Cole and immediately adopted a death glare. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh… looking for you, I guess?” Cole looked around. “What’s going on?”

Another door opened up, revealing Hence in all black– with his ever-present headphones. When he saw Cole, he gave him a jerky upward nod. “Hi, me.”

“Hi?” Cole watched as the others exited the lockers, then run to their mechs and start their engines. “Hence, what am I even seeing?”

Hence laughed, a confident sort of chuckle that Cole found he hadn’t expected. “Our school lockers have elevators that take us here so we can sneak out. Nya built them.” He all but sauntered toward a unicycle-type mech, then proceeded to scale it like a lizard. “Come on, you can ride with me. You got a mask?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

“Great. You’d better put it on.” Hence looked back down at him, then frowned. “By the way, you’re not the Black Ninja here. I am.”

Cole gaped at him. “Excuse me? I’ve been the Black Ninja for years!”

“Not here you aren’t. We use our colors as code names, and black is taken. Pick another color.” Hence waved him on. “C’mon! I want to get my tunes going.”

Cole took one look around the warehouse, which was rapidly emptying out, and made his decision. A burst of Spinjitzu threw him up onto the body of the mech, and with one good pull-up he was able to climb inside the cockpit.

Hence gave him a strange look. “What was that?”

“What was what? Spinjitzu?”

“Spin-what?”

Cole rolled his eyes, finding a safe space to park himself so he wouldn’t fall out of the moving vehicle. “Never mind.” The cockpit looked like a DJ booth, so he decided to go behind Hence’s chair. It was almost the perfect space– that, and it gave a great view of everything Hence did, which currently included throwing records onto his twin turntables, pulling on a ninja mask, and throwing the mech into gear.

The engine roared. Cole held on to the driver’s seat as the mech leaned back suddenly, then forwards as it charged out of the warehouse.

They emerged onto the docks, but Hence seemed to have the route memorized. He scratched at his records and whooped with delight. “Ninja on the job! C’mon, get your mask on. Do you have a radio?”

“Uh, yeah. What frequency?” Did this world use frequencies?”

Hence told him, and a wave of relief flowed through Cole– it was the same unit, even, which seemed to be a rare thing between their two worlds.

Hence was impatient as Cole pulled on his ninja mask, fiddling with his booth’s many buttons and switches. “Come on, let’s go fight!”

Cole hustled to get it on. Hence didn’t waste a second; he steered them onto a major road and into the fray. The other five Secret Ninja were ahead of him, driving their mechs with all the reckless abandon of their teenage years. The constant rocking motion kept Cole from musing on that fact– even though he’d been just like them once, and he remembered it quite well– because he was struggling not to throw up.

“Hence! Can you take it– hrk– easy on the throttle?” He put one clenched fist to his mouth.

Hence looked back at him, then at the road again. “Yeah, sorry! Forgot you’re an old man.”

“Old man?! Who are you calling an old man?”

“You’re the older one of us, so you!” Hence laughed, and in the back of his mind, Cole noticed just how much he seeemed to be in his element. Was this what the alternate version of him liked? Why didn’t this joy show up in the rest of his life?

Still, Hence was compassionate enough to ease up on the rocking motion, and Cole felt a little better. They came upon the larger city streets, where the other ninja had come to a stop. Bursts of fire and ice fired into the air as Lloyd (or was it Green?) spoke over a loudspeaker.

“Lord Garmadon! Stand down!”

Garmadon’s familiar, jeering voice echoed in response from somewhere Cole couldn’t see. “Kiss my butt! Generals, get those pesky ninja!”

Instantly, the mechs scattered. As Hence pulled back, Cole got his first glimpse of their foe.

A twelve-foot-tall bipedal mech, shaped like a swordfish, firing blanks in the air from its fist. With those blanks, innocent fish were being ejected from compartments Cole couldn’t see, flying into the air with fins flailing. From his vantage point, their landings couldn’t be seen, and he hoped that it wasn’t as unpleasant for them as it looked.

In the cockpit, the other Garmadon roared with glee. He was the same as Cole remembered, with four arms and a penchant for black and purple. The cackling didn’t stop, even when the mech was suddenly struck by a projectile. 

Hence swerved around a building just as a poor, innocent fish came flying at them. “Time to rock ‘n’ roll,” he joked, throwing on a new disc so “The Weekend Whip” blared from his oversized speakers.

The fish was vibrating to the music, and Cole clapped his hands over his ears. He had to shout over the din.

“Hence! How are you not deaf? Turn that down!”

“No can do!” Hence called out. “Sorry!”

Through the noise, Cole heard Lloyd’s– no, Green’s– voice over his comm. “Red, fend off the fish!”

Kai’s voice responded immediately. “Got it.”

“Cyan, keep the canals clear!”

A loud splash preceded Nya’s reply, along with indeterminate yelling and threats Cole could barely make out over their connection. “Loud and clear, Green!”

“White. Start working on a wall between Garmadon and Ninjago City Tower.”

“I am a cool, calm, and collected teen.” A white pyramid-shaped mech drove past, shedding ice crystals and snow, and Cole got a split-second view of Zane’s electric blue eyes.

Lloyd kept calling out instructions, directing the Ninja, and Cole watched in growing confusion as the scene before him descended into organized chaos. The Secret Ninja were good at controlling the environment, acting before reacting most of the time, and their teamwork was excellent. This world’s Lloyd was good at giving orders and expected that his teammates would follow them.

When that day came, it would be a welcome change in Cole’s own world…

Nostalgia, homesickness and overwhelm warred within him, but the final outcome was nausea.

“Hence,” he shouted over the music, “let me out! I’m gonna be sick!”

“What? Now?!” Hence expertly directed one mech arm at an enemy car, blasting it with a pile of dirt. “We’re in the middle of battle!”

“You don’t want my vomit in your cockpit, the smell will never come out!”

Hence groaned, back to a shadow of his moody self. “Fine! Can you get out without me stopping in the middle of the road? Maybe with your spin-something?”

Cole pushed to the front of the cockpit. Hence opened a narrow door where he managed to force his way out, gaining purchase on the outer panels. “Don’t change anything!”

On the outside, everything moved faster… 

He swallowed bile and prepared to leap.

Three…

two…

one…

The world became a blur as he launched himself into the familiar, practiced motions of Spinjitzu, tinged with orange and gold. Cole heard himself shouting his battle cry. “Ninja-GO!”

He landed with continued motion, rolling to his feet amid enemy soldiers. He directed it into a roundhouse kick, expertly landing on one opponent’s abdomen, throwing him back and onto the ground.

The others yelled in surprise, or maybe rage, and Cole was beset with at least four of them– two were easily handled through Spinjitzu, a third with a single punch.

The fourth was blasted back by a soundwave, loud enough that Cole’s teeth rattled in his jaw. 

The comms crackled. “Hey, fake Black Ninja! Don’t get yourself killed!”

Cole scowled, massaging his face. “Don’t call me that, Hence.”

“Don’t call me that,” Hence parroted. “I’m Black, and we’ve got nothing else to call you.”

“Well, I don’t know!” He looked around, then at himself and at his uniform, with its stripe of bold color around the chest. “I guess you can call me Orange?”

“Fine with me– watch out!”

Cole wheeled, and a moment later, strafed out of the way of a large sword.

A sword with a crossguard made of… sashimi?

More importantly, it was held by a mech decorated with sushi, piloted by a cackling, gloating woman who looked very pleased with herself.

Secretly, Cole wished these teens were older and less impressionable, so he could say something rude and possibly vulgar. Instead of doing so out loud, he threw out the best taunt he could think of in a rush. “Your tactics are a little fishy!”

He was rewarded with another swing of the giant sword. One well-timed jump threw him onto the blade, and he held on for dear life as the mech driver swung it again. “Get off!”

Cole laughed, and as soon as she raised it, he dropped down into the driver’s compartment.

A minute’s struggle ensued, with Cole coming out the victor and the driver being thrown out of the compartment. He caught her with one of the mech’s hands and set her on the ground fairly gently. “Thanks for the ride, but I gotta roll!”

She shouted something and ran for the ladder on one leg, but he backed off and turned to run down the street, sashimi sword in hand.

“Nice going, Orange! Head for Ninjago City Tower,” Hence commented, pointing with his mech’s arm at a particularly tall and isolated skyscraper. “Garmadon’s trying to get to the top.” 

“Why? What does he get out of that?”

“He takes over Ninjago City.”

Cole stopped in his umami-flavored tracks.

He turned around, staring at Hence as he stopped his unicycle mech in front of Cole’s new two-legged ride.

“What?” Hence– no, Black– looked around. “What’s wrong?”

“He takes over the city?!” 

“Yeah?” Hence sounded like he thought Cole was looking at something. “What’s so strange about that?”

“Your city is controlled by whoever is on top of a single skyscraper?!”

“Yours isn’t?”

“No?!” Cole laughed, almost too flabbergasted to speak. “Wh– Of course not! That’s crazy. This whole place is nuts!”

Hence shrugged, driving past him and down the street. “Look, you can tell me all about how weird my world is after we handle Garmadon. Sound good?”

There was nothing to do but follow him. “Sure. Whatever. You’re all crazy.”

Hence laughed, and despite how Cole felt like he was going insane, it was a comforting sound, even encouraging. 

Maybe this version of him was happier than he’d been at the same age. Whether he was truly happy was another question… but there was hope.

There was still a battle to fight, even if it was one of the weirdest battles he’d fought in a very long time, and Cole was optimistic that the kids would be alright.

[yakuzabrainrotlive]

I have started Like A Dragon! I've actually already made it to chapter 5.

Why hadn't I made a post already, then?

Well, there's no sugar-coated way to put this so... let's just rip off the bandaid now.

I haven't really enjoyed myself playing this game this far. Yet. Maybe I will at some point. But for now I honestly just haven't had much to say in terms of what's happened in the plot besides the beginning. I don't hate the game, it's just that it hasn't been able to really hook me in yet.

I'll keep going since I've heard this game is one of the generally more loved ones in the franchise. And I know RGG loves its slow burn.

I hate to be a Negative Nancy, but I wanna be totally honest. I doubt y'all would want me to lie about how I feel about the game.

More about all that right at the end of the post. I will list my positives and negatives when it comes to this game (and talk about the battle system) down there.

I know this type of thing is common in RPGs, but I like it all the same. Neat little game mechanic. There's quite a few different ones here, but it's cool.

An interesting background for a main character. Yeah, being an orphan is more than common. But being raised by the employess in a soapland and the townsfolk around him? That's really out there - in a good way.

This was very sad. Ichi lost 15 years of his life to the joint and got nothing in return. The shock and disappointment on his face when he was released and there was just. No one waiting for him.

And after that, all that awaited him was just... betrayal. That's just brutal. I fully understand why Ichiban went into Total Denial Mode for a while; it must have been a totally incomprehensible and shocking situation.

-He got out of prison after 15 years and where he expected to find his family waiting for him, he found nobody. AND he suddenly had the freedom of choosing what to do, when to do it and where to go after 15 years. That can be scary.

-He witnessed how much the world and general society had changed in his absence and probably felt very confused.

-He saw his home totally wrecked and abandoned.

And now his mentor and beloved patriarch, the one who saved his life. The man he would have happily been ready to die for at any moment. That man had changed completely and acted like he didn't know Ichiban.

Yeah... the denial, frustration and desperation are totally valid.

Oh dear. Well, Kiryu wasn't there anymore, the Tojo upper brass kept changing and there was constant conflict within the clan itself. It was just a matter of time before Omi would take advantage of the situation.

I hope Majima and Daigo are okay. Or at least alive ;-;

*Faint sounds of Majima cackling in the distance*

Oops. Majima better hope Ichi doesn't find out who the driver was lmao. I feel bad for Ichiban, but I also love how this single random idea of Majima's still has these consequences that are brought up, even after all this time.

God bless Nanba. He's a sweetheart. That's all I can say about him. I also kinda like Adachi. I'm not attached to these side characters yet, but they're neat. I think they'll grow on me eventually, it's just that I tend to be slow when it comes to becoming attached to new characters.

Legends say that if you pull this bat out, Shinada will appear in front of you and ask for some money....

I did play through the whole soapland thing and then some. I don't have much to say 😭. We do have a woman fighting with us, finally after all this time! #Girlboss

I would honestly happily die for Nancy. No questions asked.

OKAY UHH POSITIVES AND NEGATIVES.

Positives:

-Ichiban

-Interesting premise

-The different jobs satisfy my hyper-optimizing, excel-sheet-making, micromanaging self

-Funny enemy titles like "Piss Wizard"

-Free full heal spots my beloveds❤️

-Voice acting (in the Japanese dub at least) is excellent

-Substories have been fun!

Negatives:

-EXP yield is... not optimal; grinding takes FOREVER unless you go fight higher-level people than yourself, but then the battles can take ages. Job exp grinding especially feels about as pleasant as pulling teeth.

Am I supposed to grind in this game?? I've started to wonder about that since it's such a slow process. I have absolutely no idea. Have I missed a thing that helps exp gain??

-Unless you get lucky with the ability to find treasure, money yield can be tight at times, too. Which is rough, considering the cost of gear with 4 team members (and probably backup members later).

-The premise is cool, but the stuff I've played through in terms of the plot after leaving Kamurocho hasn't been very interesting to me this far (early-to-mid chapter 5) :/

-Substories don't give you EXP 😭

How about the elephant in the room - the battle system?

Well. I'll come out with it straight away; I'm very, VERY picky when it comes to turn-based combat. Shin Megami Tensei and Persona have unfortunately spoiled me too much, so this game had some unfairly MASSIVE boots to fill. And it didn't quite fill them. My bar is way too high and I acknowledge that 100%.

I get that they didn't want to make the system completely "passive" by just having to select moves and it all going smoothly from here. But I dislike the timing-based quick time stuff in the middle of attacks and perfect guard. I can pull off the attack dmg boost thing most of the time, but perfect guard is just... it feels way more difficult to pull off than Tiger Drop in any previous game. It's very frustrating. I frankly feel stupid, having this difficult a time with it.

Grinding is further hindered by spread moves being kind of unreliable - if the enemies are spread out, you're only hitting a single foe. For now. Maybe there will be better moves later on.

Idk if it's just me, but characters' MP pools feel very limited compared to the cost of the moves combined with how little damage you do at times? Maybe it's just the fact that I'm in the earlier parts of the game, but I feel like I have to be replenishing MP constantly.

I like how all the different types of gear can have additional special effects. It's neat.

All in all the battle system feels... very laborius. I can work with it! Absolutely. I'm just not the biggest fan.

God, I wish I could just gush about this game and sing its praises, but that's not happening yet by a long shot. This far? Maybe a 6-6.5/10. I hope my opinion changes for the better as I progress; I really wanna love it as much as other fans seem to.

[ponds-of-ink]

A… Disney Speedstorm Fanfic? (“Chapter” 1/Prologue - Oogie’s Challenge)

Or, more properly titled: “Speedstorm: The Quest to Defeat Oogie”.

…Yes, I’ve taken it upon myself to write a fanfic about the whole Quest for Oogie Boogie event in Speedstorm. Idk, something about it felt right.

This should be more of a fun little writing challenge in-between Speedstorm sessions, but uhh.. I’ve already kinda written lore for this actual joke/for fun fic. And I’m pretty sure I’m accidentally doing some Mirrorverse-type shenanigans when writing these versions of Speedstorm characters.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy the chaos about to ensue.

It had been a busy day for the racers in the Speedstorm Arena. All four members of the newest team were given their training by Arbee, every other racer had to learn how to deal with said team’s abilities, and Arbee relayed her typical briefing to the system’s manager. All in all, the standard stuff for a new season in the Arena.

Except, this time, something was off.

A reddish tint filled the sky. Only Doctor Finkelstein reported back from the Pumpkin Team’s briefing. Racers from other teams received frantic calls from the manager. Even AR-Bee felt something other than excitement in her coding.

Yet, amidst all this building chaos, Mickey strolled to the farthest corner of the stadium. “Stay close, now,” he told the two other racers behind him. “I dunno if this place is safe or not.”

“Can’t Aladdin go check?” a lanky creature asked, brushing back a ‘strand’ of her snake hair. “He’s always been a sneaky kind of guy.”

“He’s supposed to be training with Ar-Bee,” Mickey responded softly, giving a side glance towards Aladdin. “He’s still under-leveled for this place, last time I heard.”

“Only by a few!” Aladdin cried out, only to be cut off by a chorus of shushing. After  everyone finished waiting for some terrible danger, Aladdin huffed in exasperation. “I might be ‘under-leveled’, but I can still outrun the best of ‘em,” he insisted, habitually putting his hands on his sides. “All I gotta do is steal this Skellington guy away like he’s the Genie’s lamp in the Cave of Wonders. Nothing to it.”

“I still think we should be careful,” Mickey retorted quietly, lightly stomping his foot as he resumed his sneaking. “Oogie Boogie knows how to cheat. And if he’s in charge of this place, then there’s nothing he won’t do to win!”

“That’s right, Mouse-Ears!” a fourth voice yelled with a booming laugh. “Finally, a racer who gets me around here!”

Before the three could recover, a large shadow materialized in front of them. Its pitch-dark tones was soon replaced with a bright neon green. The transparency solidified into a towering, cackling mass of glowing burlap. “And now that you’ve brought me an audience, it’s time for my show to begin,” the burlap-‘sewn’ racer said with a slightly theatrical motion of its arm. “It’s ‘Oogie Boogie’s Champ Challenge’!”

The stone walls holding the iron gates turned into a moving checkerboard. Swing music blared as neon letters flashed to life. “‘Oogie Boogie’s Champ Challenge’?” the snake-haired woman read in a puzzled mutter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Glad you asked, Medusa,” the being known as Oogie responded slyly. “This here is the ultimate challenge: You win against the toughest ghouls this side of Halloween Town’s ever seen, you hit the jackpot: An all-paid trip to Boogie-Central!” Another boisterous laugh followed, which only made his listeners glance at each other. “That is, I get to join your group all nice and quiet-like,” he added in a slightly calmer tone, though no less cheery.

“And if we don’t?” Aladdin questioned, cautiously taking a step closer.

“I’ll just gobble up Jack and Sally’s chances of joining instead,” Oogie shrugged casually. “Dollface’s already been turned into a pal o’ mine, so what’s one Pumpkin ‘King’ for some extra spice?”

Mickey did a double-take. “What did you do to Sally!?” he cried out, readying to march up to the squirmy behemoth.

Oogie chuckled in a deep, menacing tone. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he returned, looming over the silently arguing trio. He turned his head just enough to look at the iron gates.

A smaller, much more shadowy figure emerged from the billowing fog. Its hands made quick work of the gates’ locks. Then, after unlocking the doors, the stranger gently pushed them open. It looked at the snakewoman, then mouthed something.

“…Cecilia…” the woman seemed to hear. Instinctively, her one blue eye followed the sound. Two pin-prick pupils stared back at her. “The rest of your friends to train,” the hushed chorus of whispers continued. “Most of them will be very close by this month’s end. Some of them already are.”

Cecilia’s snakes bobbed their heads in agreement. Cecilia herself pulled Mickey aside. “We‘ll come back for them later,” she said in a stern tone. “Come on, Mick. We’ve got some racing to do.”

Mickey and Aladdin protested, but Cecilia dragged them away. All she could do was glare at the taunting Boogie-Man before returning to the main section. This was going to be a long October, even if she was going to be sidelined again. She could feel it.

[clairethecutepup]

Pomni the Petrifiable Pup: On the Fly with Dragonflies! (Ch. 1)

-----

Chapter Synopsis:

Giant dragonflies are terrorizing the circus grounds! Oh boy, they also earn the “dragon” part something fierce… Will Pomni be able to save the circus from the latest threat sicced upon them in this horrible survival game, or will it be Pup a la Flambe-- along with the rest of the cast?

---

If you'd prefer reading elsewhere, look at the links; if you'd rather read here, click "keep reading"!

https://www.deviantart.com/clairevlcek/art/On-the-Fly-with-Dragonflies-Ch-1-TADC-1122867333

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/58853108/

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60612247/chapters/154760560

Chapter Title: Just Another “Tuesday” Around Here… or Any Weekday.

******

In the “Spooky Death Grounds,” as the people behind this dooming game were more the programming types than CREATIVE types, a plot is being hatched: within the barren and pointy environment of empty grayness, the dark cave surrounded by many “Danger!” and “Beware, Evil Mastermind!” signs contains the digital land’s scheming main villain. Of course, one cannot be “evil” without the appropriate mourning routine to start his day; so tooth-brushing and all first, then he’s finally able to start the day off right-- and EVILLY! Caine floats down into his favorite chair within the cave’s "Spooky Void of Darkness," a cup of Morning Joe's Eyedrops in hand to refresh the eyeballs within his dentures. He takes a refreshing sip and lets out the expected, "Ahhh...!" before throwing the “#1 Mastermind of Evil” mug over his shoulder-- it promptly breaking on the ground.

"Well, Bubble, it's time once again to see what the Wheel of Horrors has in store for our hapless bunch of circus miscreants!"

"Oh boy, it's any evil minion's favorite part of the day!"

“Now then, what titular horrors shall we land upon today?”

Caine pulls the wheel into view, giving the red and black pinwheel a mighty spin. Caine pulls out a nail file and tends to his gloved fingertips, applying the appropriate blows of air; while Bubble keeps rotating his face with the wheel, despite not actually hoping for the particular “evil horror” he focused on. Caine then throws the file into the board, making it stop in place. 

“‘Literal dragonflies’!” he reads, “Perhaps the most pointless thing in existence, when dragons can already fly! Aw well, who am I to deny the bug fans out there their beloved critters-- even if not so beloved for anyone who has to deal with them? Bubble, release the damning insects of literality!”

Bubble bites onto the suddenly-appearing lever and pulls it down. Several cages, containing red eyes behind their bars, open and unleash the horrors within.

“Fly, my pretties, fly!” Caine cackled, “Show them how much you earn that ‘dragon’ part of your dreadful and forewarning name!”

He and Bubble simply float there, as the dragonflies aimlessly fly around above them.

“... Oh, right, there needs to be an actual exit first!” Caine then snaps his fingers, “So, exit granted!”

The dragonflies finally pass through the sky hatch, their scaley insectoid forms and toothy mouths of fire eager to roast some victims… 

--------

“Okay, and… done!” Ragatha holds up her knitting, “What do you think, Pomni?”

The doll turns and lowers the red scarf from her rocking chair, so the pup of brown fur and a jester’s cap could see. Pomni sits up and flips over from her back, as she looks at Ragatha’s results from her neighboring basket.

“Wow, that looks great,” Pomni wags her tail, “I’m sure Kinger will like it.”

“I sure hope so. It’ll be nice for him to have something that feels like we’re with him, whenever he goes off wandering again.”

No one knew why, but the living chess piece tended to wander about the digital world, ringing a bell in a floating gloved hand… Jax always remarked about him possibly just “getting the right idea”: ditching the circus grounds where a majority of the trapping game’s horror elements occur. It didn’t mean the rest of the world was any safer, but it did seem like a majority of events befell this particular location; yet, there wasn’t really any better place for shelter nor other conveniences that helped keep everyone sane and safe. Case in point, Pomni ironically found more peace and safety within the targeted grounds: she actually had a warm bed to sleep or hide in, and there were more resources to help defend against whatever current horrors came after them. Plus, it’s nice to have a basket that’s beside Ragatha’s comforting presence, whenever the ragdoll decides on enjoying her own tranquility in her swaying seat.

Unfortunately, there was no tranquility to last for either of them… Nor, anyone else currently on the grounds. Had the unleashed horrors finally arrived? No, Jax just felt bored. It all started when Pomni felt a hand grab onto her shoulder.

“Let’s make one out of DOG fur next!!”

Pomni screams, her eyeballs popping out her turned skull, as she jumps into the also-screaming Ragatha’s arms. The purple rabbit maintained the masked machete-wielder act for a little longer, raising the weapon, before he finally pulled his mask off and displayed that usual smug grin.

“Hey, relax ladies, it was only a suggestion…”

“Jax!” Ragatha glares at him, “Don’t you think things are terrifying enough, without you adding onto it…?!”

“Hey, it’s supposed to be a ‘horror’ game, right?” Jax tosses his items aside, “I’m just helping it earn the title.”

Ragatha groans and rolls her non-button eye, before softening into a smile and holding out the shaking pup.

“It’s okay, Pomni, Jax just decided to be ‘funny’ again…”

“Well, someone has to provide some entertainment around here,” Jax shrugs, “Unfortunately, it seems to be my personal burden to bear.”

“You know, if you really want to lift everyone’s spirits,” Ragatha sets Pomni down, “maybe you could try something that everyone else can actually enjoy themselves?”

“Hey, ‘Misery is the root of all comedy,’ they say; and oh boy, is your guys’ misery ever the best form of comedy.”

“Come on, Jax, don’t we face enough conflict around here, when we’re not causing it ourselves…?”

“Not when it finally becomes ‘conflict’ I can actually enjoy. Gets real tiring being on the receiving end all the time, ya know?”

A fire ball flies in, and the rabbit suddenly gets burnt to a smoking ash pile that rolls its eyes.

“... Case in point…”

Pomni looks up at the responsible sky, before she replicates an arched cat and screams.

“Oh my goodness,” Ragatha gasps, “dragonflies-- LITERAL dragonflies!!”

The beasts ignite whatever their fireballs hit; when they don’t simply pick things up and throw them elsewhere, or just ravage things with their teeth and claws. The trio weren’t the only ones tormented… Zooble’s limbs and head fall onto the ground, forced to bounce away after a fireball reduced their connecting abdomen to ash; while Gangle is sent face-first into a nearby crate pile, thanks to a speeding-by dragonfly, cracking her comedy mask and resulting in her wearing the (appropriate) tragedy mask. Jax finally manages to revert back into his rabbit-like form, while Ragatha and Pomni continue looking around at the horrific scene.

“Quick,” Ragatha proclaims, “we have to try our new air defense system!”

Zooble bounces toward a standard show cannon.

“I’m on it!”

They hop within, activating the defenses: the small cannon and its portion of land rotate into the ground, before the platform unveils the larger cannon and the seat Zooble now occupies.

“You want things to burn, huh?! Then burn yourselves-- in Hell!!”

The cannon fires-- but no dragonflies fall. Then again, it’s hard to fire a cannon with NO ammunition…

“What the hell?!” Zooble’s detached arms mash their thumbs on the held buttons, before they stop, “Why isn’t it firing anything?!” they then deadpan their mismatched and half-lidded eyes, “... Of course, we finished building the stupid thing, but forgot to actually put in the ammo…” they glare at the trio, “Don’t just stand there, someone get me some!”

Pomni glances around, until she notices the giant crate filled with “air defense ammo” (said so on the neighboring sign). She runs to collect their means of salvation, but some dragonflies swoop down and steal the entire wooden cube.

“No!”

She can only watch, as they fly to who-knows-where… Still, the circus crew needs that to fight off the flying menaces! Pomni runs after them, dodging the numerous fireballs headed toward her: ducking under the wheelbarrow, shielding herself with a large piece of wooden debris, and digging through the ground to avoid the remaining onslaught. She pops her head out, a patch of dirt and a lone sunflower sitting atop her hat. She hops out and runs to a nearby sheep, who seems quite content to chew grass amidst the insanity. She hops onto its back, the animal finally giving attention to something other than its green deliciousness.

“Yah, sheep, yah…!” Pomni points, then lowers her paw and looks down at the annoyed critter, “... Uh, please ‘yah’? It’s just, I’d probably have an easier time catching up with a stee--”

She yelps as she’s bucked off-- and then bucked into oblivion: the sheep’s hind hooves send the screaming pup halfway across the fictional world, forcing Pomni to soon storm past the rude wool-bearer and travel on her own two feet (paws?). She appeared to have landed within a thorn bush, given the spikes sticking out from her furry form. She says nothing, just shooting the sheep a disapproving glare, as it goes back to ignoring her and eating. Pomni manages to shake off the thorns and resumes running, continuing her chase after the departing creatures of literal namesake. Knowing that the fate of the circus grounds relies on whether she can return with those cannonballs, she needs to stay close on their tails-- and avoid any more possible rude animals who’ll just waste her time and slow her down… But where exactly were these beasts headed, and could everyone else manage on their own in the meantime?

[End Chapter]

------------------

One of the fun things about fanfiction is the ability to make a fun hybrid of two series: taking the cast of TADC (Pomni especially) and forcing them into a virtual reality that's more of a "horror survival" game, which still keeps its silly series nature overall and thus becomes an alternate version of "Courage the Cowardly Dog"! I mean, Pomni already resonates some strong "Courage" energy, with her anxiety and own cartoonish reactions to all things terrifying. I mean, tell me shooting her frightened eyes from their sockets isn't something akin to the many expressions Courage himself does when scared. So yeah, another fun fan-series for me to work on: combining the cartoonish yet horrifying nature of CTCD with a series that gets my attention well-enough, and especially has a cast of characters that seem fun to write!

Also, sorry about the shortness of this chapter, it just felt perfect for setting up the first part of the first "episode"...

[asukaskerian]

For the writing ask game: 7, 13, and 18?

7. How many ideas for fics do you have right now?

n... none...

i lie, i have two for svsss but i'm not gonna write them. they're too vague, have no ending, AND i would have to reread the canon to make sure i place them well and my current brain weather is not good for it.

but it's VERY weird and unsettling not to be having a dozen competing ideas right now, outside of writing out already planned WIPs. :(

13. How much planning do you do before writing?

highly depends! sometimes i have an idea for a scene and type out the scene and i'm left scrambling for what happens next, most times i know the first three chapters and a nebulous skeleton of the rest (then when it's time to fill out those "maybe two chapters worth of materials" the fic becomes an accordion) , often i have a whole file of copypasted chats with friends where we laughingly riff on said ideas and them i'm left desperately trying to frankenstein it all together because i love all of it and can't choose...

recently i've been using Dynalist to make myself bullet point plots, it's super good, it has collapsible sub-bullets and stuff and it's very convenient to see the big chapter titles all at once and figure out where the fic is plot-light or plot-heavy, and then i can get into a chapter and add tidbits that need to be mentioned etc etc.

but, i still get distracted too easily so sometimes i fill out 3/4ths of a plot and wander off all "oh i know what happens i'll write it later i'm sure i'll remember" WRONG...

or else i plot everything from start to finish and lose all desire to write it in full. that also happens. :(

18. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written in a fic?

... memory is really bad today ;; idk. it mostly all does its job?

ok i was going down my fic list and this one made me cackle, so right now, this one:

"You guys are touching daemons and you're going to say you're not touching dingalongs? Papa-san, either you have raised a liar or a fool."

but i also REALLY like sentences that are very simple and even pedestrian on their own, but it's the implications that make you go oh noooo. like this one:

Maybe if Dave manages sex they can cuddle afterwards.

mmm. delicious. >:D

[caseadilla111]

speirs x oc

a/n : another little piece I've been working on, still very rusty and I don’t have a title for this yet so apologies for the less than creative header. I don't have a lot of time to write fan fiction or stories anymore so it's been nice flexing my amateur author muscles the past few days. this is going to be a hefty story, lots of words (like multiple pages worth) so I'll post them in chapters. anyway, enjoy <3

softy Speirs, I like to think he's a classic romantic from the 40s.

*disclaimer: this story is about Speirs as a FICTIONAL character, not the real man himself. any personal back story is fictional besides his place of birth, age, and war history (only WWII). This is NOT a fan fiction of Ronald Speirs, the real veteran war hero. This is based on Matthew Settle's portrayal in Band of Brothers.*

oOoOoOoOo

He sat alone at the bar like he always did nearly every night, but unlike the other regulars at the establishment, he only ever enjoyed a whiskey or two, nursing them for the hours he was there. Ronald Speirs wasn’t the type to drown his sorrows and get piss drunk to block out the memories. He’d rather sit with them, think a bit, and soothe the aches that came with each sip. He was quiet, never people watched, never reacted to the music that played. He just stared at the glass in front of him clenching his jaw every so often. Beautiful women frequented old McCullough’s Pub, dancing and twirling their skirts on swing night when the band was really getting into it, but they never were a distraction for the grizzled and war-torn veteran sitting on his stool.

That is, until she walked through those doors.

Maggie wasn’t one for going out all of the time like her friends Lena and Cecilia, but tonight was a special night. Maggie just graduated college and was home for good now. Lena practically begged her to come out tonight to celebrate, but it was really a ploy to get out and meet some impressionable young men who could be their husbands if they played their cards right. Maggie had been to McCullough’s a few times before, popping in here and there when she’d be home for the holidays, and every time she came, she saw that familiar face, sitting alone on the bar, cradling the whiskey glass in his tense hands.

Lena made it a point to grab the first man she fancied and dragged him to the dance floor, shooting Maggie a look encouraging her to do the same. Cecilia, however, was much more mellow than Lena was. The two shared a glance and laughed at their very enthusiastic friend being swung around the small dance floor as they enjoyed their drinks. Eventually, Cecilia’s beau joined them at the pub and Maggie was now alone at their table. She sipped at her beer, watching, and laughing over the music at her two best friends dancing the night away, only to have her gaze stray over to her right and land on the lone man sitting at the bar. He never once looked up or moved from his seat. Not even when he heard the cackling of laughter coming from the dance floor or the cacophony of noise from the live band. Maggie did notice, however, he would flinch here and there any time a glass dropped from behind the bar or a door slammed shut somewhere in the back.

Perhaps driven by liquid courage, her curiosity, or just plain boredom of watching her friends dancing with their men, Maggie took her beer and made her way toward the man at the bar. She placed her half full glass one seat away from him before she spoke. “May I?” Her sweet voice seemed to shake the man from his trance a bit, he blinked a few times before turning to her, stunned for a moment before muttering a “yeah, sure.” Maggie sat, a single barstool separating them, and she brought her glass to her lips, hoping this next sip will bring her enough moxie to do what she normally wouldn’t have done and hour or so ago. “So, what are you celebrating?” She smiled, waiting for him to smile back and joyfully answer, only to be let down with reality. Ron scoffed and looked at her for a moment before answering. “Life.” He watched as her smile began to fade ever so slightly and he felt a pang of regret with his harshness.

“What are…what are you celebrating?” He awkwardly asked, clearing his through in the middle of it hoping to shake the foul mood he seemed to radiate to the other patrons of the pub that he was not previously aware of prior to this encounter. Maggie’s smile returned slightly, maybe this wasn’t a bad idea after all. “I graduated.” She answered cheerfully, and she saw a curious expression come across his face. “College, I graduated college!” Relief now replaced the curiosity in Ron, Maggie giggled at the obvious worry that was hanging in the air for a moment. “Well, here’s to you graduating.” Ron raised his glass and gestured it toward the young woman beside him, and she raised her glass in return to him. “And to celebrating your life!” Ron raised his eyebrows and shook his head slightly, knowing they should not be celebrating his life, or at least the events that made up his life.

A few moments of silence filled the space between them before Maggie decided to speak up again. Typically, she didn't have to try this hard to pull a conversation from a man. She was a fairly attractive young woman and was easy to talk to, why was this so difficult? “So, do you co—” Ron rolled his eyes and cut her off before she could finish.

“Listen, kid—" “Maggie.” “Maggie." He said with a bit of an attitude. "I’m not really one for small talk, okay? That’s great you graduated and all, congrats, you know, hip hip hooray, I can buy you a drink if that’s what you want but please, spare me.” Ron finally spat out, only to feel immense guilt at the words he just let vomit out of his mouth as he saw the expression on the young woman's face in front of him change. She looked like a maimed dog, helpless, big sad eyes, the light escaping them as soon as he shot her down. She shrunk in on herself, finishing her beer in a gulp, glancing at the dance floor almost willing the song to be over so she can go talk to her friends about the jerk at the bar.

Ron was kicking himself. You asshole. Are you allergic to compassion? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before signaling for the bar tender. “Hey, ki—Maggie, I…I’m sorry. That was—” “Rude.” “Rude is a bit kinder than what I would have said but yes, rude. I’m sorry. I just, I’m not used to the small talk. I come here to just sort of, you know, relax.” The bar tender was now in front of Ron and was drying his hands on the front of his stained apron. “Can I get a uh, a beer, you still want beer?” He looked at Maggie now, and to her surprise he was buying her a drink. “Oh please, you don’t have to.” “Yeah, I do. One beer please and uh, I’ll take another.” He tapped his nearly empty glass with his knuckle and the bar keep was off to fulfill the order.

The drinks were slid in front of them now and Maggie graciously took her glass, the golden ale brimming the crystal in her hands. “Thank you, uh…” she struggled to place a name to the face in front of her, probably because no name was ever given to her before during their awkward and hostile exchange. “Ron. And it’s my pleasure. Really kid, congrats on graduating, that’s a big feat not many can achieve. Here’s to you.” He raised his new glass and Maggie met it in the middle of the space between them with hers, clinking them together ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry for that…outburst…I typically just keep to myself here so, not used to the chit chat.” Ron looked down into the amber liquid in front of him, hoping to find better words to carry a conversation somewhere deep in his glass. Maggie gave a toothless grin, not entirely sure what to say to make this awkward exchange less so. Ron could feel the tension he created with his outburst and attempted to ease it, though he was out of practice with this sort of conversation with people, let alone with a beautiful young broad like herself.

“What did you get your degree in?” He brought his glass to his lips and sipped as he watched her now, taking in the woman seated with him, he didn’t take a moment before to really look at her but the way the warm light from the bar illuminated her features was mesmerizing, her hair was almost a burning golden hue with the reflection of the light on her curly brown tresses, almost like the halos shrouding the Saints he saw in the churches over there in Europe.

“History, bachelors in history.” Maggie licked the foam of her beer from her lips as she answered, nodding her head after while trying to think of a return question for Ron only for him to beat her to it. “So what now?” “Uh, I think I’ll teach.” “Really? Wow, smart girl then, huh?” Ron was actually impressed, but he sure had a way of showing it. It was as if his brain and vocal cords were working against him here. But Maggie laughed a bit, easing Ron of any worry of insult he may have inflicted on her unintentionally by calling her a smart girl as if she were a child.

As the night went on and the drinks were flowing for Maggie, the two began to get along just fine. So fine to the point Maggie had forgotten she had come to the pub with her two girl friends, who now were watching their friend like a hawk from their table, their beaus hovering over them like two protective lions.

Ron started loosening up after talking with her for a few minutes, smiling his signature Ronald Speirs smile, laughing every so often and the jokes she said and asking questions when he could. The mood had made a complete turn from what it was when this young, funny, intelligent woman sat a barstool away from the hardened war hero.

Their conversation was cut short however when Lena and Cecilia came over, Lena clearing her throat to draw Maggie’s attention from Ron to her friends now. “It’s late, we should get going Maggie.” Maggie looked at the watch on her wrist, gasping for a moment when she realized just how long she and the solitary man were chatting for. “It is late…” she frowned toward Ron and he shot her a solemn toothless smirk, nodding his head in agreement and closing his eyes briefly. “It was great meeting you Ron, I had a wonderful time.” Maggie extended a hand to Ron, to which he grasped with his and gave her a firm shake. “Likewise.” He smiled this time, a real Captain Ronald “Sparky” Speirs smile, and he could have sworn he saw her blush. “Okay you two, let’s go.” Cecelia laughed and grabbed Maggie’s free hand, almost dragging her away from the bar and away from Ron. He watched as Maggie faded away with the night when a thought crossed his mind. Maybe it’s too late, did I miss it? No. Go, you idiot!

Ron turned hoping to see them still in the pub but the ladies and their two chaperones were already out the door. Ron hesitated, calculating his next move like he always does, and threw down some cash onto the bar before hastily leaving the pub. “Maggie!” He called out again once he was outside. Luckily, they hadn’t gotten too far, they weren’t even in the cars yet. Maggie turned to Ron’s voice and smiled before turning back to her friends, who smiled back and shooed her away. “Maggie…” Ron started, a little breathy as his adrenaline was pumping and he practically leapt off of his barstool to catch her. “…I had a good time tonight. Thank you for keeping me company, talking to me.” “Of course, Ron.” Maggie smirked and bowed her head a bit, a loose curl falling onto her forehead before being swept back by the cool summer breeze. “May I see you again?” Ron was a confident man, but something about this young woman humbled him, so much so that he felt like a schoolboy again asking his honey to the dance. There was a pause after he asked, he could almost see the question hanging there between them, in bright red letters, dripping in anticipation. Maggie blushed and self-consciously tucked her auburn locks behind her ear. “I would like that very much so, Ron. Yes.” She smiled and Ron smiled back, he admired the way she looked bathed in the moonlight now. There is no lighting she wouldn’t look good in I bet.

“Oh!” Maggie reached into her handbag and pulled out her pocket pad and pencil, scribbled down a number, tore the page out and handed it to Ron, which he graciously took while simultaneously holding onto her hand. “Call me between 7:30 and 5:15. We eat dinner around 5:30-6 so no phone calls. And I’m free every day except for Sundays.” Ron chuckled at her instructions but nodded, agreeing to the conditions. “Well, it was great meeting you Ron.” “It was great meeting you too, Maggie.” They both paused for a moment, not sure who should make the first move until Maggie decided it would be her who stood on her tip toes and gave Ron a sweet peck on the cheek before turning back to join her friends and head home for the night.Ron stood in the lot, cheek tingling from the kiss, and watched as this remarkable young woman walked away from him. He came to McCullough’s as he did any other night that he couldn’t escape his mind and the memories of who he once was, but he never expected to be revived to his former self tonight by a bright beautiful girl who decided to take a chance on the solitary man sitting on his own at the bar.

[missingn000]

oh WOW where do i even begin with this chapter. okay maybe higuruma and nobara because you've gotten me all invested (again) in a pair that's never actually met in canon. pfpk will get their turn later in this ask lol so dw!

so higuruma and nanami finally meet again!! fuck yeah!! the "you talk all high and mighty" was a nice throwback, but that domain expansion joke was AWFUL. like... "lighten up" ?? um?? higuruma ?? all that aside, i found his description as a "dark figure" that "eclipses Nanami like a silhouette" really neat - it goes really well with their roles as each other's foils! no better way to hammer it in than with a symbolic image from another person's perspective :D

Nanami is the type of dad she’s always wanted, but Higuruma is the one she has. 

i hope u know i reread their fight in ch34 as a refresher and wow i need to write a separate analysis for that one sometime... anyway, it's just really interesting to me how nanami, higuruma's character foil, is the one who manages to earn nobara's respect! both of them have seen the worst of what humanity has to offer, but where higuruma came out of it disillusioned and despairing, nanami was lucky enough to have encountered yuuji & toge before the bleakness of it all could truly set in. the same can be said of the reverse! on the other hand, nobara and higuruma found each other at what was quite possibly the lowest point in their lives; higuruma was grappling with the crippling emotional aftermath of his and nanami's ideological clash, and nobara's grandmother literally just died. they may not realise it yet, but they're reliant on each other to make it through

also the parallel you drew between nanami holding back from killing nara & higuruma murdering the village sheriff Hit me like a fuckin truck. one of nobara's main arguments against higuruma is that he's a literal murderer, which is a very valid and fair thing to be upset over, BUT, and this is an important distinction, while nanami may come off as the ideal parent (in nobara's eyes), higuruma is the one she does have - and needs. and vice versa. also:

Toge expects her to ruminate, but almost immediately: “Thanks, but no thanks,” Nobara declares. “He said to come home whenever, right? That guy can’t cook for his life. I gotta make fun of his shitty dinner.”

he gave her a home!! got it in (...verbal?) writing and all!! the fact she's willing to acknowledge this in front of the ff is so significant too. higuruma says that "she'd be the first to tell you she's not my daughter," but her actions say otherwise! even if unconventional, lol. higuruma wasn't allowed past the threshold this time, but it's obviously just a matter of time and i can't wait. wonder what she has against toji but i'm not gonna dive into that rn. speaking of which - nobara's main issue (with regard to her fighting style) is that she tries too hard, which holds her back, right? i feel like that's also applicable to other parts of her life as well, so of course it'd seep into the way she approaches combat. clever, i like that!

megumi saying to gojo that "sometimes I wish I’d told you sooner that I love you too" absolutely ruined me, esp considering his silence in ch13. which i just read yesterday. don't do this to me. anyway, it's such a small thing, but it really shows how far they've come and it means the world to me! i would elaborate but this """ask""" is getting long enough as is </3

AND NOW

PFPK TIME

alternative title: reincarnated sorcerer tries to navigate the 21st century with a whimsical curse as their sole guide, it goes about as well as you'd expect

really fascinated by the descriptions of mahito's exaggerated imitations of human behaviour, btw. these are my favourites:

Mahito bursts into a jarring cackle.

He folds his arms with a vacant grin.

They wish he wouldn’t laugh like that. It sounds so real. 

all of it feels so staged. artificial. because it is - he copies what he sees humans do, to varying degrees of success. sometimes his attempts are hollow. sometimes they're startlingly... accurate, and blur the lines:

Mahito says, wiping a tear duct, and that’s just wrong. Only people should be able to laugh so hard they cry.

even though mahito actively messes with humans, he's... simultaneously deeply fascinated by them, going so far as to observe and copy their mannerisms AND retain a humanoid form. considering he's able to modify his body, it's not a stretch to assume he quite literally has to maintain his appearance-- but why bother putting in that much effort? if everything he does is a mimicry of the original, why does he bleed red? why does his name mean true person? the parts of himself that he has no control over are unsettlingly, undeniably human. really, he's doomed from the beginning, even though he tries to use his 'curse instincts' to distinguish himself from them.

AND - WAIT FOR IT - that's exactly he's so afraid of making a digestive system!! if he succeeds, he'll be crossing that invisible (and self-made, imo) line that differentiates curse from human. imitate the latter as he might, he still holds himself as separate from them, and he's not going to do anything that threatens that belief. on a subconscious level, he probably knows the truth, which is why he doesn't even try to prove kashimo wrong.

“Then I’ll fight you,” they murmur, beneath the booming crackle of pyrotechnics going out in a final blaze of glory, sacrificing themselves in the victoryless war raging in the heavens above.  “So look forward to it.”

wow. y'know, fireworks in chinese & japanese culture are apparently symbolic of warding off evil. fitting kashimo would talk about trying to kill mahito then, huh? :)

you already know what i think about the gojo-kashimo character foil but i'm putting it here again for easier reference in the future:

something gojo and kashimo share in common is strength (supposedly) being their defining trait, but there're some subtle differences here, namely in how they use it: in gojo's opinion, there's no point in being strong if you can't protect the people who matter most to you. in kashimo's eyes, though, it’s completely reversed. having an emotional crutch is "embarrassing," a hindrance more than anything else, the complete opposite of gojo's mentality. to them, you discard human bonds to become strong. to gojo, you become strong to preserve the people you've formed those bonds with.

the third time gojo and toji tried to kill each other, it was for highly personal reasons. but in kashimo’s and mahito’s hopefully hypothetical future fight ("Then I'll fight you"), it seems to be less about a personal vendetta than being the one to decide how their dearest person’s story will end.

There’s so little you can hold onto, in this world. If you can’t cherish something, maybe it’s enough to decide how you have to let it go.

KAY OH MY GOD. HI

ive already said this to you BUT this comment is everything to me. your analyses are always so insightful and on point dude, it's SO flattering that you put this much time, effort, and consideration into the themes & symbols in this monstrosity 😭❤️️ warm and fuzzies. like my heart is next to a fireplace

OKAY NOW FOR THE COMMENT ITSELF. more below cut!

nanami & higuruma meet again!! yes!! i just had to give higuruma a weird, off-putting joke, considering that "i'm a lawyer, so talking to me costs ¥5,000 every half hour" quip he gave yuuji during his introduction. his dynamic with nanami is so interesting to me, because out of all character foil duos they're definitely the most alike. which is why it's so interesting that you pointed out how nanami is the one who managed to earn nobara's respect; that "Nanami is the type of dad she’s always wanted, but Higuruma is the one she has" line physically hurt me to type. OW. the angst. they totally met at rock bottom, and i don't think they can climb back up without each other, either: you got it totally right that higuruma is the dad she needs!!

they're both already growing. higuruma now realizes nanami was actually lucky to not have to kill toge's aunt, because he saw firsthand the damage murdering the sheriff caused to his relationship with nobara. and nobara realizes she has a home!!! she's wanted!! even though she thinks he "probably didn't mean it like that," the fact that she's willing to hope already speaks volumes to how much she's grown in her short time with him.

dfghjk that megumi line...ive also mentioned this to you but gojo & megumi have one of my favorite canon found family relationships of all time. they're everything to me. i will put gojo & megumi fluff and angst wherever possible. this is a threat

ANYWAY.

PFPK.

i feel like im just gonna repeat what weve talked about in messages but YEAH, that constant sense of "off"-ness about mahito where he's just close enough to seeming human to give someone pause, but inhuman enough to show that he's dangerous. how much of it is an act and how much of it is real? it's a line unclear to even mahito sometimes. you can only pretend for so long before you either get too tired to continue or it genuinely becomes a part of you -- if it wasn't a part of you all along, and you just didn't know how to express it. mahito's "human" act is never one he's continually had to play, because he had some semblance of alone time to go off and commit atrocities.

but he's around a human 24/7 now. he constantly has to figure out how to react to external stimuli in the most human way possible, and i don't think he wants to admit how naturally it comes to him. mahito is born from human hatred: but the thing is, hatred goes so much deeper than just animosity towards others. it's self-hate, it's hate towards your own weaknesses, hating feeling a certain way and not being able to do anything to fix it. i think this is why mahito has such a wide emotional range in canon: hate is a multi-dimensional emotion. hate is fear, grief, anger. i always joke that being a hater fuels me, but to an extent it's actually true -- it's cathartic, y'know? it's fun to hate. you can love to hate. and you can hate to love.

GOJO AND KASHIMO...i was looking in our chat at for my response to this analysis and it was something along the lines of "RATTLING THE BARS OF MY CAGE" which is really in character for me but not great for, uh, actual analytical responses. of all the character foils, i think kashimo and gojo are the most different -- polar opposites, but with that one disturbing, awful similarity about dooming their own partners. it fucking sucks to care about who they each respectively care about, and kashimo won't even admit it, so gojo's really got his work cut out for him. poor guy, dude's dealing with enough already without having to instigate inconvenient realizations in some guy over 20 times older than him

GOD. of course you'd call attention to that last line. i won't lie, "There’s so little you can hold onto, in this world. If you can’t cherish something, maybe it’s enough to decide how you have to let it go" is definitely one of my favorite things i've ever written. it fucking HURTS and represents so much about this story. i need to lie down

THANK YOU FOR THIS MESSAGE!! i seriously have parts of it memorized. i'm sure we'll continue to discuss/screech over all these things and i greatly look forward to it

[kuniushi]

Insecret

Title: Insecret (인시크릿)

Chapters: 102 (complete)

Genre: yaoi, k-pop industry

+ very beautifully-drawn characters with plot (the side-story was more riveting than the main, frankly) + not much unnecessary toxic drama like love triangles appearing out of thin air - hard to distinguish the characters sometimes as some look the same

** Warning, spoilers ahead.**

This webtoon was an easy read and nothing really stands out from the yaoi-binge I've been on except the fact that it's set in the K-pop industry. That change in premise was a nice difference.

The main couple, Dojin and Yuwon are your typical BL couple who found love in each other (while being in the same group, Insecret) and lived happily ever after. Nothing much to really write about.

The side-story ... now that one is a bit more interesting. It's about another two members from the same group, Jihyuk and Dawol. In some panels, I could not tell if it was Dawol or Yuwon as they look so similar, especially when they color Yuwon's hair purple.

So anyway, the side story is set a few years after the main story and Dawol looks at Jihyuk like a little brother. Jihyuk just came out of military and oh dear, Dawol seems pretty serious about a girl. Lots of beautiful panels to clear that situation up and some hot smex thrown in there ... I will never say no to hot smex scenes. Boom, another happily ever after.

All in all, as I said, very typical BL story and not much that I remembered about this one. I'd say this story didn't make me sweat nor did it leave me unfulfilled, take that however you want. Perhaps next time I need to type some quick bullet points so that I can type something up here about it ...

EDIT. I did have a note about this title and it was specifically with this panel:

I have never heard of someone getting so drunk they couldn't find their face and I cackled like the wicked witch from the west when I read that the first time. Maybe if I did get so drunk, I would have a hot dude by my side cleaning up after my sorry drunk ass.

[moonyslove78]

OKAYYYYY! So I've obviously been out of the fic reading game for a bit now, except for the occasional short one shots I can get to every once in a while. BUT... When @liz-allyn said "Sugar & Vice Vol. 2", I immediately dusted off my tumblr and was ready and waiting. Even though, let's be honest & call a spade a spade... if Liz would've posted her version of the Webster's Dictionary, I'd have made sure to make time to read it... because that would've been the most interesting and well written dictionary there is. ❤️

Soo, I hope for all of your sakes you've missed these long ass detailed (as in a basic repost of the entire chapter with my notes in the margins 😂 but @blooming-violets told me to go with the two Parter, sooooo...🥰❤️) you're about to get another one... and my fingers are probably going to fall off from typing so much after this, but it's worth it for the series that has lived completely rent free, in not only my brain, but my entire life since day 1.

So without further ado, heeeeere we go!!

🕷️🕸️PART 1 - SUGAR & VICE VOL. 2

LOVE ON THE BRAIN SPOILERS AHEAD!🕸️🕷️

So when you first told us what the title was going to be, I could've died. Idk if I ever mentioned this to you, but I know you know how obsessed I was with the Official S&V Playlist... so it's probably no surprise to you that at least one of the songs popped up as my top songs in 2023. But the fact that you chose Love On The Brain and that was my #1 Top song, all thanks to the S&V playlist... it was like it was meant to be! 🥰😭

I'm just going to add here how much I enjoyed the tension and banter in the Cuban restaurant. I was honestly cackling the entire way through like, "Yeahhhh, Pete, you kinda deserve this... this is just a little payback for those not so subtle ways you referred to her as a whore in front of all of New York's 'finest'... oh, even you acknowledge it... good!" 😂

AND PEDRO!! Liz, please, I'm in shambles!! 😭👀

But nowwww we come to the hotel scene... the hallway was the literal eye of a hurricane and I was honestly a little scared... but also,

HELL FUCKING YES, HONEY!!! YOU TELL 'IM!!

We all already know Honey is a complete and utter badass, especially when she tries to be. And she complete ATE him up here with these few blows! I was also very aware of the wide range of emotions they were both feeling in this moment. Her's more verbal... while his were more of the silent type...mainly because 1. he was too nervous he'd say the wrong thing and fuck this up even more... and 2. Honey wasn't gonna let him get a word in edgewise. 💪🏽 Now that was some 'Independent boss ass Mob Queen' shit right there! 👑

And when she slammed the door in his face, I kept thinking... "nononononono, you can't end it like that, Honey!" And his reaction... 😭 Quite literally calling himself out on being a 'bitch' for her. Now that was some 'King of the NY Underworld who's deeply in love' shit there... 👀

So needless to say the next part, where the door flung back open, was where I simultaneously started and stopped breathing yet again.

The absolutely delicious aggressive makeout sesh that occured after was beautiful in the most filthy possible way... 🤤🥵 Is it hot in here? Or is it just them?

👀🥰

The 'there's my girl' get's me every fuckin' time!

This interaction after she bit him on the shoulder... 😮‍💨 I knew I approved of Peter's very DomDaddy tendencies... but his verbal cues are... 😚🤌🏽 *mwaaaaah* Delicious!!

"Baby, you have no idea." - "Not even a 'please'?" - "Liar." - "I know you, Honey!" - "And you're a needy little slut, aren't'cha?"

Like how Honey's panties aren't just melting off her body at this point, I don't know... cause I'm pretty sure mine were! 😳

When I say Peter's dirty talk game is by far the FILTHIEST and HOTTEST I've ever heard... I'm not exaggerating. There's no way I'd live through THAT man saying those things to me! I'd be deceased! Bury me in the backyard under my favorite weeping willow because there's no coming back from that.

Oh, same, Honey... same. I'm absolutely mesmerized. ✨

Also, I knew Peter wasn't going to let that little flirty interaction go. Of course, she knew he wouldn't either, which was more than likely the reason why she did it in the first place. Bold move, Honey.

Bold and Brave.

And I'm living for it! 🙌🏽

He just has me in a chokehold at this point. And I'm NOT mad about it. Knowing that even though he's saying "if", the truth is, we all know he "was"... so the fact is, these were most certainly all the things he was totally thinking about doing the entire time Honey and Pedro were having their little flirt off. Which... just makes this even fucking better! 🤤😳

Honey's attempt to take back the control she was losing here was admirable. I was totally rooting for her... until Peter said he 'couldn't & didn't leave her'. And he made even me stop dead in my tracks with that "What was my drink order?" question. The amount of nostalgia I got from that single tiny sentence... 😭

❤️‍🩹💔❤️‍🩹

My heart! I don't think I'll ever be able to convey into words just how much these two have made me fall in love with their love. (Or better yet, how amazing of a writer you are to have made that possible ❤️) And this small emotional interaction was packed full of so many feelings and memories, all with just those 2 words.

Honey & Lavendar should officially be S&V copyrighted trademarked. Because when I hear either one or the two together, S&V will be all I can think about. And God, did I swoon a LOT when he made sure that those were the exact words, he wanted from her as their safe word.💛💜

And his slight ramble when he was obviously nervous that she was going to say them right off the bat and leave him hanging like this. Only to be cut off by ✨that kiss✨!!

Honey pulling out the big guns with this one! I'm NGL, I mentioned my panties melting off when Peter was making his declarations earlier. But Honey's request right here may have just done the same thing... 😳

It also reminded me very much of the first makeout session they had on the couch the night of the club incident. I remember very well her saying something very similar to this then and I truly love how you've brought it full circle in such a smutty way.

God help me, I knew it! The man was watching her! Those Spidey-abilities came in quite useful for him in these moments. And damn if he didn't describe in such great filthy details what he'd seen... 👀🥵

I mean... you kinda had that comin', Peter. You did just admit to her that you 'left' her for four months, only to be secretly watching her masturbate to your memory every night... while not making yourself known by coming to help. You definitely deserved her bratty-ness here. Just sayin'.

But then... you had to go and call her a 'Fuckin' brat...' which only made this part all that much hotter. Liz, you have heard from myself and so many others before that you write so beautifully and have so much talent for storytelling. But I have say, you write filth like no one else I know. There's so many amazing writers who do bang up jobs writing smutty scenes. But I can't help but get lost in the scene every damn time I read your smut work. The filth is so fucking delicious! And what's even better?! It only gets filthier from here!🔥

See!? Perfection. This quote is something I have thought about since the first time I read it and will continue to think about for the rest of eternity. Who wouldn't be an absolute mess of a human being if Mob!Daddy Peter Parker... King of the New York Underworld just told you that he was going to punish you, HIS 'Princess', by making you wear a suit out of his cum for a week? Just me? Oh, okay then... 👀🤤

Good God, Liz. The amount of times I've already made very lewd and precocious noises is probably very unholy. But like, we're also not even to the actual P in V! I'm so glad I read this the first time while in the house by myself, because had anyone else been home... I'd have had to have a very awkward conversation.

"Lemme kiss it better."??? "Can't help myself, s-sooo hungry..."???

Like, I'm done. Stick a fuckin' fork in me and call me 'Well Done'! My ovaries imploded back there and yet, I still think somehow I'm now pregnant. Just by his words! 🥵

Damn it, me too at this point! 😳

Now see, I've always found someone doing this extremely hot. Like, hotter than the fuckin' Sahara, but who's keeping track?

But this... this... it had me on the floor.

'Clean up on isle who fucking knows!'

Grab the bucket & mop. 🪣

And that last one... the "maybe I might let you get to taste Her, too..." Excuse me? Sir? Who gave you the right to be SO damn good? Who did it? Because at this point, if I was Honey, I'd have been on my damn knees. 🧎🏻‍♀️

You did... as well as, you should! I think Honey definitely deserved more than an apology & his 'I was just trying to protect you' reasoning. Mind you, I don't think that was a lie. I do believe he was obviously doing this because he had her best interests at heart and didn't want her to get drug into the middle of all the shit he was in at the time. But like, you also clearly just admitted for the second time that you were watching her from her damn window... so closely that you were wanting to crawl through it and take care of her in very intimate ways. 👀🥵

Soooo, that's not really staying away to keep her safe, Mr. Parker. But I will approve of your reasonings now... because that move was slightly idiotic. 😂 Although, without Peter AND Honey's moments of being complete idiots, this wouldn't be S&V! Cause these two are the best 'love sick idiots' you can come by. And I love them both that much more for it. As well as their ability to reflect and realize their errors.

Well, that and I'd probably forgive Peter for just about anything the moment I see those damn doe eyes!

Anyway, I'm just glad Honey got that out there and that he has clearly established that he was being stupid and he'll 👀NEVER👀 be making that mistake again. Because I think he knows at this point, he's on thin ice and even though he thinks he's winning her back fully at this point, he's about to be rudely awakened... a couple times. 😂

(MOVING ON TO PART 2 BECAUSE MY IMAGE COUNT HAS REACHED IT'S LIMIT OF 30! 😂👀)

love on the brain: sugar & vice, vol 2 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!OC]

summary: You didn’t think it was going to be easy, did you? AKA The night Peter and Honey reunited—Four. Months. Later. [mob!peter parker x oc!MJ] 

words: 11.8k (omfg)

NSFW/MINORS DNI - ABANDON ALL CHASTITY, YE WHO ENTER HERE (detailed warnings below)

extended warnings (spoilers): p^rn with plot, detailed smut, really just... filthy and deranged. slightly dubcon parts (although consent is clearly confirmed), no Y/N...ever, arguing, anger, jealousy, physical violence (slapping, scratching, throwing objects), almost hate sex, fem!reader with a vagina and breasts and wears a dress, oral (f! receiving), P in V, rough!dom Peter, sub!reader, possessive!peter, mirrors, titty!worship, shame and slight degradation, use of emojis, f! being restrained, discussion of masturbation, slight breeding kink, non-consensual voyeurism, moderate BDSM kink, “punishment” play (spanking, edging) bratty reader, peter parker being a dunce around women, mob!au, furniture harmed in the making of this

names used: daddy, princess, baby, babygirl

A/N: This is a one-shot standalone story that takes place immediately after the Epilogue of Vol 1. And serves as the official beginning of Vol. 2. If you haven’t read Vol.1, you really should. The main OC is AFAB and goes by the name “Honey.” You’ll need to read Vol. 1 to know why.  I try to be loose with my descriptions for people who prefer a Reader-Insert. But I’m not perfect. In this canon, Honey has a Latina heritage (as do I). Take that as you will. Thanks to @moonyslove78 and @blooming-violets for cheering me on through this very long hiatus. 

This is 18+ AF. And if you think the term ‘AF’ shows how old and out of touch you are, then you’re probably not old enough to read this.

This version of TASM Peter Parker is not canon. The relationships here are not healthy and the characters need therapy. Don’t date a mob boss IRL.

#1 - Love on the Brain

>>> heya boss. how’s your trip? 😜

Peter arched a brow as he peeked down at the text message.

>>> ⋯ >>> your trip to pound town? 🍆🍑 

He rolled his eyes, swallowing back an irritated snort.

Real mature, Felicia. 

He almost tapped out a haughty reply but stopped. Corners of his mouth turned down, he found himself unable to respond.

“So many choices. I just don’t know what I want.”

An understatement.

The girl of his dreams sat across from him in the quaint East Harlem Cuban restaurant. They were crammed together at a bistro table near the kitchen. The enormous menu took up the entire surface, and she had spent the last 25 minutes reading the items aloud. 

It was nearly 11 p.m., and they had yet to pick an appetizer. 

The woman he’d called ‘his Honey’ sweetly sighed with a shrug. “Now that we’re here, I just can’t make up my mind.” 

Her voice had a singsong tune to it, purposefully careless. Blissfully ignorant of the fact that Peter was starving.

“Maybe I’m just not feeling Cuban food tonight,” she shrugged, nonchalant.

Peter swallowed hard. Tried to rid his expression of any hint of impatience or irritation. 

“Oh,” he remarked delicately, thinking of all the different dinner reservations he’d made for tonight. It didn’t matter what magazine talked it up, didn’t matter how many “tire awards” it had won. 

Honey was unimpressed. 

“M’surprised,” he said, as emotionlessly as possible. “Thought you had your heart set on this place.”

The place was one of those hole-in-the-wall joints that had less than 10 tables, which made takeout the most popular choice. 

On this night however—a Tuesday— the restaurant was nearly empty, except for the overdressed couple and the loathsome kitchen staff, who didn’t expect to be subject to “este cabrón” and his picky girlfriend strolling in 30 minutes before closing. 

While Peter could feel the heat of their ire over the oven, Honey avoided it. She explained to the manager that Peter was “un ricacho que tiene demasiado dinero.” And with that, they were seated.

When Peter approached her earlier that afternoon in the park, he’d expected a much worse welcome. He nearly died of a panic attack when he spotted her on the park bench. It had been four long months since he’d attempted to communicate with her, and he half-expected her to throw her iced coffee in his face. 

Actually, he had no idea what to expect from her. Terrifyingly.

Peter had lamented to Felicia— “There’s no card that says, ‘Sorry, I ghosted you for a few months while attempting to shake the heat off my back.’ Which flowers say, ‘I apologize that the last conversation we had, I called you a whore in front of a room full of cops’?”

The true challenge came when Peter actually looked into her eyes. He didn’t expect that one look would render him useless. 

She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Ethereal. Glowing. The human equivalent of a bouquet of sunflowers, with happy round cheeks and her hair tied back in a ponytail. She was the color of rainbows, and summer, and sunshine. She was the cherries of her red lip stain and the golden rays of her yellow linen sundress.

God, that dress. 

Peter planned for everything—but not that dress. 

His carefully rehearsed speech went out the window when he saw her in that dress: a cotton ruched-waist, tea-length gown in a yellow gingham pattern. It featured a sweetheart neckline that cradled her breasts perfectly between the halter tie-back straps. 

He had no idea where that dress came from, but it was the most perfect piece of fabric ever to grace a woman’s body. He would buy her twelve more of them, no matter the cost. He’d buy every last one.

He’d give her the sun, the ocean, Hawai’i, and all the stars in the sky— if only she’d forgive him. He was ready to throw himself on a bed of hot coals as long as it meant that she would take him back. If she would come back home.

Truthfully, he needed her to come home.

Not to get ahead of himself, he started by taking her to dinner. 

That was Felicia’s advice—women love dinner. solves everything. the fancier, the better, with lots of red meat—u know how they say food is the way to a man’s heart? dinner is the way to the ovaries. works every time.

Actually, Felicia gave Peter lots of advice. For once, he was more than grateful to accept it. 

>>> make her feel like you can’t take your eyes off her. but don’t stare. like a creeper  >>> be a gentleman, but not a pushover. you wanna be the good guy. soft YA novel boyfriend type

Followed quickly by—

>>> but not too soft! don’t be a little bitch. if she plays hard to get, you play offense.  >>> and defense.

Peter had no idea what she was talking about. But he knew when it was wise to trust the advice of more intelligent creatures than men.

Five restaurants later...

“I thought going to dinner was your idea?” Honey asked with pursed lips.

“It was; it was my idea,” he nervously replied. “Six hours ago—it was my idea.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Hmm. Six hours. Long time to wait.” Her eyes fell down to the menu again. Her lack-of-sympathy said everything.

Peter’s pocket buzzed again, and he glanced down at the incoming text message from Felicia.

>>> ...???? 

He rolled his eyes. Tapped out a response.

<<< Not great.

“Am I interrupting something?” Honey asked with a clipped tone.

Peter jumped, pocketing his phone immediately. “No, just... just something... silly,” he muttered. “How ‘bout we get a few plates in, yeah? I’m gonna just order some stuff—”

“Like what?” she questioned skeptically.

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged, his stomach twisting. “One of everything.”

“That’s wasteful,” Honey said, judgment sharpening her gaze. “Food waste is bad enough as it is in this city.”

“Well, at this point,” he snapped with an exasperated sigh, “I might be able to eat two of everything.” The words floated away from him, and he bit the inside of his cheek, wishing they would come back. Hesitantly, he made eye contact with Honey.

She peered at him disgustedly from over the top of her menu. She scoffed, crossing one leg over the other, and dropped the leather-bound book closed. 

“Don’t let me slow you down,” Honey said icily. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

Peter’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. His pocket buzzed again. 

>>> the fuck? what do you mean?  >>> she was in love with you b4... how hard can it be to take her on a date?  >>> christ. did you fuck this up, parker?

He shoved the phone back in his jacket, nearly punching through the silk fabric. 

“If I’m wasting your time, tell me,” Honey sharply retorted. She crossed her arms even tighter across her chest. He had to force himself to look away from the way it plumped her breasts together. “I’d hate to keep you from something important.”

Felicia was right. He was fucking this up. Before he could open his mouth—

“Excuse me, señorita,” a masculine, smoky voice crooned at them. 

Peter and Honey glanced up to see a chiseled man in his 30s approach the table with a hurricane glass of ice. He was a specimen of Latin American art—a bronzed statue, with carved muscles that bulged out of his floral shirt. Deep brown eyes—no, hazel eyes— fixed on Honey as he reached across the table with rolled-back sleeves. The corded muscles in his arm, toned by long hours of hard labor, flexed gracefully as he gently set a cocktail in front of her. 

A frosted, colorless liquid speckled with crushed mint leaves filled the glass. Honey blinked with delighted surprise.

“Our compliments,” the young, disgustingly attractive waiter explained with a sultry smile and a thick accent. “In case you found yourself thirsty while browsing the menu.” 

A blush colored her skin as she glanced up at their handsome waiter. The sparkle in her smile was as blinding as ever, and she graciously looked back between the glass and the server.  The waiter— no way in hell this fuckin’ guy is a waiter— beamed back at her, enamored. 

“Oh, wow!” she gasped, reaching for the glass with dainty fingers. “Is this a mojito? That’s my favorite! How did you know?”

The waiter graciously chuckled. “Lucky guess. You look like a woman of refined taste.”

Peter felt his blood pressure rising.

Honey didn’t even look at her date, as if he was suddenly invisible. “Thank you,” she grinned, self-satisfied. “I mean, I do know my way around a Bacardi bottle.” The waiter chuckled, maybe too hard, at her silly joke.

“We want you to enjoy your evening with us,” the waiter added politely, sparing Peter a glance but keeping all his attention on Honey. “We are honored to have you as our guest.” 

The waiter spoke gentlemanly as he splayed his long fingers across his chest. “Please, take as much time as you need. No need to feel rushed. It is my pleasure to serve you.” 

Peter could feel a twitch behind his eye. Could have been the fire shooting out of his eyes. Fuck this prick, probably another Broadway reject or somethin’, couldn’t buy himself a decent shirt—His mind churned along with his anger.

Oblivious, Honey beamed up at him with a golden smile. “Thank you so much for saying that,” she replied, endearingly sweet. “You are too kind, um... I’m sorry, what was your name again?” 

“Pedro.”

Honey’s brows shot to her hairline. “Pedro?” she repeated, absolutely delighted. She glanced over at Peter. “Isn’t that something?”

The mob boss’ lip curled mirthlessly. “Oh, it’s somethin,’ alright.” 

Peter continued to burn his stare—fuck his stupid accent— into the side of the aloof waiter’s head. He wondered if Pedro’s handsome, chiseled jawline was sharp enough to cut through a noose.

Buzz..

>>> you’re keepin’ your cool, right?  >>> remember what i said.  >>> anything she wants. no questions asked! >>> don’t get all crazy possessive either

The joyful sound of her laughter ripped his attention away from his phone and back towards his charmed date. 

“Pedro,” she sweetly preened. “Can you give us a recommendation?” She briefly flashed her eyes at Peter before looking back at her new friend. “My date’s clearly distracted. He has no idea what I like.” 

Oh? Peter raised a brow at that. And lost his appetite.

Peter followed Honey down the hallway to his hotel suite while storm clouds swirled in his gut. Lighting crackled with each footfall. Tension clogged the atmosphere, and they shuffled in a silent fog to the door.

Despite Felicia’s advice about controlling his inner beasts, Peter’s hackles were raised, and his stomach growled. Now, he was hungry for more than just food. And simultaneously, he’d never felt so powerless. 

Peter noted how tightly she wrapped her arms around herself. Her face suggested she was deep in thought. He wondered if she was just as tightly wound as he was. Wondered if she could break his heart with just a look.

He was flailing. Pathetic.

Peter’s fist clenched his keycard tight. He had to be careful not to snap the card in half between his fingers. Was it from excitement or terror? Desire or rage? 

He had to focus, to make this work. He had nothing if he didn’t have her. 

Rigidly, Peter pushed the door open and stood to the side of the frame to let her enter. 

She paused briefly, lips tight, as she gazed into the rotunda entryway of the lavish suite. They hadn’t spoken in the car, and he hadn’t had the chance to explain the location. 

Letting out a steady breath, she strode through the threshold and stopped. Her body blocked the doorway. She turned to look up at Peter, defiant eyes flashing.

“This is as far as you go.” 

Peter blinked, looking at her in confusion.

Her tone was curt. Icy. He recognized that sound. It was the tone of voice she used when she wanted to draw blood, and it never failed to inflict pain. Her voice. Her eyes. Even her tongue was razor-sharp.

Peter curled a brow upwards. “Sorry?” 

Honey narrowed her eyes. “Not yet, you’re not.” 

He took a step back, blinking owlishly. 

“What did you think was going to happen tonight, Peter?” The ire of Honey’s question sliced through him. “Did you think you were gonna shave your face, take me to a fancy dinner, and then I’d just... open my legs for you?”

A literal ellipsis formed in his mind. 

Peter swallowed hard. “Uhhh—?”

“‘I’ll wait for forever, Honey,’ she parroted his earlier admission mockingly. “Is that all you have to say to me? You left me! For four months!”

Peter nodded his head, not sure exactly why or when he began. “I know, I know...”

“You know!?”

The walls of etiquette and politeness between them began to crack.

“How many times I gotta tell ya? I was tryin’ to protect ya, Honey—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It stung like a snake bite. Rage filled her eyes, disdain bubbling out of her mouth. She had only just begun. 

“You buy me all this expensive bullshit!” she scolded. “And you dress up in your ridiculous designer suits and parade me to all these fucking pretentious places! Like I’m some kind of accessory! Like you own the whole fucking city and everyone in it!”

He replied with a string of noises. Or, at least, he thought so.

“Big bad mob boss—all that power—and yet, you couldn’t just talk to me? You had me wait around for you like a stray dog! You can just come and go as you please, but you—you expect me to follow you around on a leash?”

“Honey, please. Let me explain—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Peter!” her voice echoed through the rotunda and down the hall of the hotel. “I don’t want to hear a single one of your lame excuses! I don’t want a fancy dinner, or a new Porsche, or a mansion, or whatever else makes your dick hard!”

Peter blinked rapidly, stunned. His body responded as if she had just kicked him in the place she referenced, “Jus’lemme—”

“And I sure as hell don’t want another apology!” she asserted definitively. “I don’t want you anywhere near me!” 

Peter’s jaw hung open, tongue dead in his mouth. The woman who barely stood at his collarbone stared down at him, making him feel inches tall. 

“Now, I’m going to bed. Exactly as I have been for the last four months.” Her voice thundered, “Alone!”

With that, the door slammed in his face, rattling inches from his nose. The echo reverberated through the empty hallway and inside his chest, emphasizing the deep crack that formed.

Peter let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The shock subsided slowly, and his heart sank. The ache soon sizzled into a burn, boiling his blood. At the same time, the sting of her rejection was raw. Unbearable.

Unbelievable.

Absolutely unacceptable. 

He should break down the fucking door. Throw her over his shoulder and tie her up. Gag her—Anything to get her to listen.

Haplessly, Peter’s eyes fell on his expensive shoes—his Valentinos. Or maybe these were the Tom Ford’s? He had no clue. Just more bullshit.

Fuck—He was going to cry. Maybe he should let himself just do it. Lean into it. Drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Shoulders slumped, he squeezed his eyes closed. 

He was a little bitch.

Peter pictured a door closing on a rocket or an airplane. Whatever it was, it was leaving him behind. He was falling back to Earth, having placed too much faith in miracles. This was his punishment for flying that close to the sun—

The door swung open. 

Two hands grabbed Peter’s jacket, pulling him forward off his heels. It was a surprisingly fluid motion; his heartbreak had reduced the mass of his bones to nothing. 

Honey’s nails practically pierced his lapels. She yanked him through the doorway into the suite, slamming the door behind him, and slamming him into the door right after.

Before Peter could open his mouth to speak, she was on him like a viper.

A sharp, biting kiss swallowed him whole, stealing the oxygen from his lungs. The heat was as intense as he had remembered. This time, they didn’t melt into one another. Honey was like a wildfire, her touch scalding him. 

His skin flushed from the sudden unbearable heat. Before he could react, her lithe fingers started tugging the edges of his jacket. Clumsily, she tried pushing it back over his broad shoulders. As soon as he knew of her intent, he eagerly obliged, shrugging the garment off and to the floor. 

Her hands went to his throat, ebony-painted nails leaving trails on his skin. Buttons popped as she yanked on his clothes. Her goal could have been to draw blood with her kiss.

Every time her teeth tore at his lips, he responded with a groan into her mouth.

Clumsy, he fumbled with his fingers—reaching up to grip her by the hair. Finally, he wrenched her head back, detaching her bite from his face.

Immediately, he was met with an open-palmed slap on the cheek.

Sharp gasps cut through them, and they jumped backward a few feet. Tension and shock reverberated in the chasm they created. Like the barometric pressure plunging before a storm, an eerie calm settled over them. 

Honey blinked at him, jaw agape and her palm throbbing. 

Peter glared at her in silence. He looked a mess—hair unkempt, the top buttons of his shirt torn open to reveal jagged crimson scratch marks across his milky skin.

His heartbeat steadily increased as he gently dabbed his fingertips at the ache in his jaw. The exquisite lines of his face were stained pastel pink, flushed by arousal or anger. His eyes were black as night, so it could have been either one.

She looked just as wrecked. Dress askew, her hairstyle half-unraveled. Goosebumps dotted her skin. She looked shocked at the violence she was capable of, surprised and possibly guilty at her own strength. As the seconds passed, the feelings faded.

Peter watched her, pupils dilating, blood pressure rising. The shadow of a smile curved his mouth. His features darkened into something primal. Something familiar.

There’s my girl.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, studying her threatening look until his own expression began to match.

Physically, his senses were haywire. Danger, excitement, and a sick sort of pleasure rattled his bones and labored his breathing. The hairs on his skin stood on end. Alarms blared in his head. The sound of his own blood was almost deafening to him, thumping like a kick drum. 

Peter could hear her heart, too. Fast. Like a rabbit. He was a wolf in pursuit. 

Maybe the pain of her slap triggered him, a preemptive action against further attack.

She got one in, Peter mused mockingly. He knew she was no match. Not as Peter’s night vision sharpened. Not while he could taste the salt from her perspiration on his tongue. Most intoxicating of all, Peter could smell her desire. Like a rose bursting open.

In another blink, they switched positions. Peter snatched her by her shoulders and slammed her back into the wall, pinning her there. She went feral—hissing and raging at her entrapment.

Not a rabbit. A honey badger, then.

“Get off of me!” Honey spat.

“Shut up,” he ordered. Quiet and fierce.

Fingers gripping her forearms tight, he attacked her lips, teeth colliding. The ferocity stunned her. For a moment, it seemed like she finally submitted to him before she wriggled her mouth free.

“Mmffucker—Let me go!”

His body might as well have been a brick wall. His face was stonelike, eyes just as cold. 

“No.” 

Honey’s brow scrunched up like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “I’ll scream!” she countered.

Peter smirked, the hickory in his eyes igniting. “Baby. You have no idea.”

Peter’s guarantee sent a shiver down Honey’s spine. He saw the gears turning in her mind as she carefully considered pushing him further. 

He hoped she would. 

His fingers tightened around her forearms. He crucified her under his gaze. And yet, despite the danger anyone else would have felt... A glimmer of curiosity flickered in her eyes.

It set his mind reeling. A tiny sign of weakness to temptation made Peter’s stomach trapeze. He zeroed in on it, licking his chops. 

Not to make it easy, Honey brought her knee up, attempting to make contact with his groin. There was nearly a foot of difference between their heights, and she paid it no mind.

Brave girl. 

Peter admired her tenacity. She had balls. Smart, too, he pleasantly recognized. Honey went for the weak spot first. Good call. 

Pointless, though. 

Nothing below Peter’s belt was weak when she was around.

Unfairly, Peter picked up on her attack before her leg was even bent. He snatched her above the knee, lifting her toes off the ground and prying her thighs open. 

He pictured the bruises on her skin that his fingertips would leave behind. Just the thought made him rock hard. 

A year ago, Peter would have been ashamed. He would have shied away from her, for fear of repulsing her, and took out his frustration by himself in the shower. 

Grinding his teeth at those memories, he pressed Honey’s hips into his waist, forcing her legs around him, and—Fuck—her heat.

Peter’s brain nearly short-circuited. She was like a bonfire against his belly. His cock pushed against his trousers, straining for her warmth. He secured her hips to his with a tight grip, which only pissed her off more. She thrashed, enraged. 

She really needed to stop doing that. It only made the burn worse. 

A few months ago, Peter would have been ashamed of the rush he felt from manhandling her. Ashamed of how his cock ached and twitched at her fruitless tantrums.

“Fucking asshole!” Honey sneered.

“Yeah?” he said with a bitter laugh. “You're a spoiled little brat!”

“Fuck you!”

“See what I mean?” Peter scoffed, holding her tighter. He breathed hotly into the shell of her ear. “Not even a ‘please.’” 

His pride was short-lived. Inexplicably, Honey arched her neck and buried her teeth into his shoulder. He roared—“Fuck! What the fuck!!??” —surprised she didn’t bite through the silk of his collared shirt.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only beast in the room.

They tumbled down ungracefully. Peter landed hard on his back, with Honey crashing on top of him. She collapsed on his lungs, knocking the wind from his chest. Sputtering, he reached out to grab her, his fingertips barely missing the hem of her dress. The small woman scrambled to her hands and knees, then to her feet. 

Honey dashed into the suite while Peter’s voice echoed—“Goddamnitareyacrazy!?”—after her. 

Padding on her toes, she ran into a darkened living room with vaulted ceilings that might have been large enough to fit her entire apartment. Outside glass walls, the Midtown skyline surrounded her. The Metlife and Empire State Buildings glittered proudly in a breathtaking view.

The room was situated in the corner of the building. Velvet curtains framed the floor-to-ceiling windows, providing an unobstructed view of the city. The Dark Academia-Meets-Glam aesthetic seating area featured a sleek, modern leather sectional and mod velvet chaise lounge chat set. 

Without time to admire any of it, she scrambled to the first piece of furniture she could reach. She grabbed the first thing her fingers could find—a designer fruit bowl centerpiece made of polished stainless steel and brass pomegranates. 

It was exquisite and expensive. 

Honey spun on her heel and flung the heavy metal at Peter.

He dipped deftly, his spine bowing back, narrowly missing the bowl as it whipped past him. The object barreled through a crystal chandelier, glass shattering like raindrops as they came down.

“Hey—!” he scowled, facing her with an indignant glare.

A moment later, he quickly shielded his face from another flying object: an asymmetrical crystal-and-Riverstone candelabra that crumbled against his forearm. It might as well have been a brick, with ceramic shards tumbling off of his shoulder. 

Peter bristled in aggravation, brushing the pieces off. Now, she was really pissing him off.

He glanced up just in time to see a glass vase containing two dozen roses—meant to be her gift—hurtling towards his head. Reflexively, he snatched it from the air with one hand, water and all. He palmed the crystal vase like catching a baseball. Didn’t spill a drop. 

His quick reflexes stunned the both of them. Peter’s jaw went slack—partially at his ability to save the flowers, but mostly with indignation that Honey had somehow destroyed $1,000 worth of the hotel’s tchotchkes in a few seconds. 

“Enough!” Peter barked, carefully setting the vase down. Ignoring him, the woman darted toward another side table, already reaching for another expensive object to throw at him. 

Suddenly, Honey’s ankle was caught in a sticky grip. Both legs pulled out from beneath her. She flattened immediately with an ooof—her belly dropping to the wool carpet. 

Dazed, she glanced back at her legs with a crease in her brow. With a jolt, she was pulled along by a stringy, spongy substance on her ankle. It felt the way canned compressed air feels when shooting skin at close range. 

Her nails dug into the carpet fibers as she was dragged back. “Agghhh! What the—Getitoff!” 

As soon as the pulling stopped, Honey was on her back again, gazing up at the sharp lines of Peter’s cold gaze. He towered over her, even on his knees, as he mounted her hips. Protesting, she pelted him tirelessly with her fists.

The smell of sweat loomed in the air as he finally restrained her. He caged her in, pinning her wrists to the floor. Nerves buzzing and tempers flaring, she continued to writhe and wrestle with him to no avail. Peter quickly overpowered the more petite woman, fomenting her anger. 

“You’re hurting me!” she sneered breathlessly, teeth gritted. 

Peter was unimpressed. “Liar.”

“M’not lying—!”

He glared back, barely breaking a sweat. “You’re so full of shit—!”

“Fuck you! What do you know—?”

“I know you, Honey!” he charged, silencing her. 

She went still, subdued beneath his dark gaze. Peter loomed over her like a stormcloud. “I know the games you like to play,” he said—both teasing and sinister, toying with his prey. He lowered his lips until they breathed the same air. 

Honey’s focus was split between Peter’s intense stare and glistening, kiss-ravaged mouth. She tried not to notice the sensation of her nipples brushing against the fabric with each labored breath. He could easily reach down and touch her. Tried not to focus on how solid his chest felt against hers, like carved marble. Tried not to focus on the dark chocolate of his eyes melting in the heat of their gaze. 

Just as intensely, Peter watched her watch him—zeroing in on the idle way her tongue darted to wet her lips. The tiny action shot electricity down his spine, straight to his groin. 

Honey felt that, too. A tiny gasp escaped her, her lashes fluttering. The fight suddenly left her arms as she noticed the heavy bulge against her hip. 

He was hot. Not just figuratively. Feverishly hot. He was so hard, too—and just for her. The lewd image of him splitting her open on his cock made her insides clench. 

Peter eyed her dangerously, his voice a dark abyss. “Think you can hide it from me, eh?” The teasing smile on his lips bordered on a snarl. “Gonna sit here an’tell me... that if I were to reach down between your legs right now...” Her heart hammered in her chest, hanging on every word. In her mind, she was begging him to follow through with the threat. “...Those panties won’t be soaked?” 

Honey failed to swallow back a little mewl as he leaned down closer.

“Ya think I can’t feel ya, huh?” he mumbled, lips ghosting the curve of her throat. “Think I can’t smell how wet you are right now?” Another wanton exhale left her belly as she leaned into the heat of his breath on her skin. “Y’know I can already taste you on my tongue, babygirl.”

Honey’s mouth and legs seemed to part further at his vulgar words. She shivered at the sensation of his slick tongue traversing her pulse point.

“You’re... an asshole...” she murmured breathlessly. She sounded half-asleep.

Peter hissed, “And you’re a needy little slut, aren't’cha?” 

The sudden ferocity made her eyes unintentionally roll back. A second later, Peter’s fingers collared her, choking off the small mewl in her throat. He turned her by the chin, wrenching her attention to him. 

“Hey—Eyes on me,” he commanded.

Mesmerized, Honey blinked up at him like a fawn.

“How ‘bout that little stunt you pulled with the waiter?” he prodded. There was an icy edge on the last word. Her throat bobbed while she kept her face neutral. The bright amber of his glare penetrated her. Peter continued accusatorily, “Those flirty little giggles while he gave ya fuck-me eyes? Y’think I didn’t see that?”

Honey sniffed, stiffening her upper lip. This was a power move; she knew better than to back down. “Look who's jealous,” she scoffed. 

With a jolt, she again attempted to wrench her wrists free. He simply held on tighter, closing his talons as she twisted like a snake.

“Jealous?” Peter repeated calmly, narrowing his eyes into slits. “Me? Nah.” His hands suddenly seized her hips as he forcibly jerked her up off the floor. A slew of profanities spilled from her mouth, bucking against him as he carried her.

In a few strides, he was at the edge of a dining table. With little regard for his barbarity, he plopped Honey on the surface, shoving her flat on her back. Peter arched over her as if to dominate her, spine bowing until he filled her periphery with his fierce gaze. 

Honey’s eyes sparkled, cheeks colored from the rush. “Threatened, then!”

Peter’s face softened inexplicably. Blinked at her for a moment, head tilting. Then, he landed an open-palmed smack against her ass. 

It was a surprisingly heavy blow, as close as he’d ever come to intentionally inflicting pain on her. Honey yelped, hissing from the sting on her upper thigh. Right after the strike, Peter’s fingers began kneading her flesh, soothing the welt that was bound to form.

“See, if I were a jealous man,” he noted with an evil sneer, “I woulda gouged his eyes out with a salad fork.” 

Peter swallowed up her gasp with a forceful kiss. A few moments later, he broke away.

“If I felt threatened?” he added breathlessly, “I woulda bent you over the table and fucked you dumb. Let everyone in the Five Boroughs hear you beg for my cock.”

Once the filth rolled off his tongue, Peter went back to using it to lash against hers. Honey was overwhelmed by the soft, wet muscle invading her mouth. Not only that, the violent edge to his words felt like standing in a river and grabbing a livewire. A shiver racked through her body, a current of pent-up anger and desire sending blood rushing to her core.

As if on cue, Peter’s fingertips made contact with the lace fabric between her thighs. She tremored at his touch, heart skipping. He toyed with the soft, stretchy material. Snapped it lazily against her flesh.

His voice was hypnotizing. “I woulda shoved these dirty panties down his throat just to never hear his stupid fuckin’ accent again.”

Honey felt drunk off of the vitriol he poured into her ear. It was violent and possessive... and it shouldn’t have made her so horny, and yet—

Honey trembled with anticipation, panting like a bitch in heat. “I-I... can’t... ugh, fu—” 

The pads of his fingers ran firmly along her seam. She let out an embarrassing whine. Peter's prediction was spot-on. A shameful amount of wetness coated the inside of her thighs. He played with the soaked fabric and smeared her mess across her skin with a smug smirk.  

“Think I don’t know what you like?” he muttered darkly, echoing her earlier jab. 

RIP!

The lace bunched at her waist. Honey’s wet skin felt particularly chilled being exposed to the air. She quivered with anticipation. Her head was spinning, pussy throbbing. She felt worshiped and simultaneously defiled. 

Peter pressed his forehead into hers, skin-to-skin. She stared into the black of his eyes in suspended silence, like the pornographic thoughts in his head were being projected into her mind.

Her own pupils were blown black. “Fuckin’ hate you so much—”

“I don’t care.”

“—re’such an asshole—”

“I don’t care,” he repeated more firmly. Then, “You belong with me.”

“You left me!” she fired back.

The sharpness of her tone sobered him a little. He blinked and sighed. “I couldn’t leave you. I didn’t leave you.”

She attempted to sit up, trying to lift her shoulders unsuccessfully. She writhed with spite, “Fuckin’ selfish prick, I outta cut off—”

“What was my drink order?”

He blurted the last sentence out with a mind-blowing level of calm. At once, their bodies went still. Still pinned to the table with a hummingbird beneath her breast, Honey stared up at him in confusion. 

Her brows pinched together. “Huh—?”

“My drink order,” Peter repeated, his expression void of the aggression he had the previous moment. 

It was like a mask had fallen away, and the man on top of her transformed into a different person. Maliciousness evaporated, replaced by eagerness. Desperation. 

Peter stared at her, intently searching her gaze. “At the shop,” he whispered, eyes soft. “What you used to make for me every time I came t’see you..?” The words fell away as he stared at her expectantly. 

She arched a brow. 

It had been black coffee, bitter and dark. Just like Peter’s entire world. How it had always been. Until—

“You said I should try something new,” he added, with urgency like reminding her of a forgotten dream. “So you made something for me—something... special.”

Peter’s heart swelled through his eyes at the last word. Honey stared up at him, perplexed. He was looking for the answer on the tip of her tongue:

Honey and Lavender. 

Confusion ceded to aggravation. A line formed between Honey’s brows.

“You remember, right?” he asked, hopeful.

She did. He knew she did. He could see it at the corners of her eyes, pooling behind her eyelids. Sobering memories flooded her, cooling the heat between them. A different sort of ache settled in.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

He took a breath, relieved but still anxious. “Say those words,” he said, “if you really want me to stop.”

Her damp lashes fluttered as Honey blinked up at him in surprise. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, he swallowed dryly. His stomach lurched at the thought of being sent away like this. 

Still, it was a risk he had to take. 

“I can let go, walk away,” he offered tenderly. “Right now. No questions asked.” Each word felt like sticking needles through his tongue. He gave her an out, needing confirmation that her reciprocated lust wasn’t imagined. 

“Say the words,” Peter whispered in lament, “and I’ll leave you alone.”

That word settled like a boulder crushing his chest.

Despite Peter’s heart telling him her rejection would be unbearable, the thought of truly harming her was more so. 

Honey studied him with thoughtful eyes, contemplative and curious. He had won. He subdued her. Restrained her. She remembered when he threw a piano like a toddler throwing a toy truck. 

She could do little to stop him if he wanted to force her. And yet—

There he is. 

This was the man she remembered. The one that was ready to die for her. To die by her hand, if that’s what she wanted. 

“Two words,” Peter sighed, his nose brushing against hers. It was a sweetly affectionate gesture. “Say the words, and this can end right n—”

Honey captured his lips, stealing his breath like it was her only source of oxygen. Static filled Peter’s ears, his body tensing and relaxing simultaneously. He was soaring and plummeting. Rising and falling. 

Her tongue slipped past his lips, dragging along the pad of his mouth. Soon enough, the sweetness melted off in their flames. 

Honey pulled her mouth away, barely able to get out her plea. “Touch me, Peter. Make me feel it.”

And she dove right back in. This time, Peter plunged with her, deep beneath the waves of lust. He sank into her current, dragging her with the tide of desire.

Peter’s hands were frantic travelers. Flitting from her wrists to her shoulders. To gently cup her face. To smooth over the mounds of her breasts. To dig his fingers into the linen fabric of the sweetheart neckline.

“Love this dress,” he idly mumbled between kisses, abusing the neckline. “Mmm—where’d ya say ya got it?”

“Oh…uhm—?”

The question caught her off guard. She blushed, brain foggy with lust. Her instinct was to say something like ‘thank you,’ but her tongue fumbled the words. “Uh... it was, I think, Old Navy—?”

A ripping sound shocked her. She squeaked as a flurry of cotton fibers burst from the top of the dress. 

Peter yanked the linen bodice apart like tissue paper, his tongue chasing away any protest from her lips. Gooseflesh broke out as her skin was exposed to the air. Driven by lust, he shoved the ruined material down to her waist. 

“Fuck, Peter...” she gasped, scandalized.

“Sorry,” he muttered, not sorry.

It was his turn to be greedy. Peter dug his hands beneath the cups of her bra, toying with the peaks of her breasts. 

With a snap, the bra was torn in half. The strength in Peter’s long fingers stunned her. Puzzling her as much as it turned her on.

He laved at her left breast with his tongue, drawing an obscene moan from her. His hand pinched sadistically at her right nipple. The delectable sting traveled from her chest to her cunt. She arched—”ughhh, god”—her spine bowing beautifully.

He held the cleft of her left breast delicately in his hand while lapping at the ridges of her peaked flesh. Warm tongue caressed the tip, drawing shapes and discovering pathways to her pleasure. Every little flick inspired something new. She cooed and twitched beneath him. He was desperate to memorize her taste. 

Languidly, he massaged each of her tits inside his mouth, his cock aching as he imagined licking her pussy with the same fervor. It was almost unbearable. A strangled moan vibrated through his chest at the picture in his mind. 

Her reaction to the sound came out as an agonized mewl. 

Oh.

He needed more of that sound.

Peter felt her push on his shoulders. Trying to wriggle away from his mouth. 

This time, he had no tolerance for misbehavior. He grabbed both wrists and forced them above her head. Honey yanked back, stunned at being glued down to the table surface by his palms. 

The peach of his pouty lips curved upward as his eyes took a turn ravishing her. She was a sight of wicked debauchery. Her hair was a mess, and her nearly-naked body lay across the table like a feast. Her thighs locked around his hips.

He used one hand to rub circles into the delicate skin of her restrained forearms. The other hand mischievously dipped lower and lower, sliding through her wet heat. Calloused, dexterous fingers spread her lips open, playing in her slick and prodding her tight hole. 

Honey was finished. Ruined. Past the point of no return. Unconditionally surrendered. Helpless and eager to subjugate herself to her conqueror. Filthy sounds filled the room, punctuated by weak cries from his new loyal subject.

“So pretty,” he sighed breathlessly as he coated his fingers in her cream. “All this for me, princess?” He cooed at her, edging on cruel.

A broken gasp fell from her lips, her chest pulsing involuntarily. 

“Aww, what’s the matter? Does this little pretty pussy ache, baby?”

A vortex formed deep in her belly, dragging her in. He licked his dry lips, salivating at the image.

“I know it hurts, baby, I know. I know,” he teased. “It’s been hard playin’ all by yourself, huh?” The sunniness of his voice was eclipsed. “All alone. Screamin’ out my name into your pillow. Fingers buried deep in your wet cunt.”

Honey’s eyes snapped open. Before she could respond, the breadth of his middle fingertip penetrated her. She gasped as his finger speared her open. All the while, he wore a devil’s smile.

“Ain’t that right? Only for me.” Entranced, he watched her every twitch and shudder. “This pussy belongs to me, doesn’t it?”

It was a question feigning the need for her confirmation. She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. 

No, that can’t be right—had he been watching her masturbate in her apartment? Was he watching her the entire time he was gone? 

The possibility enraged her. Ten orgasms from the King of New York’s Underworld couldn’t even quell that fire.

Peter smiled wickedly, playing with her pussy. Taking his time toying with her flesh. He was a tyrant-king, dominating her pleasure. With a calloused hand, he held onto her cunt like it belonged there.

But she was his wild colt. Difficult to break.

“Oh-n—ohh god,” she gasped. Unbeknownst to him, an evil plot bloomed in her brain. Her lips curled into a smile.

“Fuck—gah—ohhhhh…”

He licked up each broken syllable.

“Yes! Oh, god, yes! Oh—” 

Sweat beaded on her chest, sin oozing through her pores.

“...Pedro.”

Halt.

Brakes squealing. Full stop. Not only in the physical world between them but also in Peter’s living fantasy.

Mischievously, Honey’s grin widened. 

She got him, alright. 

Flawless victory.

Dark eyes flashing, Peter withdrew his fingers from her. “Fuckin’ brat…”

In one fluid motion, Peter flipped her over to her belly, stunning her. He followed with another forceful slap to her ass cheek. This one was more punishing than the last, drawing a puppy-like yelp. His voice was ice. Eyes black. 

Now, she was in trouble.

“Think that’s funny?” he said through gritted teeth.

Peter manipulated her limbs like a rag doll. He maneuvered her forward until her cheekbone pressed against the table. She panicked for a moment at being in such a compromising position. 

The chill of the air across her wet pussy made her shiver. At the same time, she clenched at his roughness.

Peter kneaded her sides, pressing fingerprint bruises on her waist. He yanked her hips towards him until her knees were on the table’s edge. Honey’s face burned, stricken with modesty and flustered by how he hoisted her ass in the air. 

Her hips were propped up like a rack of lamb, and he licked his lips at the sight. It was too vulnerable, being bared to him like this. Obscene, on display, inches from his face. 

For a half second, she considered using the safe words. 

She squirmed uncomfortably while her mess dripped down the inside of her thighs. Peter denied any attempt to escape, eventually gathering her limbs and pulling her hands behind her back. 

Short puffs of breath fogged the glass surface of the table. Her heart pounded beneath her. Honey had only witnessed this side of him a few times—and never directed toward her. 

She was in trouble. But was she in danger?

The buckle of his belt clinked as it came free. Honey quivered at the sound, pussy aching in anticipation.

And if she was in danger, why did that make her wet?

“Pete—” Honey muttered, a scream bubbling at the back of her throat. Leather nipped at her forearms as he used his belt to tie her hands behind her back. 

“Ple-please—“

He fisted her hair, rearing her head back. Her neck arched beautifully, her chin dangling above the table surface.

“Listen to me, princess,” Peter snarled, hot in her ear. Spite peppered his tone. “If you ever call out another man’s name when I’m inside ya again— I’ll make ya wear nothin’ but my cum for the next week.” 

The savage tone contrasted with the glow of his eyes. 

It was always opposites with him.

This was the same man who coddled and worshiped her. The same one who kidnapped her, drugged her, blindfolded her, and gagged her. 

He forced her, a willing participant, into his bed—by asking her permission. 

Peter was more than capable of keeping her chained to his bedpost if he wanted it. 

Or… if she wanted it.

Peter snickered at her expression. “Ooh, yeah… Betchu’d like that, huh?” He taunted her like she was broadcasting her dirty thoughts. “Such a needy little slut for me, ain't that right?” 

Honey felt his warmth leave her back, like being plunged into the Hudson in winter. His hands reappeared at the back of her thighs, and her first instinct was to try to close her legs. 

That was a mistake and an impossible endeavor. 

He split her thighs like opening a book. Grinned at the sight as if he stumbled across gold.

“Fuck, babygirl, you’re soaked. Just talkin’ about it and look at the mess you made…”

Embarrassment and want ravaged her. The conflicting experiences had her ovaries twisted into knots. Honey bit her tongue, unsure if she was going to scream or moan. 

Instead, it came out like a pathetic mewl. “Pe-Peter, please—”

Then he open-palm-smacked her cunt, fingers landing directly on her labia. 

The wet sound it made was humiliating, and the sensation triggered all of the reactions above. She squealed at the sting on her folds. This was a delectable torture. For Peter, it was an appetizing sight. 

“Ya like that?” he grinned over the sound of her whimpers. He already knew the answer.

Another slap to her cunt made her whole body shake. 

“Like bein’ my kept girl? Tryin’ so hard to get my attention. Drivin’ me nuts. Well, you got it now, Honey.” 

Slap. 

A third strike had her pussy clenching. Honey had never experienced such an erotic rush before. She shuddered with embarrassment, afraid she’d cum from this—

Slap! Slap! Slap!

Honey gasped for air, a scream breaking through her voice. She was drowning in sick pleasure, tears in her eyes.

The mob boss gripped her thighs again, pulling her knees off the table and lifting up the weight of her lower half. The action was as easy as lifting a sheet of paper. 

God, his strength was impossible. She struggled to comprehend it while picturing herself being broken apart by it. A slew of tiny pleas fell from her lips. She didn’t even know what she was begging for—his mercy or punishment.

“Shh, shh, babygirl,” he purred with a candy voice. Brought his lips to where she was split, equal parts seductive and sinister. “Be still for me. I gotcha.” He wore a Cheshire grin. “Lemme kiss it better.” 

Slowly, he licked a line from her clit to the entrance of her cunt. She shuddered, followed by a lewd wail. She bucked her hips as he let the tip of his tongue toy with her. 

“Mmmf—so fuckin’ sweet,” Peter mumbled between languid strokes around her vaginal gate. His grip was inescapable. “Can’t help myself, s-sooo hungry…”

Honey felt an evil smile against her skin before his mouth went back to work on her. Tiny, stinging nips and kitten licks tormented her flesh. With her hips locked in place, he lashed her clit with his tongue.

Honey squirmed against the leather belt, her nails digging into the grain. She wanted to be bound like this forever. 

Peter had no intention of letting her go any time soon. 

With her thighs spread open, he dragged her toward the edge of her ecstasy. As soon as he felt her body begin to shake, he pulled away. The punishment ended with another smack to her swollen clit.

Honey cried out in frustration at having her release snatched away. 

Oh, yes—He was weak for that sound.

“What’s’a matter, baby?” he smirked with a dark chuckle. This was becoming his favorite pastime. “You mad now that you’re not the only one who can play games?”

“Gahh—Peter… fuck, plea—don’t tease—!”

Peter’s fingers slipped inside with a squelch, shutting her up. Simultaneously, he lapped at her juices while massaging her walls. Soon, he settled into an unbreakable focus.

Each kiss to her nether lips sizzled with passion. Fueled by devotion usually only reserved for a wedding day. 

“—mmmm, tastes so pretty,” he murmured into her flesh, “my pretty girls...” 

In her dazed state, Honey wondered with a pang of jealousy who the ‘she’ he was referring to was. 

“—sooo sensitive; she likes it when I kiss her like that, yeah?—” He said, in between languid, open-mouth kisses to her slit.

Jesus Fucking Christ, he’s talking about my pussy? In the third person? 

Honey gasped, scandalized at the preposterous thought. It was the most deliciously erotic moment of her life. Enraptured tears budded her eyes, the coil in her belly nearly suffocating her.

“—Fuck, oh god, Peter, don’t stop, don’stop, donstop, donstah—”

Preoccupied with his own intoxicating thoughts, Peter was eager with his tongue and steady with his hands. The room filled with the filthy, wet sounds of his carressing and French kissing of her cunt. He pleasured her with his fingers and mouth, passionately— reverently— as if making love to two different brides. 

Soon, Honey’s pleas were barely more than breathless whining. He smiled like the devil, lips coated with her slick. 

“Patience, Honey,” he admonished, sing-song and patronizing. “If you’re a good girl, maybe I might let you get to taste Her, too.”

Fuck—she was going to come from this. 

The more perverse his words were, the closer she was. So, so close—

Then, another sharp slap. 

Honey wailed, fingers digging into the leather of her restraints. Her whole body protested. The cycle repeated so many times she lost count—until her flesh was puffy from his torture. 

“Please, don’t—please, Peter, don’t tease,” she frantically begged, tears streaming. “No more— Please, I wanna come so bad—” 

He sucked on her clit.  “Yeah?”

“God, yes, please—Nyahhh-need you—Need you... inside—“

Peter hissed behind his teeth, struggling to keep his pace even as his cock jerked at her pleas. He flashed an evil smile. “S’at right?”

“Pl-please, f-feels so good, ple—gah-I need it—!”

He was in no hurry. It was almost greedy, the way he ravaged her. His fingers pressed Merlot bruises into her hips and waist while his mouth left raspberry welts on her thighs. 

Honey cried out around a moan as she felt his fingers deepen. His loving touches to her sensitive spots turned wicked, reminding her this was also a penalty for her bratty transgressions. She wept and squirmed, practically drooling on the table.

He simply grinned.

“—Mmmhm, that’s it—scream for me, princess—”

Honey’s tiny little hip thrusts fit easily in his palm as he groped her. He found it adorable, really.

“Mmm...m’sorr—ow—agh!”

“Sorry’s not gonna cut it,” he panted, eyes blown black. Shadow returned to his voice. “You’re mine now, ya hear?” His eyes traveled to where his fingers were buried to the knuckles. “Gonna fuck you every way I want—”

“Pleasepleasepleaseyes—it’syoursit’syoursallyours—”

His eyes swam over her body, drunk with lust.

All mine. 

The sinfulness of his thoughts tugged his insides into a vortex. This was wrong, he reasoned. Not how he wanted this to go. Poor girl sounded brainless, begging to be fucked.  He wasn’t much better off. This wasn’t how he planned this to go. 

But he was willing to pivot.

Hands shaking, he fumbled with his fly. It wasn’t until his cock bobbed free, glistening with precum, that he felt any sort of relief. Peter grabbed her hips and lifted them off of the table, repositioning her so he was lined up with her slit.

“Fuckin’ need you so much, Honey—” he muttered mindlessly, focused on pushing the swollen, leaking crown of his cock against the silk of her pussy. 

Her hips’ weight rested easily in his hands, and she keened at the sensation of his head pressing against her entrance. 

And god, she'd forgotten he was thick.

Honey tensed up, even as her pussy throbbed with want. It was as if all her muscles were reaching for him, heart included.

It was too much. Mascara trailed faintly down her cheeks. Her heart soared. And ached. She felt spoiled with pleasure, delighting in this penance.

More. She wanted more.

“Fuck—wanted ya so bad,” Peter mumbled, watching his cock slip through her lips. He sounded airy, hypnotized by the view. “Wanted t’crawl through your window like the goddamn—ahh— boogeyman... fuck ya in your own bed. Wanted t’take’ya home with me and keep ya there— Never let you leave.”

Honey swallowed back a sob. Then why did you send me away? 

He paused. 

Uh-oh. Did she say that out lo—?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Peter huffed, his voice fragile. 

He leaned forward and lovingly kissed up her spine, each tender press of his lips an apology. 

“I’m a stupid fuckin’ fool.” The heat of his breath ghosted across her back. “So stupid—Thought I could protect ya if I kept you away. Thought I could somehow live like that—without you.” He shook his head. “Goddamn fool.”

Peter felt the sting of tears flooding his vision. Instinctively, he squeezed his eyes shut to keep them out. “I can’t live without ya,” he nearly whimpered. “There is no life for me if you’re not in it.”

“Peter,” she said, feeling her heart lurch. Her spirit was a ship being tossed in a hurricane. One more wave, and she would break. Honey’s voice trembled, “St-stop t-talking—”

“Not until I’ve said what I shoulda said—!”

“If you don’t shut up and fuck me in the next five seconds—”

Peter cut her off by pulling her up by the shoulders and standing her upright. Honey fought it—because, of course, she did—desperately clutching the steel armor around her heart. 

Overpowering her again, he tugged the naked woman closer until her back lined up to his chest. It was an awkward position with her bound arms crushed behind her against his abs. He towered over her, eyeing her face from the side, seeking her gaze. Hooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. 

Always the fighter, Honey tried to wrench herself from his hold. Peter’s body was like a Greek god’s, with pillar-like arms and marble fingers keeping her from wriggling away. But his soft, soulful eyes are what pinned her in place. 

As soon as she peered into their oaken color, she was trapped again. 

“No,” she sneered, shaking her head. The tears weren’t from pleasure anymore. “Don’t—”

“‘Honey and Lavender,’” he whispered, featherlike. “Those are the words. All you gotta do is say ‘em, and I’ll stop.”

She gritted her teeth, bucking against his sweetness. His arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her in.

“I thought you wanted to fuck me!” she revolted, voice getting weaker by the second. “What the hell do you want from me, Peter?!” 

His features softened. Serenity pressed between his lips. “I want all of you, Honey,” he answered with resolve. “Body and soul. Wanna spend the rest of my life with ya. If you don’t kill me first.” 

He said the ‘if’ part with a teasing lilt in his tone and a half-smile. The same smirk that she loathed—and fell in love with. 

Honey squeezed her eyes shut. Peter’s thumb came up gently, wiping a messy tear from her cheek. That loving and pure act was worse than any torture he could inflict.

Walls tumbling down, her body loosened. She went slack against his arms, instead fighting to keep more tears from flowing.

“I love you,” he whispered, pouring his soul into each word. “Forever. Remember? No matter what.” 

Peter waited for her eyelids to peel back, revealing glossy eyes and a weary expression. They stayed still for eons. Nothing but their breaths and heartbeats between them, eyes locked on each other.

“Even if you’re mad as hell at me,” he added. “Even if you hate me—I want it all.”

Her lower lip wobbled. “And what then, Peter? What now?”

A moment passed. He leaned around her shoulder, bringing her chin close, and answered her with a kiss. Gentle at first, his tongue explored hers as she relaxed against him. She felt her toes leave the ground before she realized what was happening.

Peter broke the kiss. “Now?” he breathed into her hairline. “I’m gonna show you what it means to be mine.”

One of his hands left her torso—borrowed to push the head of his cock into her gate. An overwhelming burn erupted between her legs. She arched her back away from his abs as best she could while being split open.

Honey wailed brokenly, voice shattered, as he bottomed out. Peter’s hand instinctively came up to cover her mouth. She let the scream out into his palm, just as he’d promised.

Peter hissed, letting his head fall back in agonized ecstasy. His eyes drifted shut, feeling both relief and torment buried to the hilt in her warmth. 

He barely ground out, “Shh-shhh, s’alright... that’s it, s-so good, so good for me...”

His Honey was already writhing on his cock, and he hadn’t even begun to move. She was so goddamn tight he wasn’t sure he wanted to move at all.

Still, he couldn’t help indulging himself. Never could, around her.

The arm bracing Honey’s torso snaked back across her body. His hand, burning hotter than a branding iron, stretched out and smoothed over the curvature of her belly. Her pussy clenched tighter as his palm found the trophy he was looking for—an obscene bulge in her lower stomach.

A slow, sinful curve played upon his lips. “Fuck, babygirl. Look at you.” When he uncovered her mouth, her roars had quieted down to a wanton purr. He gently tilted her head downwards so she could witness the depravity herself. “Just look at how you take my dick, Honey.” 

She shuddered at the sight, nodding rapidly, unable to speak. She wondered if this was just more teasing, but she couldn’t think beyond the penetration. 

“God, you look so beautiful like that,” he muttered breathlessly. His amber eyes were fixated on the sinful spectacle beneath her waist, unable to avert his gaze. “So pretty with my cock stuffed up inside your tummy...” 

Peter sounded unhinged, even to himself. His abs twisted into knots. Vile, perverse images eclipsed his sense of decency—her body naked and wrecked, with his seed spilling from her holes. Then, her belly round with his children. Just the thought devolved him like his civilized nature was sucked back into a black hole.

Wordless whimpers poured from her lips as her taut muscles succumbed to his girth. Calloused fingertips reached further down, brushing against the hood of her clit. She jolted in his arms with the slightest touch.

At that moment, Honey’s world disappeared. Nothing existed but the exquisite ache between her legs. 

The conquerer inside him preened. “Is that the spot? Is that where it hurts, baby?” he purred into her ear with a filthy, predatory voice. Her body answered him, rewarding him with a delicious squeeze around his shaft. “That’s it,” Peter groaned, insatiable. “Good girl. So good for me.” 

His praise, even if it was teasing, was too much. Peter’s affirmations, paired with his ministrations, tightened the coil in her stomach. Exhaustion crept up on her body even as the bubble of desire swelled.

Ever so slowly, his hips pitched back and then forward. He bottomed out again at the end of the languid stroke. A shattered mewl burst from her lips, pussy pulsating around his dick.

She was magnificent. 

”Fuck, baby. Feels s-so fuckin’ good—ahh, I missed this tight pussy so much. Wanted to play with her so bad…”

Peter’s hips moved of their own accord. They were a pornographic masterpiece in the decorative mirrors situated around the room. He stole a greedy glance at the couple’s reflection. Smiling wickedly, he turned her head, making her see what he was seeing.

Honey’s stomach fluttered at the sight of her body—glistening and restrained—slotted against him. Her head bobbed as Peter gripped her hips and fucked into her like a sex doll. 

Perverse. Debauched. Divine. It made her lightheaded.

Slowly, he increased the pace of his thrusts, panting into her ear. At some point, she started muttering. Broken and embarrassingly desperate pleas and pet names tumbled unwittingly out of her mouth.

One of them must have caught his attention. But she honestly couldn’t remember what she had said.

“Ugh—I lose my fuckin’ mind when you call me that name,” he growled, throwing his head back. “Ya know that, precious? Such a good girl for me. Good girls get spoiled.” 

Honey’s body thrummed at his baby talk. In all its depravity, she started to suspect what she must have said in all its depravity. Slowly, she was losing the ability to be ashamed.

The slick-coated pad of Peter’s thumb circled her clit, before traveling down further. He curiously prodded where they were joined—“Fuck, look at how good ya open up for me.” — His fingers trailed the outline of her stretched hymen wrapped around his cock.

Honey closed her eyes and turned away, blushing from his praise. Timid about how she relished in the filth. Peter brought his lips to her ear as if there was a secret the two of them shared.

“Don’t worry, baby. I gotcha—Daddy’s gonna make the ache go away.”

The spring snapped. She was nearly knocked over by the wave of pleasure that followed. Her pussy fluttered around his cock with no warning, body trembling and toes curling. Her cream gushed down his shaft. 

He snickered as if he’d won a prize. 

Honey could vaguely recognize her pathetic voice through the bells in her ears. She squealed and cried out over his repetitive, patronizing chants — “Awwgoodgirl, fuckin’ so-so perfect— squeezin’ me so tight” — while he fucked her through her orgasm.

It felt like several moments of pure pink haze, herself a willing victim to his delicious, relentless pull. 

“Shit, sweetie, did you just come all over my cock?” he asked, exasperated.

Embarrassment flooded her despite her persistent mewling. 

“Don’t cry, baby. Don’chu worry,” he murmured affectionately, himself obsessed with the cavern of her divine flesh. “When I said I was gonna make you my toy, I meant it.” She whimpered, nodding her head as it rested back against his shoulder. “M’not finished with you,” he said, dropping an octave. “Not by a long shot.”

Time ceased to have true meaning. Peter rammed into her steadily.

“Please don’stop, please use me, please, wan’more—” She yelped like a puppy.

He smiled against her sweaty skin. “Yeah? Ya like bein’ a good girl? My good girl?”

“I’llbegoodI’llbegoodm’yours—fuck—yoursyoursyours—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned, with another curse beneath his breath. Eyes drifted shut. “Good, good girl.”

All he could think of was more. 

More of that sound. More of her juices. More of her staccato breaths as he fucked her tits into a steady bounce on her chest. More of her whining, whimpering like a bitch in heat.

“All mine, all mine…”

Peter needed more of her. He needed to watch her fall apart on his cock again. Honey was so close already; he could feel it. He’d give her another orgasm, one that leaves her in tears. Then another. He was going to fuck her into submission atop the throne he built for her. She was already his queen. 

Then—He’d make her his whore.

Flip her on her back against the table—or couch— countertop—fuck, maybe the bed if he could remember where it was. Whatever he could reach first. 

Then he’d split her open again on his cock. That way, he could see the enraptured awe on her face. The neediness. Big, round, wet eyes pleading for his touch, calling him filthy names, as his cock bulges below her pubic bone. Begging him to rearrange her guts.

It was heavenly to witness. Peter loved watching her come. And he would, over and over. Once he relocated her to his bed—as soon as he remembered where it was— he could tie her to it.

Not that Honey was fighting at the present. There was no fight in her body, except maybe the will to keep conscious. With every strike against her cervix, she spread herself wider for him. 

But Peter knew she would like it. Honey wanted his unforgiving ecstasy. To take out the mounting frustration of the last few months on her wet pussy. 

“M’gonna fuck you so good, babygirl, m’gonna use your body like my fucktoy—make me feel s-sogood, don’worry—“ 

Honey full-body shuddered with a sob, her head thrown back against his shoulder. 

“S’okay, baby, you can scream if y’want, makes it feel better, doesn’t it, huh—”

Cock-drunk, she nodded, her words coming out as puffs of air.

“Don’stop—don’stop—please, fuck— fuckmehardDaddyIneedit—“

Oh. 

More. Of. That.

“M’not lettin’ you get away again…” he muttered, voice emerging from beneath his twitching abdominal muscles. With possessed eyes, he was glued to where they joined. “Never—never gonna let you go again… All mine now, Honey—you’re all mine…”

Her arms came up to circle the back of his neck as she panted into his throat. “My-my pussy is yours…”

“Everything,” he corrected.

“Everythi—god—I’m yours, Pete—ahh!”

Peter was getting close. No matter. He’d let himself come inside her soon. There was plenty more to follow. 

He barely recognized his own wrecked voice. “’m not leavin,’ baby. I’m not leavin’ ever.”

A gust of wind followed him as the front door to the suite slammed shut. Peter stood alone in the hotel hallway wearing a sheen of sweat... and nothing else. 

He flushed pink, fumbling to cover himself behind his hands. The cool air made the task easier.

Peter sighed. He’d need to talk to maintenance about better insulation up here.

But not right now. Not while Peter Parker stood ass-naked outside of his door, having been kicked out like a cheap fuck. 

Which might have been Honey’s point, he recognized.

The evidence of their past hour together made his skin sticky. She’d tousled his hair and etched into his back with her nails. He felt sore in places he hadn’t felt in years.

Peter also looked thoroughly fucked. A mixture of pain and relief surged through his muscles. His brain was branded with erotic images of her. He wanted them there.

The door opened again, lifting his hopes. He only caught a fleeting glimpse of Honey, wrapped sloppily in a bathrobe. The rest of her didn’t look much better than Peter. She wore a sour yet adorable scowl on her face.

With a huff, Honey hurled a tight wad of fabric at his nuts, unintentionally intentional in her aim. 

Peter oofed, doubling over to catch the ball of his clothes. At the same time, an Italian leather shoe smacked him in the head. Probably his Tom Ford’s. He heard the door slam closed again, rattling against the frame.

Perplexed, Peter gazed at the molding of the door and the gleaming golden script marking the room number. 

He wondered. 

Would she open the door again to throw him the other shoe? 

Or perhaps the slacks that went along with the dress shirt covering his balls?

Unlikely.

He marveled. 

The nerve of this woman. This goddess-barista who served him his soul in a paper cup. Who held the keys to his heart, his home, and presently, his hotel room. Who somehow managed to kick him out of the penthouse suite of his own hotel. 

Within the confines of his ruined dress shirt, Peter felt another buzz. He fumbled with the shirt, reaching the smartphone concealed inside.

>>> have you moved onto the main course? >>> or are you still tossing the salad? >>> pouring ranch on her hidden valley

Felicia. Peter’s eyes nearly rolled out of his head. With a sigh, he tapped out a reply.

<<<  Kitchen’s closed.  <<< Need clothes. And a new room.

He saw the ellipsis bubbling up on his screen. 

<<< Not another word.

As soon as the message was sent, Peter took another glance at his empty surroundings. Haplessly, he looked toward the closed door. A river of memories flooded him. It surged, swelled, and finally, came to a low simmer.

This was never going to be easy. Nothing ever was with her.

Nothing worth waiting for ever is.

“See you at breakfast,” he whispered aloud lips curled into a smile. “Sleep tight.”

Holding her breath and her ear to the door, Honey waited until Peter’s footsteps faded. When she could no longer hear them, she sighed with exasperation, overcome with exhaustion. Eyes falling closed, Honey leaned back against the door, body aching in places she would feel for days.

After taking a moment, she heard a buzzing sound further in the suite. Honey jumped with alarm, then stumbled on Fawn’s feet to reach the source.

Quickly, Honey waddled to the remains of her yellow dress, fishing out the buzzing object: a 10-year-old smartphone with a black glittery hard case. A holographic cat sticker was fixed to the back, shimmering in the dim light. 

Not just any cat.

She unlocked the phone to see the latest message.

>>> how’d it go? u give him hell?

The heaviest exhale left Honey’s chest, shame creeping up her chest. With her thumb, she scrolled up to review the text messages sent to her. The oldest of which dated back almost four months.

Weeks of correspondence and reassurance from Felicia, not to mention very clear instructions about Peter Parker and how to play his game. 

There was the one from last month:

>>> don’t let him think for one second that you’re gonna let him get off easy!

Then one from last week:

>>> make him suffer. make him grovel. make him lay down in a puddle so you can cross

And these:

>>> go to dinner, but don’t eat anything. order wine, the most expensive one, take one sip and refuse the rest. you pick the restaurant. if he picks the restaurant, hate everything about it >>> play hard to get— but don’t be too cold >>> be flirty. but not slutty.  >>> give him bedroom eyes, but don’t let him stare at you too long.

Finally, there was a clear instruction sent earlier today.

>>> under no circumstances >>> no matter what >>> you need to remember this >>> DO NOT FUCK HIM!!1

Honey frowned as she gazed at Felicia’s text message bubble, sent with so much hope and good intention. A notion soundly defeated. A truly hopeless endeavor, if there ever was one.

Biting her lip, Honey tapped out a reply to her confidant:

<<< Sure did.

Thank you for everything you do. Please keep fanfic healthy and support my writing with a reblog.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

There’s So Much Hurt

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/hzdF1kr

by quotidian_void

*cackles* I think the title pretty much explains it, but anyway:

Jason and Tim meet in high school. They go through a buncha stuff that gets them to think of each other as brothers. But… Tim is abused by his parents and he got Jason to keep the secret from the others about it. The secret was quite literally taken to the grave. However, now that Jason's out of the grave, the secret won't have to stick.

Right?

(Tim doesn't think so)

[rated for graphic scenes of abuse]

Words: 5296, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Series: Part 5 of Let Them Be Brothers

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics), Batman (Comics)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen

Characters: Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Jack Drake, Janet Drake

Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Jack Drake & Janet Drake & Tim Drake

Additional Tags: Tim Drake is Robin, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake Whump, Hurt Tim Drake, Tim Drake Joins the Batfamily Early, Protective Jason Todd, Good Sibling Jason Todd, BAMF Jason Todd, Lazarus Pit Side Effects (DCU), hmmm not sure abt that tag but it does somewhat relate, Protective Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Protective Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, i believe both are present here, Bruce Wayne Tries, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Protective Alfred Pennyworth, Worried Alfred Pennyworth, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Tim Drake Lacks Self-Preservation Instincts, Canonical Character Death, Brotherly Love, Brotherly Angst, Shock, Bad Parent Willis Todd, POV Jason Todd, Child Abuse, Child Neglect

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/hzdF1kr

[headingalaxys-spicy]

Demon Games! : America

Oh, boy does your life suck with Yandere! Demon America and since you decided to make sure your ‘research’ was sound you decided to play his game. How….noble of you. More like stupid but hey…..Honestly not my best work but whatever 3 glasses of wine deep sooooooo

Yandere! Demon America

In his chapter titled Bloody Money

You have to use the golden coin that is in the book and take it with you to a pitch-black room that has a mirror. You chant the words “Bloody Money” 3 times in the mirror. And since Alfred is obsessed with you since the monument you obtain the book on demonology, you’re going to see his form. Full-on complete with his large looming wings that seem to stretch from the mirror around you. Since you have his golden coin it’s the only thing that can protect you (for now) and will prevent him from immediately taking you into his realm.

“If you bring me more of those golden coins my dear~ I won’t steal your soul.” He’ll say to you in a menacing voice and he looks into your horrified irises. You’re shaken by his statement knowing full well that you’re not rich and wouldn’t really have any way to obtain more unless…..

“Oh no darlin~ you don’t need to be rich to find the golden coins like the one I desire. You’re just going to have to perform some difficult rituals and tasks for me. Like fighting trolls, warding off spirits, maybe even fighting off a demon that’s similar to me guardian one of the 13 of them. You possess one. So you’ve got 12 more to find. If you’re able to do so within the next 3 days. I won’t steal your soul.”

You see a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And since you’ve started the game you have to either win or lose there is no turning back.” He begins to cackle at your misery and the wide worried-eyed look you give him hearing this disturbing news. “The coin that you now possess will disappear when time is up. If you’re unsuccessful you’ll be sucked into my world for all of eternity. Good luck darlin~” He mockingly winks at you as he disappears from your sight and the clock will begin to tick on your ability to track down the other 12 coins.

“Oh, sweet y/n.~ This is a game you’ll lose because…..”

You scramble to the book to figure out where the other 12 coins could be hidden or at least get a hint to where they may be. To no avail. You find nothing but a few ripped pages from America’s chapter. Yeah, you’re screwed. But, nonetheless, he’ll humor you for the next 78 hours by summoning one of his familiars that don’t need much power to survive outside of the mirror. He looks just like the demon before you with blonde hair and pristine blue eyes.

“The names Alfred~ Dollface. Ready to find those coins so you don’t get your soul taken? I’m your hero and I promise I’ll save you from him.”

He’ll grab your hand and look into your eyes. We can do this I can save you! I’ll just need you to find or to do…..

He’ll give you a list of things to find or a task to complete: like a missing jacket, some glasses, simple stuff at first. Then as you try to find more and more things or complete more tasks for the demon while working he’ll maybe ask to keep that necklace that your best friend gave you that’s near and dear to your heart. Then it will escalate to allowing him to take some of your blood so that you could gain access to one of the coins. That’s a huge mistake on your part allowing a spirit like America to obtain such a thing from you. But, in your desperation to keep your soul from the powerful demon prince you don’t realize it. You even considered sacrificing another mortal soul you didn’t like so much, by considering murdering them. Once you thought about it, it happened. America can feed off these types of emotions and manifest them into reality. So be careful what you think of while trying to obtain the cursed coins. During these three grueling days America will be watching from afar draining you of every last drop of your energy all while you lose your mind with this false hero he sent to help you.

“Oh y/n you fell hard into my trap.” He’ll muse to himself as he fantasizes about having you in his arms.

All of these things will culminate in making America stronger and stronger and tying him closer to you entangling it. That even if you do manage to find the coins to ward him off it’s already too late his familiar was gathering precious information and harvesting your energy so that he can’t be unbound for you. It’s a losing game for you either way.

Just before you had your hands on the final coin. Alfred reaches for your shoulder firmly.

“Y/N, you’ve lost the game~” He states in a sing-song voice that’s strangely creepy to you. He’ll then proceed to morph into the demon you saw from the mirror. As for you, everything fades to black.

I got lazy and only did one character in this post. Sorry. Work right now is a little hectic.

[bradshawsweetheart]

Hello Millie my beloved, I am live typing my thoughts as I read:

But Maggie is not here now.

God this cutaway from the “what if” hit me like a brick wall

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing. … “Isn’t he always?”

I am a Bradley girlie but this broke my heart lowkey😭

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

The way I squealed at this LMFAO please like is it tension? Is it banter? Is it both? AAAAAAA

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

OH THE TENSION I WILL SIMPLY PASS AWAY

But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

Millie I am going to fucking THROW UP OMG THIS TENSION IS MAKING ME BOTH GIDDY AND SICK

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. … “How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

The way I just cackled.

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

No bc why are my eyes watering at this

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

PLEAAAAAASE IM FUCKING CACKLING, this entire drunk shoe removing scene has me in complete stitches. The Bob/Jake banter is absolutely killing me

Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

I really love these excerpts that you do when you talk about Faye and Bob’s relationship and how they’ve grown, but I especially love when you include lines that talk about what they share. For this instance, “he didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did.” It makes me melt a bit to see how Faye is almost saying “look at us, look where we came from and look what we’ve gained together.” Pulls at my heart strings big time.

“Try harder, Jake.”

God this just makes me want to cry

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

Yeah I am crying now

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

I AM IN SO MUCH PAIN MILLIE

This chapter was absolutely beautiful and also slightly heartbreaking. I am a Bradley x Faye shipper but Jake is over here making me want to take him into my arms and kiss his stupid little forehead.

I’m trying to finally finish this series now that I have a couple of days off!!

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐈𝐈.𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡 & 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

I wish my sister was here. That’s all I can think right now; a thought that first swept past me beneath the palm trees outside The Hard Deck’s front doors, drifting its fingers lazily across my eyelids before returning to consume me after my second glass of  champagne--pressing me against its wet tongue and swallowing me deep down into the crux of its hollow belly. I’m here now--suddenly sitting in a shallow pool of cold water, blinking at the dark, thinking about Maggie.   

If she was here now she would be wearing a vintage dress--one that I didn’t even know she owned, one that she somehow found at the bottom of a barrel for free somewhere in New Mexico, one that was well-fitting and tasteful--and her hair would be wild and her earrings would be big and she would smell like velvety amber and nondescript citrus. She would have her arm looped through mine all night and she would pay for all my shots and take every bathroom break with me, giggling as she stuffed a strip of spearmint gum between my teeth and dried her hands on her dress. She would ask me how I felt, slyly encasing my hands in hers under the guise of closeness--though really because it was her way of assessing my nerves by gauging the temperature, the flexibility, of my fingers. She wouldn’t let any uniform dance with me, forming a makeshift barrier around me with her own body as a velvet-clad shield. She would slip Bob a caffeine pill when his eyes would inevitably start to droop after eleven, coaxing him into chasing it with a shot of tequila.  

“And why do we drink tequila?” She would’ve purred, grinning, leaning into Bob.  

And Bob, ever-exhausted but ever-loyal to Maggie Palmer Ledger, would answer begrudgingly, “Because tequila is an upper.” 

She would pet Bob, pressing a lewd-sounding wet-lipped kiss to his cheek, praising him as he tilted the shot glass back and swallowed with a grimace. She would be sweet, though, pressing a lime to his lips.  

When he would open his twisted mouth to explain that tequila is actually a depressant, that the myth that it is a stimulant is just that--a myth--she would quickly usher another shot glass to his lips.  

“Quiet now,” she would say, “drink the kool aid, baby boy.” 

I think her and Phoenix would have been fast friends, too. They were similar in many capacities, so similar that sometimes Phoenix felt more familiar to me than she really should. The both of them always going toe-to-toe with cocksure pilots, except Maggie would wither them down and end the night with them pressed beneath the soft pad of her thumb. Phoenix is whip-smart and lethal when she flies--just like Maggie was. Even their drinks of choice and the order in which they desire them--which goes tequila shots, then bloody Mary’s, then margaritas--are identical. They would have been the kind of friends that indulge each other’s confrontational nature and enable each other’s short tempers. They would have been the kind of friends that sat together on one end of every spectrum, leaving no room for middleground, never meeting each other--or anyone else--halfway on anything.   

But Maggie is not here now.

 She is somewhere else, much farther away, just out of reach. 

Sometimes I dream that she is on the other side of the unopened door that connects our childhood rooms, just waiting for me to be brave enough to turn the handle--waiting for me to come home. 

But really, truly, I know that she is buried in Topeka Cemetery, flanked by the empty plots my parents will one day lie in. I know that it’s cold in Topeka now and probably cloudy as the nighttime draws nearer. I know that the minuscule weather-resistant American flag staked by her headstone is probably flapping in the icy wind, maybe even tilted from the sideways sleet or unflappable snow. 

She is there, parts of her at least, and I am here in this bar in Fightertown on the eve of my wedding that she did not get to plan and will not get to attend.

 It’s still early in the evening now, early enough so The Hard Deck’s usual Friday-night clientele is still trickling in, gaggles of uniforms sporadically standing around the dartboard and pool table with glasses of scotch and bottles of beer. It’s not very loud yet--the jukebox isn’t humming, the pool balls aren’t clacking thunderously under the forceful nudge of Hangman or Coyote, there is no strapping young man pounding at the piano keys, or peanut shells crunching under lug-sole boots. There are glasses clinking smally, the sound muted by the low voices of men.  

Outside, in the nippy air, the sun is sinking slowly into the teal ocean. It is painting the bar the color of a chrysanthemum, the kind I buy at the farmer’s market when they’re in season and set in the middle of the breakfast table, the kind Rooster has come home with on random Tuesday’s. Yes, it feels like a familiar color, one that has been in my home for a long time in repurposed measuring cups and brown paper tied with twine.  

I’m standing at the bar, the ledge digging into my belly as I rest my forearms on the damp wooden surface, finishing my glass at the insistence of Phoenix. She’s standing on my left side, her hair long and pushed behind her ears and down her back. Her eyes are crinkled, dusted the same baby blue hue of her dress, and she’s laughing as she nudges me. 

“We’re getting Faye drunk,” she sings, wrinkling her nose at Penny, who’s standing before me with her own cheeky grin.

The bubbles from the champagne are bursting in my nostrils, peppering the back of my throat. It makes my spine tingle as it settles in the middle of my chest, a bundle of vibrating, ticklish nerves. 

Warmth is blooming over my entire being; my tongue, my throat, my chest, my belly, between my thighs. It’s the way pink champagne always makes me feel, especially after three glasses. Fizzy --that’s how I feel, which is better than sad. It sits at the bottom of my belly, cascading down my thighs and calves and into my toes; but it also reaches up into my chest and stretches across my shoulders and blushes my throat. It holds me there in quivering hands, overtaking me, overwhelming me. 

“One down,” Penny exclaims gleefully, setting the empty champagne bottle beside us, biting her lip, “few more to go.”

“How’re you feeling? What’re you at?”

Bob, who’s glowing in the radiance of this February dusk with his scruffy cheeks and overgrown hair, leans against the bar to search my face with his baby blues slightly narrowed. 

He’s talking about the ranking system he insists we use tonight. We are to gauge our drunkenness on a scale from 1-10, reporting back to him as often as he sees fit. He had told us this on the drive over, gesturing and nodding as he spoke, San Diego flashing past the tinted windows of the Uber in frames of yellow and blue. And even though Phoenix and I had shared a private glance, a discreet pinch, we agreed to Bob’s terms on account of our unyielding affection for him. 

“Three,” I tell him, smiling, exhaling as I climb out of the belly of grief and back into my barstool, “y’all?”

I point at Bob and Phoenix alike.

“I think I hear a little Tahpekah in there,” Phoenix teases, nudging me.

Bob’s laughing, eyes crinkling.   

Phoenix shrugs then, considering for a moment, still smiling a teasing smile. 

“Two and a half,” she says. 

Bob nods. 

“Yeah, that’s where I’m at, too,” he agrees.

“You’ve got all night,” Penny interjects, already uncorking another bottle of identical champagne, dropping her eye in a sly wink, “we’ll get you all nice and hungover for the ceremony tomorrow.”

The ceremony tomorrow.  

It makes my tongue quiver in my mouth, between my teeth. Yes, I am getting married tomorrow--somewhere between four and five o’clock, somewhere between dusk and sunset. There’s a cream-colored silk dress zipped into a velvet garment bag in my closet, freshly steamed and wrinkle-free. There’s a gold band, a thin and round one, the width of Rooster’s fourth finger in the satin-lined jewelry box on our bathroom counter. My fingernails are long and painted the color of a pearl, my cuticles trimmed and unusually tear-free. There is a permanent ache at the base of my spine from the tireless months we’ve spent working on our backyard; laying bricks, power washing the patio, repainting the house, planting blue witch and Indian mallow flowers. 

It does feel like I am getting married tomorrow; it does feel like this is the night before it happens, the night before I become a wife. And that makes the warmth pulsing through my body feel infinite--like I am just radiating heat, inspiring perspiration on the hairlines of my bridal party.

“Oh, I’ve got hangovers covered,” Bob insists coolly, pushing his wire-framed glasses back up his nose, “an old Floyd-family secret.”

Phoenix snorts--leaning forward to grin at Bob, a teasing tint glimmering in her glassy eyes. 

“Tell Penny what the family recipe is,” she encourages, tickled, “g’head, tell her.”

Penny leans forward, refilling our champagne flutes. I’m smiling, too, watching the bubbles rise to the brim of my glass before I bring the flute to my lips and swallow. Fizzy.   

Bob’s blushing now, shoulders drooping a smidgen. 

“Well,” Bob starts, “it’s just a cup of black coffee with a shot of--well, a shot of whatever gave you the hangover. So, like, for us it’ll probably be tequila.”

Penny grimaces. I bite my lip.

“Oh, just wait. He’s not done yet,” Phoenix tells Penny, chuckling, “continue, Floyd.”

Bob is smiling now, shrugging in a small way, moving to let one of his hands rest in the middle of my back. His hand is warm, just like mine, but I know the bare skin of my back is warmer. He absently rolls his fingers over the soft edge of my dress, his touch gentle and non-presumptuous.

“Well, the real beauty of the recipe is the vitamins,” he explains, cheeks blooming the same ballet-slipper color of my dress, “it’s two crushed up zinc pills, three crushed up ibuprofen, and one vitamin B-12. And one allergy pill for me because the pollen count is supposed to be high tomorrow.”

Penny’s nose is wrinkled, her mouth slightly ajar and frowning, her eyebrows quirked. Phoenix is laughing, the sound melodious and soft. 

“And then?” I prompt.

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees, “take us home, Floyd.” 

Bob is really grinning now. 

“Bagel and lox. Extra capers,” he says, eyes twinkling, “That’s the holy hangover cure! You’ve got caffeine, hair of the dog, vitamins, carbs, fatty acids, and electrolytes. The recipe’s been in the Floyd family for generations.”

Penny’s face is unchanging. 

“I hate to say this,” I interject softly, pulling my brows together as Penny finds my eyes, “but it works. It’s remarkable. Like, Bob could open up a store that only sells those two things and become a very, very rich man. He’d be like a medicine man.”

Phoenix sighs beside me when Penny’s gaze falls to her. 

“It’s true,” Phoenix confirms, “we’re talking Forbes 40 Under 40 material here.”

Bob laughs, palm still flat against my spine. 

I know he’s happy that we’re validating him, know that he’s happy that we have trusted him with our unsettled guts and pulsing skulls and been genuinely remedied by his formula. We are his best friends, his closest friends--I know he likes sharing these things with us, likes it very much when we take his outstretched palm or fall back into his awaiting arms. He likes it the best when the common ground between me and Phoenix broadens, when there’s more room for us to stretch out and towards each other. 

Penny tops our glasses off, shaking her head, blinking rapidly. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Penny finally says, winking at us again before she turns to wipe the counters on the other side of the bar, still shaking her head. 

Phoenix is grinning at me, still biting her lip as she tucks a piece of loose hair behind her ear. Her veil, the short tulle one that Bob doled out on the ride over, is secured evenly and carefully in her dark locks. It is pristine and white, a stark contrast from her dark hair and tanned skin, both of which have been kissed by the Florida sun. 

“Finish your drink,” she encourages again, nodding to my glass, “then we’ll hit the jukebox.”

“That’s an order, lieutenant,” Bob says coolly from behind me, reaching up to smooth his own veil that persists in sliding from its place in his fine, sun-streaked locks, “Phoenix, is my veil lopsided?”

Phoenix cranes her neck to look at Bob as I tilt my head back and finish my glass. The bubbles are racing up my nostrils and straight to the throbbing vein that crosses the bridge of my nose. Phoenix shakes her head, slinking out of her stool. 

“Let’s roll,” Phoenix grins, nodding in the direction of the jukebox.  

We all stand, muscles unfolding beneath our skin, perfumed with the sweet scent of cinnamon gum and Nivea and clean baby. Phoenix is grinning, looking out across the barren dance floor, holding one of my hands in hers. 

“Bride-to-be coming through,” Phoenix calls, despite precisely nobody being in our way, “make way!” 

Bob laughs from behind, moving his hands to rest on my shoulders. 

“Bridal train,” Bob calls, “and we have precious cargo!”

At their outbursts, a series of laughter and good-natured whistling elicites from the gathering crowd. A few people raise their drinks, grinning. Others give a few claps of recognition. Some give an ow-ow! or slight cheer, which makes the tips of my ears redden. I think I’m too tipsy to care all that much, though--can’t contain my grin, my pink cheeks.

But then suddenly, Phoenix stops dead in her tracks, her swinging hair stilling with a final thwack and her veil stuttering in its place, slightly askew. Her hands move to hold high on her hips, and even though I can’t see her face, I know her lips are pouting. 

“Looks like we’ve got company,” she says finally, glancing over her shoulder at me and Bob as we move to step beside her.

Maverick has just walked into The Hard Deck, the door still swinging behind him. He’s tan and his hair is gelled and he’s wearing his leather bomber, sunglasses still on. 

He sees us the exact moment we see him--grin stammering before dissipating entirely. And it’s when I squint, tilting my head, that I notice that he has a stick-on mustache above his top lip--the kind that kid’s buy for a quarter in Mexican restaurants.  

“Well, shit,” he mumbles, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth, moving to place his hands on his hips too.

“Well, shit is right, Captain,” Phoenix says, though she’s crossing the wide-plank floors with a smile adorning her face, “you’re in enemy territory.”

Maverick smiles, sighing, opening his mouth to speak before the door swings wide open and reveals Hangman and Rooster. They saunter through the doors with identical grins, chuckles dying in their throats when they see all of us there seemingly waiting for them. 

Rooster and I find each other’s eyes instantaneously, like we are always looking for each other, like we knew this would happen, like we’ve planned this. And when we see each other, when his brown eyes find mine, it makes me want to lay down on the floor there and wait to be held. It makes me want to kneel before him and repent, his name falling off my lips hotly, uttering it like a little private prayer. 

It’s silly, really, because we only saw each other two hours ago when he loaded all of us in the Uber and waved us off at the end of the driveway. But now any amount of time without him beside me, fingers against the slope of my shoulder or foot laying sweetly beneath mine, feels gargantuan. 

His face is beautiful--that is something undeniable, indisputable. The scars across his cheek and chin, the sunkissed skin, the strong nose and pouted lips--these are all things that make my knees buckle. 

But more than that, when I see his face, it feels like walking into a place that is almost-forgotten, but treasured. It feels like I just walked into my kindergarten classroom as an adult woman and it still smells the way I remember it. It feels like I just walked into Maggie’s old apartment, the one that I cleaned out with Bob, and all her stuff is still there waiting for her to come back to. It’s a feeling that consumes me each time I look at him--when his joyous profile is backlit by the California sun on the patio, when I walk upstairs with brown paper bags against my chest and he’s sleeping on the couch with his mouth wet and wide, when we meet in the hallway of our shared offices at the end of a long Thursday--and I know that it is a feeling that I will always submit to. 

“If it ain’t our darlin’ Faye,” Hangman starts, grin molding around the faux-furry sticker beneath his nose, “and Phoenix and Bob.”

I glance at him--he winks in that way he does sometimes, when it’s lightning-fast, when I know I’m the only one that’s seen it. 

“Didn’t think to ask the ladies where we’re having the bachelorette party?” Phoenix asks Maverick, crossing her arms over her chest.  

“Yeah,” Bob agrees, voice thin, “should’ve asked us.”

Maverick sheepishly combs his fingers through his hair before letting his hands fall to his thighs, sighing.

“My wife owns this bar,” he defends defeatedly. 

Bob scoffs. 

“Get a new line, buddy,” Bob says with a chuckle. 

Phoenix nods sharply. 

Maverick sighs, glancing back at Hangman and Rooster, biting his lip before he meets my eyes. His gaze feels like a sorry, kid.   

“We could go--!” 

I shake my head, the vein over my nose throbbing. 

But I’m smiling, moving closer to Bradley as he moves closer to me with that loved-up glaze over his eyes. 

“No,” I say, “crash my bachelorette party, I don’t mind. Really!”

Hangman grins, moving closer to me so he can pat me on the shoulder. He lets his hand linger there so he can squeeze me, fingers expanding over my bare skin. His touch is different than Bob’s--it is tighter, closer, more broad. His index finger draws a few lazy circles on my skin. 

I look up at him and he’s looking down at me, green eyes shining. 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about hen parties and roosters,” he says, coming forward to press a hasty kiss to my temple, which he does every time he sees me now, “good to see you, sugar plum.”

“You, too,” I say back pertly, smiling.

“You wanna impede on Faye’s last night as a free woman, Rooster?”

Maverick says this with a teasing lilt in his voice, cocking his head as Rooster presses Phoenix into a one-armed hug, a grin tugging at his lips. 

Hangman is still standing with his hands on my shoulders, his fingers dancing over my skin. I pretend not to notice it, pretend like this is something he’s doing absently because he considers me a very close friend. I’m pretending like I can’t feel the tightness of his chest or the perspiration cupping in his palms. 

“That’s a little regressive,” Bob says, moving in to hug Bradley, too--a short, quick hug.

A sound of agreement vibrates from Hangman’s chest.

“Yeah, he’s not holding her hostage,” he agrees, quirking a brow at Bradley, who’s smiling down at me, “unless you two aren’t telling us something.”

Bob turns, still standing beside Rooster, his veil somehow more lopsided now than it was only a moment ago. 

He tilts his head, eyebrows coming together, as he lets his eyes wash over Jake. 

“Hangman’s a purveyor of women’s rights,” I say softly, glancing at Hangman through my lashes, “at least he considers himself to be.”

Jake laughs--it’s a throaty, saran-wrapped laugh. 

His hands move from the tops of my shoulders to the sides of my arms as he falls in-step behind me. Each time he breathes, his chest grazes my bare back. It is not an unwelcome touch, not even an unfamiliar touch--but one that makes my throat tight. His hands are much softer than Bradley’s, but not softer than Bob’s. 

The vein over my nose pulses again.  

“Alright, kids,” Maverick chuckles, patting Bradley’s shoulder, “if you’d please excuse me, I’m gonna go get chewed out by my wife.”

“See you on the other side, Mav,” Bob calls, nodding.

That’s when I notice that Rooster isn’t playing along--he’s not jibing, quipping, retorting, laughing. No, he’s just standing there, a few steps farther from me than Jake and he’s watching me. His eyes are swimming as he gazes at me, the color of amber. He’s looking at the low cut of my dress, the way the material presses into my skin. He’s looking at my collarbones and the freckles on my throat. It’s when his eyes wash over my bare shoulders, at the valley of my breasts, that I think he registers that I’m not wearing a bra. 

He stiffens, grin broadening, but doesn’t say anything yet.

“Y’look gorgeous, sugar plum,” Jake says from above me, chest vibrating against the column of my spine, “pink’s your color.”

“It’s that whole blushing bride thing,” I say politely, but I don’t move my eyes from Rooster, “now, be a doll and get me another glass of champagne.”

Jake tuts, squeezing me again. 

“Yes, ma’am!”

I’m moving towards Bradley not a moment after Jake’s hands fall from my shoulders, feet pointing the direction of home as Rooster and I near each other. I can smell him from here--freshly showered and lathered in ginger soap, radiating that sweet sharp scent that is naturally occurring in his being--and it makes all the muscles in my shoulders slacken.

Our wedding party falls into each other around us as they argue good-naturedly about roles and regulations and communication, about what the fuck that is on your lip, Bagman and about wedding traditions. They melt into the floor, into the walls, into the sunset until their voices are indiscernible from the crowd surrounding us. 

“Hey, tramp,” I whisper, crossing one foot in front of the other, “couldn’t stay away, huh?”

He’s finally close enough to touch me. He licks his lips, reaching up suddenly to smooth his fingers over the tulle pinned in my hair. Then he’s beaming, eyes drifting over my nose and mouth and finally to the top of my head where the short, white veil is perched.

“This,” he comments quietly, only loud enough for me to hear, “will be the death of me.”

It makes heat bloom between my legs, makes me press my thighs together, makes my throat flush with want. 

“The veil?”

As if I really need to ask.  

He nods, pink tongue darting out to lick his lips again, fingers still delicately petting my veil and the hair it's nestled in. 

“Getting hot and bothered at bridal headwear,” I tease, “that’s so you.” 

And I’m smiling and he’s chuckling, but it’s true. 

He likes me to wear my ring--only my ring--when we make love. He dutifully unclasps my moon earrings and my necklace, flaking kisses over my blushed skin, then carefully strips me until I am entirely bare except for the fourth finger on my left hand. And when we are chest to chest and he’s rocking his hips into mine, our fingers tightly entwined, he’ll sometimes kiss my ring finger--his lips wet, a groan caught in his throat.

I press my thighs together so tightly that they start to ache.  

He sighs, tugging on the ends of my hair before his eyes finally fall to mine. He holds me there in his gaze before he presses himself against me. We’re so close that our chests are kissing, his thigh slotted between my own. He’s holding my hips and I’m carefully twirling the sandy curls at the nape of his neck, smiling up at him despite how hard it feels to breathe suddenly. 

“Y’look fuckin’ perfect,” he whispers, breath fanning over my the apples of my cheeks and the end of my nose, “what’re you wearing under that dress, baby?”

Heat is pooling again, pooling in a big, bad way. My throat is tight, getting tighter, as I press his thigh between mine. 

“Nothing,” I whisper back, pressing a soft kiss to his chin.

His lips are parted, the corners still turned up. His pupils grow as he brings a calloused hand up to my face, stroking gently over my cheek before grazing the veil again.

He kisses my cheek, lips familiar and sweet. He kisses a line all the way to my ear, which he very softly takes between his teeth before whispering, “The veil stays on tonight.”

Oh, fuck.  

And before I can respond, before I can even take a moment to compose myself and lengthen my breathing, he pulls back with a lopsided grin. Now he’s holding my shoulders like Jake was before, thumbs stroking identically on either arm. 

“Gimme some sugar,” he all but purrs, pressing his lips to mine, fingers curling into my flesh. 

The kiss is sweet, short. Just his solid skin beneath my hands is enough to make me feel like I’ve finished a few bottles of champagne entirely on my own, enough to make me feel like my steps are fluttering.

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing.

It isn’t that he is jealous--because he is not, could never be, would never be. There is that string between us, attached to our bodies and skin, that tethers us together everywhere we go. We know, know without having an explicit discussion about it, that we are it for each other. That everything else around us will wither with time like the petals of a cut flower, wilting in muddled water.  

I pull back, clearing my throat, pretending like I suddenly don’t feel like I’m at a full-blown, sloppy 10 right now. 

“Isn’t he always?”

“C’mon,” Hangman calls across the bar, like he can hear us, “time for shots!”

“S’cuse us, bride and groom coming through,” Rooster announces as we navigate the bodies busying the bar, “pardon us, just trying to get back to our wedding party!”

People are clapping Rooster on the back now, shaking his hand, and he’s all grins from his spot behind me. He is squeezing my hips and nodding his head, voice raspy as he makes several more unnecessary announcements about our nuptials. 

Feel free to stop by, we’ll have an open bar! I know what you’re thinking--yes, I am a lucky guy! Knew I wanted to marry her the first time I saw her! You know, I actually proposed in my childhood h0me--! 

“Rooster,” I warn, biting a grin, “you’ve gotta stop inviting strangers to the wedding!” 

He looks as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, a big toothy grin spread across his face and pressing into his rosy cheeks. 

“Just can’t help myself, honey,” he whines, “I’ve gotta show you off!”

My heart is swelling. But I still raise my brow, biting down hard on my lip.

Fuck, that dopey, lovely, gooey grin on his lips is melting me. 

My lungs feel like dough, malleable and soft, full of fingerprints and dusted with flour. Someone could pull my lungs out of my chest and roll them out on a counter with ease. 

“Always knew I’d be some old man’s arm candy,” I tease, sighing. 

He pinches my hips and I have to stifle a squeak. 

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, little lady,” he grins, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my head, against my veil. 

There’s that heat again--pooling, pooling between my bare thighs.   

He loves to tell people that we are engaged, that we are getting married on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day--a date he picked, marking it on every paper calendar with a crudely-drawn heart. He bought two paper calendars to keep at home, just for the sake of a physical reminder: one hanging in our bathroom and one hanging on our fridge--each adorned with vintage-style portraits of cats. 

He’s told every person that runs our most frequented stands at the farmer’s market, holding cucumbers in one hand and mine in the other as he shows my ring to the elderly women, pointing out which pieces were his mother’s and which pieces he picked himself. Proudly, he tells the swooning women that he knew he was going to marry me from the start of it all--letting them pinch his cheeks and tell me how darn-right lucky I am to have him.  

 Every barista in the tri-state area knows the story of his proposal, Rooster telling the story with an admirable reverence each and every time--tireless, excitable. Sometimes, I will walk into a coffee shop and the barista will recognize me. It’s usually a show of furrowed eyebrows and chin-tapping before they ask me if my fiancee is t hat guy with a pornstache who orders his lattes breve with extra sweetener? And then I’ll blush and say yes and they’ll ask me if my name is Faye and we’ll have a good-hearted laugh as they tell me about my fiance’s most adorable exuberance.   

 Late last September, I was sitting in my office when he knocked, his face broken out in an all-consuming grin. There, trailing behind him like a row of misguided ducklings, was the Top Gun class he instructed. Rooster had simply held his hand out towards me and I gave in immediately, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to blush as he had every member individually come on over and take a gander at this ring, everybody. Say hello to the pretty lieutenant wearing it, too! 

I’m flushed under everyone’s delighted gaze when we fall into place at the bar. My face is impossibly warmer now, a blush creeping up through my chest and staining my cheeks. It still makes me flush to think about tomorrow--about walking down the aisle, kissing beneath the San Diego sun, slow-dancing on the brick patio, about toasting with all of our friends.  

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

“Leave me out of this,” I quietly tell them, smiling sweetly.  

“So, how is the lady of the hour?”

It’s Maverick that asks from his spot by Bob, his mustache lopsided, his grin on the verge of shit-eating. He’s looking at me now, pushing his aviators up into his inky hair. 

“Cool as a cucumber,” Bob answers for me, distributing champagne flutes while Phoenix doles out shots of tequila, “have you ever seen a more relaxed bride?”

Rooster squeezes my hip, then leaves his hand there, his palm warm against the fabric of my dress. 

I wonder what I must feel like in this dress, under his touch--my skin plush and pressed against the thin satin. It’s thin enough that he must feel the warmth of my hip blooming against his palm, he must feel the nakedness of my skin. 

We are so very near touching skin-to-skin that I’m starting to ache--a deep ache that makes my legs hurt. 

“That’s a good sign, right?” Maverick asks. 

I nod.

Hangman makes a show of shrugging, twisting the stem of his champagne flute between his index finger and thumb, frowning.

“Yes,” Hangman says, “or she’s been trained to remain calm under pressure. Like for a career or somethin’ like that.”

I tut and Hangman grins. 

Another squeeze on my hip from Rooster, but his chest is rumbling with a chuckle as he brings the champagne to his lips. 

“Oh, she’s totally smitten,” Penny says, winking at me, “aren’t you?”

“How could I not be?”

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

“Should we toast?” 

It’s Phoenix who asks, her sculpted brow perched, her lip curled. She’s already holding her flute in the air around us, glancing around at all of our flaxen faces, at our veils, at the faux staches. 

Rooster’s thumb is methodically stroking my hip, never stuttering or snagging on panties. That makes me flush, too. No panties to get snagged on. It’s just a smooth, fluid movement as he holds me against him, his chest solid against my shoulder and his arm tight around me. 

“To the bride and groom,” Penny offers, her smile soft and sweet. 

Maverick smoothes his fingers over his stache and then holds his own glass up. 

“To Rooster and his hen,” Maverick echoes, grinning.

“Oh, Pete,” Penny chastises, “I might ring the bell for that one.”

He shrugs, grinning. 

“I’ve had that in the chamber for months,” he admits.  

I wish I could roll my eyes, I do. But I can’t. I am just grinning, my cheeks round and pink, my wet lips curled around my teeth, my eyes crinkled. 

When Rooster laughs, it puffs my veil in a gust of hot breath. The skin on the back of my neck gooses. 

“To Faye and her fella,” Bob says with his eyebrows raised, his veil is lopsided again.

Penny nods, winking at Bob, holding her glass up towards him. 

“Now, that’s more like it,” she grins at Bob.

I am suddenly so giddy all over again. My heart is sitting in my throat, warm and safe, pulsing. 

Rooster squeezes my hip and I fall back into him, leaning my head back ever-so-lightly against his shoulder.

Being held by him feels like raking a pile of leaves in the front yard of my childhood home, laboring and scurrying with an oversized rake, then jumping into them in the frigid air--hands up, mouth wide open. It’s that split second when all I can smell is that damp rankness of decayed leaves, that sharp peppery smell of earth and death and everything in between. It’s like being held there, the sun shining high and bright in an endless autumn sky. It’s like staying there, the light breaking through the muddled leaves, my gloves handmade and my coat too big and my hair ratty. Being held by him feels like that--all abandonment, all hard work, all blind trust in the solid ground and flimsy barrier between me and the earth. 

“To true love,” Phoenix adds, smiling sweetly, batting her lashes mockingly.

If anyone is able to soften her, it is the people closest to her, the people she loves so severely and thoroughly. She is plush in certain places, the places that she keeps her friends. I know she keeps me and Rooster there, tucking us close, tucking us in.

“Aw, Phoenix,” Bob grins, elbowing her softly, “you’ve gone gooey!”   

I’m laughing, still leaning into Bradley, tickled. 

But then I see it. Hangman is still beside us, his eyes untrained and distant as he gazes past the bar, his mustache perched above his lip, his glass still resting on the bartop as he pinches the stem lazily.

Fuck.  

If the champagne isn’t already making my face hot--my face is fiery now. 

Being engaged hadn’t changed very much for Hangman--not really, no. We’d seen him--really, seen the whole squadron--only sparsely since getting engaged. The first time he saw us, he shook Rooster’s hand, whistled at my ring, congratulated us--did all the things that he was supposed to do. But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

But we are friends--we are good friends. I am someone he calls when he has a question about flowers or baking. He calls me when he needs a rom-com recommendation for a date or when he can’t remember the name of the book with that guy who does that thing and that lady that can’t get there. He calls me when he’s had a very bad day, usually between his second and third bourbon. When he’s had these days, I know not to ask about it because he doesn’t want to talk about it--doesn’t care to. His tell, besides the bourbon-induced enhancement of his Southern drawl, is that he always asks all about my day during these calls on his very bad days.

“Tell me ‘bout your day, sugar plum,” he’ll say, slightly inebriated and severely Texan, “and tell it to me straight. I can handle it.”

Subsequently, I call him sometimes, too. I call him whenever the Longhorns win to congratulate him personally. I call him whenever Die Hard is playing on TV so I can tell him what channel it’s on. I call him whenever I have a question about Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash, which is more often than I ever thought possible. I call him when I want to buy Bradley a nice alcohol and don’t know where to start. Sometimes I will call him and ask for a Crimson and Clover story--and that is usually when I’m between my second and third tequila lavender limeade and Rooster is busy beating all his students in pool.

Now, we are all waiting for him to say something, to add something--anything at all. 

But it isn’t until Phoenix nudges him, her eyebrows pulled together slightly, that he sucks in a breath and comes back into his body.

When he angles his face towards me, all gold-tinted shadows and creases and unblemished skin, he smiles a very charming smile. But his eyes are swimming, the shade of a strawberry stem, and the skin beside his eyes is smooth and uncrinkled--joyless. 

There is just one moment when I’m watching him and he’s watching me, one moment where I see him and he knows that I see him. And then he’s bringing his glass up, letting his eyes fall to Rooster and his body against mine. 

“To the happy couple,” he says, his voice thick and deep. 

And then we all lift our champagne in the air and it is suspended for a long moment, all our pink bubbles racing to the top, all our hearts swollen and our faces smiling. Then we clink and it’s all so sweet-sounding, my love for Rooster being toasted so carefully by the people here that matter the most. 

Our jaws flex, our throats open, our bellies slosh as we empty our flutes. 

Hangman, wiping the back of his hand against his damp mustache, grins. Then he points at Bob, who is settling his empty glass down on the bartop beside Maverick’s. 

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. 

Bob, cheeks suddenly rosy, sighs and blindly reaches up to grab at the mess of tulle haphazardly nestled in his hair. 

“How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

Phoenix cackles, hair fanning out over her thin straps, before she carefully reaches over to Bob. Bob submits instantaneously, hand falling onto the bartop uselessly as Phoenix tuts and reattaches the stubborn headpiece. 

“Beauty is pain,” Bob sighs again, glancing between Penny, Phoenix, and I, “right, ladies?”

It makes me laugh--the kind of laugh that vibrates my chest and makes my lips stretch. It springs from my throat and falls out of my mouth easily. It is a laugh that I didn’t laugh for a very long time after my sister died, a laugh that I had forgotten all about until it was coaxed from me between screaming jets and fistfuls of quarters.

Everyone else is laughing, too. Penny’s already pouring more champagne. Phoenix is rolling her eyes good-naturedly, her hand resting in the middle of Bob’s back. Hangman has his arms crossed now, shaking his head softly. And Rooster’s chest is rumbling against my shoulder, his grip on my hip lazy and sweet, but wholly intoxicating. 

It hurts very suddenly--my chest tightening, heart squeezed in a fist, palms aching. Maggie would have loved that joke-- she loved anything Bob did, loved it when he finally grew comfortable enough to quip and lip.

I can see her now, tucked between me and Hangman, her veil glowing against her dirty-blonde hair and her perpetually-tanned skin. She would have been corralling the crowd right alongside Rooster, announcing my marriage, happily and hastily indulging stranger’s offers of free drinks. But Maggie was better at planning things than sweet Bob--she would’ve laid out a plan for Maverick, telling him to stay far away from The Hard Deck. As much as she would have loved Rooster, she would make entirely sure that the night before my wedding was spent alone with her and our friends. We would’ve danced between games of pool and darts, between stepping out front to catch a breath, between tip-toed trips to the bar.   

It would be at the end of the night, when we would be all nice and liquored up, that she would get emotional. She would make sure that Bob and Phoenix were too drunk to notice, all of us crammed into the back of a noiseless Uber with the windows down, our veils billowing in the breeze as our sweat-slicked skin dried in the nighttime air. She would gaze at me with that sweet, sad look; the one that made her bottom lip quiver and her eyes widen, the one that made her cheeks pale and her throat flush. And then she would smile and it would be a wet smile, one that accompanied tears in the corners of her big eyes. She would tell me quietly, blinking rapidly and swallowing thickly, that there would not be a her without a me. And I would be drunk, maybe too drunk to lift my head, but I would lay against her shoulder and just stay there and pretend like she wasn’t wetting my veil with her tears. And she would let me lay there, pretending like she wasn’t crying.  

If Maggie were here, if she never died, then we would even sleep in the same bed tonight. We would snuggle in my bed, and she would complain that it smells like Rooster and I would grin. And then we would fall asleep at the same time, the way we used to when we were little enough to be carried to bed together in our father’s arms, curled into ourselves and facing each other. And maybe Rooster would stumble in very late, blinking through the dark, squinting at his side of the bed that would be occupied with my older sister. He would be good about it, would just pepper a sweet kiss to the side of my face before he would move to sleep on the couch.  

Rooster kisses the side of my head again, breath warm, pulling me closer to him. I think he wants to settle the wrinkle between my brows, understands that I am faraway, wants to bring me back to him.  

“Y’make me so happy,” Rooster suddenly whispers, kissing the side of my head, pulling me against him tighter, “can’t wait to marry you, baby.”

The bar is alive all around us. Our glasses are full and paid for three times over. Our friends are laughing, their teeth barring as they tilt their heads back and clap each other’s shoulders. The doors swing open every few minutes as more Navymen waltz in, eliciting good-natured chiding and grinning from the gathering crowd. Pool balls clack beneath the insistence of some subpar, tipsy uniforms. My sister is not here, her chipped teeth on display, the freckles dusting her nose glowing in the dim lighting. 

But it’s okay--it’s okay. I can do these things without her, can keep breathing this air that never touched her, love this man that she never met. I can laugh at jokes she would have liked and I can be friends with women that remind me of her. I can have a bachelorette party without her and drink this champagne, can dance without her taking polaroids of me. I can walk down the aisle tomorrow, a lone speck of flowing white dress and flowered hair, and get married. I can do these things, can keep pushing forward, because it is what she would fervently insist on. 

“Not much longer now,” I whisper back, craning my neck to look up at him. 

He’s already looking down at me, eyes soft and warm, smile wide but serene. His hand leaves my hip, comes to cup my cheek, rough thumb gingerly ghosting over my bottom lip. A tingle, one that curls my toes and flutters my lashes, tickles my spine.

The vein over my nose pulses. I love him I love him I love him I love him.  

“Cold feet?” 

I bite my lip, sighing softly, my chest expanding. 

I take a long look at his face painted the color between yellow and gold--just his soft gaze makes me feel drunk. Like bubbles are tickling my tongue, coating my throat, sinking down to my toes. I wiggle them inside my heels--just for good measure. No, not cold. Toasty warm.  

“Not even a little,” I return, kissing his thumb softly.

Hangman’s familiar gaze is burning my blushed cheek. He’s looking at Rooster when I face the bar again, mind still humming, reeling just from Bradley’s thumb on my lips, from just looking at him painted in the dying light.

“What about you, Rooster,” he asks softly, pressing down on his wayward mustache again, “nervous?”

Phoenix is eyeing Hangman, her lips pursed tightly. She finds my eyes and I shrug in a small way, rolling my eyes. It’s fine, I’m saying without really saying, Hangman will be Hangman. And she nods, mirroring my eyeroll, taking a long sip of champagne as Bob watches us with a small smile .  

Common ground. His girls.  

Bob can’t contain himself--he puts a friendly arm over Phoenix’s shoulders, throws a delighted grin in my direction. 

Bob still evokes a distinct maternal feeling from deep within my chest whenever we look at each other. It’s the same feeling I had on the carrier, saying goodbye to him before the Uranium detachment, when I told him to come back to me. He is the closest I have ever had to a brother, the closest friend I had during undergraduate and the Academy. And now, now even though he looks like a more full version of himself with wider shoulders and scruffier cheeks--he’s still my baby. He’s still my best friend.   

I can feel Rooster’s smile above me, can feel his blissful breaths, can feel the warmth spreading through his limbs. He locks an arm around my waist again, burying his nose in my hair as he kisses my head through my veil again. His lips are soft and wet, his breath hot. 

He shakes his head, squeezing my belly gently. 

“Look at her,” Rooster remarks, gesturing to me, “how could I be?”

Hangman is already looking at me, his smile one that is beginning to falter. He is looking at me much too softly, much too carefully, eyes falling from my own to my lips and nose and chin and throat and the flat part of my chest where my necklace is a dot of gold and opal against my bare skin. Maybe he’s thinking about how perfectly it rests there, thinking about how it’s a marker for the exact spot where his palm sat as he guided my rapid breaths. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m wondering about it.  

“You’d have to be an idiot,” Hangman says, shrugging, eyes lingering on my pendant, “and blind. Profoundly blind.” 

My belly aches. My spit feels thick as honey as I swallow, carefully moving to hold my pendant between my fingers. That’s when Jake looks up finally--when he gives me a small grin.

Friends, I’m telling him with my measured gaze, friends, only friends, just friends. 

But maybe we aren’t close enough to share that unspoken language between friends, that one I’ve adapted between quirked brows and bitten bottom lips.   

“You two flatter me,” I say primly, sighing.

Another squeeze from Rooster. 

That invisible string tightens, pulls me closer to him, to his solidness between my shoulderblades.  

Maverick holds his shot glass up and tips it towards Rooster and I again before downing it swiftly.

“Hold your horses, old man,” Rooster chuckles, scrambling to press a tequila shot into my palm.

Once we are all warm with champagne and tequila, when we are all catching our breaths and sucking lime pulp from our teeth, it is suddenly too quiet within our group. Rooster is holding me close to him, chin resting on my head. Hangman is fingering the rim of his beer bottle, eyes glazed.  

Bob breaks the silence. 

“What’s everyone at?”

“Six,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks, “close to seven, maybe.” 

Bob’s smiling. 

“Five,” Phoenix answers decidedly, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m with Faye this time,” Bob says, sighing, taking another sip from his glass.

Hangman and Rooster seem to register what we’re doing. Rooster nudges Hangman very softly and from below, I can feel his grin. It’s very wide and warm--his breath smells like limes now.

“Gotta play catch-up,” he says, “can’t let the ladies have all the fun.”

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

Hangman grins again, the glaze dissipating across his eyes. 

“Sure thing, Bradshaw,” he agrees, signaling another round of shots for the groom's party, “let’s get to it.”

Phoenix finds my eyes, biting a grin, cheeks rosy. She’s good at doing this--reading the room, finding my face, good at pulling me away from the boys and into her. We’re friends now--good enough friends to text almost everyday, sending each other pictures of new ice cream flavors at the supermarket and songs that remind us of each other. Only last week, before she came to town, she sent me Heaven or Las Vegas by The Cocteau Twins after I sent her Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel.

“Let’s dance,” she calls out to me, grinning. 

Rooster, as if on cue, pulls a palmful of quarters from his pocket and drops them into my palm. He presses another long kiss to the side of my head, gripping my hips. He pats my rear slyly, cupping me as I step forward. 

“Give ‘em Hell, baby,” he grins. 

“Yes, sir,” I wink, saluting, taking Bob’s hand in mine as we start towards the floor. 

Maverick, Hangman, Rooster, and Penny are watching us as we slink towards the jukebox again, smiles lingering on their lips, faces friendly and slacked. We leave them there to catch up and I catch Rooster’s eyes one more time, sending him a fleeting wink, as Bob guides my stuttering feet to Phoenix. 

We dance for a long, long while as our veils skew in our flailing hair. We are fielding congratulatory shoulder pats from overly-friendly locals, creatively shimmying past anybody that accompanies us on the dance floor. Bob’s pockets are housing the quarters and he escorts me to the jukebox between trips to the bar, catching his breath as I select songs. Once the men join us, the energy shifts from excited to downright giddy--the men singing crudely under their wet mustaches, hands large on our waists, hair mussed.

The champagne flows freely and beer and cherry wine slosh onto the pool table, empty glasses towering higher and higher with each hour that passes us. Perspiration gathers on our hairlines, especially when the dance floor clogs with passersby and patrons sharing in our glee. 

And all night, as I steadily climb from a six to an eight, I am just blindingly happy. It is the kind of happy that is indiscernible from that sweet spot between wasted and blackout drunk, when my limbs are numb but my chest is warm and my belly is full. It’s when my vision is blurry and my speech is slurring and I’m hiccupping, when I’m being twirled from one pair of aviator’s arms to the other, that I really truly realize how indisputably happy I am. 

We are all giddy--on the cusp of a great change. Come tomorrow, I will be a married woman. I will make Rooster a husband. He will make me a wife. My name will be lengthened in a most ceremonious way. I will be Faye Leona Ledger-Bradshaw. There will be another Bradshaw in the world tomorrow --or when my paperwork is finalized.  

“Faye Bradshaw,” Phoenix grins in my arms, chewing the name with her nose scrunched and her hair flailing around her in strains of dark ribbon, “sounds like you’re about to drop the hottest country album of the year!”

Boogie Wonderland by Earth, Wind, and Fire is pulsing through the bar.

Everybody is singing along, elongating notes, stomping offbeat and tumbling over each other, spilling their drinks and throwing their jackets to the side--it’s so loud that Phoenix has to shout, lips attached to the shell of my ear. 

“Ha-ha,” I grin back, “I’m stuck on the title. Any suggestions?”

Phoenix thinks so hard that one of her eyes drops in an involuntary wink, her mouth puckered, her cheeks flushed. All around us, we are being danced on and around--a sea of sweaty bodies holding us in place clutching each other. She’s warm pressed against me.

“Flea-bitten Faye’s Folk Songs,” she finally answers, laughing with her mouth wide open and pressed to my ear. 

“Hey, that’s good,” I call back, feeling drunker than before as giggles fall from my parted lips, “you came up with that just now?”

“Yeah!”

“Color me impressed, Nix!”

She grins and I take her warm hands in mine and spin her around a few times, her velvet reflecting the lights above us with a blue reverence, the crowd around us hardly parting as she throws her open arms around her.

When I pull her into me again, we accidentally fall into each other, chests colliding. And then we’re giggling all over again, sweaty hands still clasped as we try to half-heartedly fix each other’s veils. 

“You two are a mess,” Bob suddenly calls from beside us, his very own sloppy grin eating his face as he breaks through the crowd to stand beside us, “drunken skunks!”

Phoenix shakes her head at Bob, stumbling to her tip-toes to put a faux-indignant finger in the middle of his chest. 

“Oh , wizzo,” she starts with a chuckle, “if I was drunk--could I do this?” 

We wait for a moment--she doesn’t move, stays in her spot with her pointer finger buried in Bob’s chest, her lips puckered, her eyes glossy, her cheeks red, her hair messy.

“I think so?” Bob says, eyebrows furrowing, “You didn’t do anything.”

She shrugs, falling back on her heels with mild difficulty. 

“Exactly,” she grins, crossing her arms, “you’ve been Traced, bitch!” 

“Phoenix!” 

It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it--I sound like a bewildered mother who’s just heard her toddler curse for the first time, all breath and pitch and red cheeks.  

Bob glances at me with a knowing grin, putting a hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to steady her in her place before him. 

“She gets like this when she’s drunk,” he tells me, “this ain’t my first time being Traced.”

She pats his chest, cocking her head, smirking. 

“Or your last!” 

And all night, as I am passed from Bob to Hangman to Rooster and to Maverick, my feet never even so much as catch a breeze. I am most sure about Rooster, more sure about him than I’ve been about anything in my life. Even as I glance at him from Maverick’s arms during I Say A Little Prayer , even as I watch him dance with his shirt unbuttoned and his aviators low on his nose, even just watching the blush across his cheeks as he twirls Phoenix--I am very, very sure about him. 

“He’s a good man,” Maverick says, smiling softly as he follows my gaze, “wish I could take credit for some of that.” 

  He is holding me very softly, only secure enough to keep me from tripping over my own feet. He smells of leather and cigar smoke and gasoline, which I think is permanently his scent--diffusing from his body at all times.

I smile at him, too, dragging my eyes away from Rooster. 

Maverick’s mustache is crooked above his lip, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulder where Bob accidentally spilled beer on him. He’s holding my hands politely as we dance. He’s sober--his hands are my guide, the solid ground I’m standing on. 

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” I tell him, teasing, “just most of it.”

Maverick’s chest rumbles as he chuckles--it feels deep and loud. He finds my eyes again and I know that I must look very drunk, very happy. 

Everything is bleary. Everything feels good. 

I’ve been Traced three times to Bob’s four. 

Maverick nods softly and my heart pulses. 

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time,” he tells me, suddenly somber, “you two are good for each other. You make him happy.”

I hiccup--a bubble of emotion bursting in my chest suddenly. It makes me feel tipsier, the love that pulses through me--Maverick’s words ringing inside my buzzing skull with Aretha Franklin.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice thin, “I really love him.”

As if it wasn’t already apparent--wildly apparent--to every person in the room. 

“Oh, I know,” Maverick grins, swiftly swiping an accidental tear from my cheek, “everybody does.”

“People keep telling me that,” I whisper, smiling softly. 

Maverick laughs again, smile bright. 

“Goose and Carole would’ve been in love with you,” he tells me, keeping his tone light and airy as we spin together, “especially Carole. God, she wouldn’t be able to get enough of you.”

That makes my throat ache. I understand it, understand how utterly gutting it is to know something so intrinsically but be unable to prove it because of the thin veil between the living and the dead. I believe Maverick--I do. I know that he believes it as firmly as I believe that Maggie would have adored Bradley, very thoroughly and completely. 

And that makes my eyes water again. 

“Well, I can’t get enough of their son,” I say and my voice cracks because I want to weep, “he’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

Maverick quietly rids my cheeks of a few more tears, not making a fuss, not making light of it. He’s smiling, his own eyes watery, his cheeks flushed. He squeezes my hands softly. 

“Funny,” he says, glancing at Rooster again, “he says the same thing about you, sweetheart.”

It’s after midnight--after Rooster beckoned me to him in the middle of the crowded bar by playing The Bridal March loudly, head tilted as he laughed, fingers skillfully thrusting the keys despite his intoxication--when Bob, Phoenix, Rooster, Hangman, and I tumble through the front door of my home. We are all giggles and crooked mustaches and veils, wet lips and flushed chests. 

The house is quiet and dark, but we all sigh in unison as we step onto the entryway tiles. It still smells like the perfume I spritzed on my skin before I left, like pink pepper and raspberry. And I know we all smell like The Hard Deck now--our skin stained with beer and champagne and sweat. 

Rooster is the first to slip his shoes off, the first to turn and smile at everyone else in the mostly-dark entryway. 

Him and I are the only ones that can navigate in the dark--the only ones that will be able to venture up the steps to the living room. This is his way of saying I’ve got it, baby. I’ve got it.  

“Shoes off,” Rooster instructs, slurring lightly, “I’ll hit the lights.”

“These boots might never come off,” Phoenix warns, half-moaning, half-laughing, “I had to suck my calves in to get them on.”

“What,” Hangman sputters, laughing, “how did you do that?”

Bob groans. 

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Hangman asks sweetly. 

I’m pressed against the front door, grinning, holding myself steady when Rooster finds me in the dark. He presses a short kiss to the crown of my hair before smoothing my veil again, his touch less focused and lazier now that he’s at an 8.9--which he announced to us just as we climbed out of the Uber.

“Happy wedding day, sweet thing,” he whispers to me, kissing the shell of my ear, “my gorgeous girl.”

I lock my hands around his neck for a moment, thumbs carefully stroking the edge of his curls. His skin is warm beneath my fingers and when I start to hoist myself up on my tip-toes, he ducks down and meets me halfway, wrapping his arms around my waist. 

It’s a sweet, sweet kiss--lazy and hungry and happy. 

We are getting married today.  

“Happy wedding day,” I mumble softly against his lips, biting a grin as his mustache lightly scratches my Cupid’s bow, “I love you.”

Then he leaves all of us hiccupping and giggling as we struggle with laces and zippers. It isn’t until Rooster successfully stumbles upstairs and flickers the living room lamps on that I can finally survey the lot of us, holding my heels in my hands.  

Bob and Hangman are resting with their backs against the other’s, their leather shoes discarded haphazardly before them, their socked feet stuttering as they sway lightly. They are most definitely drunk--especially Hangman, who was just drunk enough to offer me his lap when we found there were not enough seats in the Uber.    

Phoenix is falling onto the stairs, butt-first, before she extends her legs with a frown. She grips the wooden steps for leverage and then finds my eyes, hers distant and glossy, her smile wet. 

“Help,” she laughs, kicking her boots lightly, “I’m stuck.” 

Distantly, there is the small scratching sound of a match striking and I know Rooster is lighting candles while Bob and I kneel before Phoenix, each tugging a leather boot as she throws her head back laughing, knuckles white as she holds on.

“I think I’ve had a dream like this,” Hangman said, “but there was less clothing.”

Bob grins at Hangman over his shoulder. 

“You dream about me?” Bob teases, smiling sweetly. 

Rooster guffaws upstairs.

The tile is cold against my knees but I press myself into the floor further, knuckles white as I grip Phoenix’s thick heel. I can feel how warm her skin is even through the leather--her cheeks are flushed.  

“Hangman, come pick a record,” Rooster says, leaning over the landing to watch as Bob and I try again to tug off Phoenix's merciless boot. 

My sides are starting to ache from all that laughter--all that throat-vibrating, chest-hollowing laughter. And my cheeks are sore from grinning, my lips still stained with lavender syrup and pink bubbly. 

Hangman steps over and around Phoenix, staggering slightly and nearly tripping over her extended ankle before I reach out hastily and steady him, gripping his elbow with one hand while I hold Phoenix’s boot in my other.

“Y’alright?” I ask, furrowing my brow, swallowing hard.  

He throws me a grin, winking, regaining his posture. 

“Right as rain, sugar plum,” he moans, slinking his arm away, grasping my hand, “you?”

Then he brings my hand to his lips and presses a sloppy kiss to my knuckles--his lips are too hot, too wet. Yes, he kisses my forehead in greeting when he sees me, but it is still a measured kind of kiss--polite enough. It is the kind of kiss that wouldn’t make me bat an eye if someone other than Hangman insisted upon doing it each time. But this kiss now, as he’s standing in the stairwell, looking down at me--it feels different. It feels like the barrier that is between us has suddenly been seized and he’s taking advantage of the empty air around us now.

I drop his hand, shaking my head softly, the vein across my nose beginning to throb.

“I’m good, Jake,” I laugh, “now, pick something jaunty so we can pop a bottle of prosecco.” 

Another fleeting glance thrown over his shoulder, one where his smile is bright and his eyes are shining, one where his cheeks are pink and his gaze is broad. Then he is climbing the steps, gripping the handrail. 

Bob is doubled over, giggling, his glasses falling down his nose as he attempts to pull the boot again. Phoenix is groaning, eyes clamped shut, limbs much looser than usual as she grasps for purchase.

The boot will not budge.

The sight makes my heart swell. I love them so much--have missed them entirely too much since they’ve been gone. Want so badly to keep them here in my house, close to me, close to Rooster.  

I sigh, grinning, hands on my hips.

“These just might be your feet now, honey,” I tell her, tapping her heel.

“No,” she moans, “my bridesmaid dress won’t match!”

Bob releases her heel and straightens his back, his hands finding his hips identically.

“We might have to amputate,” he sighs, wiping his brow.   

“Put your back into it, Floyd,” Phoenix groans, “and pull your weight, Ledger! Can’t just stand there!”

“Sounds like someone’s gettin’ Traced down there,” Rooster calls from upstairs. 

I can hear that dopey grin, that chuckle sitting smoothly in his throat. 

And it’s such a stupid thing to say, such a stupid joke to make, but we are all grinning--even Phoenix, who’s sputtering through her ground teeth. Yes, I want to marry Rooster--I want to marry the idiot who calls down the stairs like this. 

It is less than an hour later when Rooster drags one of our kitchen chairs away from the table and into the living room, its worn legs groaning under its own weight, the sound nearly drowned out by the laughter echoing off the picture frames clogging the walls. This room is alive with love--lamplit and painted pink and orange. There are candles lit; green and blue taper candles dripping down to their brass holders and iris-scented candles in expensive clay-molded vessels. It’s warm in here--warm enough that Phoenix finally cracked a window, sighing when the nighttime air slid into the living room. 

Got To Give It Up by Marvin Gaye is thumping through the speakers--Jake’s pick.  

“Who’s first?”

I ask this very softly, my cheeks flooded with warmth. I am holding a hair of kitchen scissors in one hand and an almost-empty glass of prosecco in the other. I don’t remember who first brought up the idea of me cutting everyone’s hair--but I know that it was born from Jake’s complaint about not having time to get a trim before leaving North Carolina. 

Phoenix is stretched out on the couch, her feet resting in Bob’s lap as he lounges against the cushions. Hangman is sprawled on the floor before the sofa, leaning his head on Phoenix’s hip. Rooster is standing beside me, eyes heavy and lips wet.

We’re all smiling, still drunk, limbs heavy.

“Me,” Bob decides, carefully slinking out from under Phoenix’s feet, settling them on the couch as he stands, “nothing we haven’t done before, right?”

“It’ll be just like old times,” I whisper, handing Rooster my glass as he presses his lips to the side of my face shortly. 

Bob’s smiling in that friendly way, his eyes nearly disappearing as his closed lips curl, his cheeks pink. He smooths a hand through his locks as he falls into the kitchen chair, leaning back.

“Just a trim,” I whisper to Bob, patting his shoulder. 

Bob nods, head heavy as he leans back. 

“You ‘member how I like it?”

I hum, carefully raking my fingers through his silky locks after I disengage his veil. It’s still the longest I’ve seen his hair, curling by his ears. He groans very quietly, skull even heavier as he leans into my touch. 

“‘Course,” I whisper, “you were my best customer at Temple.”

He sighs, lips twitching. 

“Only customer,” he adds.

“Don’t forget that I’m holding scissors right now,” I mumble to him, smiling softly, chomping the scissors a few measly times to get my point across. 

Rooster and Hangman laugh from their spots on the floor. 

This is what Bob and I used to do in Philly, when he was too poor to afford a haircut and I loved him too much to say no. We would drag a chair into my kitchen--the only room in my apartment with tile--and lay ratty beach towels on the floor. He would pick a record--Elton John or Etta James or Dion--and then he would sit very still as I carefully trimmed his hair with dull kitchen scissors. He would lean into my touch when I compared symmetry and I would laugh and he would throw in an extra few dollars if I played with his hair. 

And now I’m doing it again, very early in the morning of my wedding, the night sky still wrapped around us. We are both older now, settled into our careers, settled into our friendships, living in different states. He can definitely afford a haircut now--could even go to a nice salon if he wanted to. Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

Carefully, I begin to trim his hair, my chest very warm and heavy, my eyes still bleary and soft. The light in here is golden and low, but it’s enough for me to navigate his familiar locks. 

“Isn’t this a full-circle moment,” Bob muses, eyes falling shut beneath his glasses, “you, me, a kitchen chair, and a pair of scissors?”

A fist wraps around my heart. 

“That’s the name of your porno,” Hangman quips. 

I tut, shooting him an amused glance as Rooster shakes his head. Hangman grins at me, his mustache finally discarded. Phoenix, who is half-asleep now, thumps Hangman in the back of the head. 

“Now you’re my man-of-honor,” I smile, pulling his hair between my fingers before I cut very carefully. 

“And you’re marrying my best friend,” Phoenix mumbles from her spot, muffled by the velvet sofa.  

Rooster pats her back gently and she smiles sleepily, eyes half-shut. 

“I think we’re losing her,” Hangman grins, “she’s calling Rooster her best friend.”

“Hey,” Phoenix whines, “he is my best friend. Chicken guy.”

“Ah,” Rooster chuckles, “there she is.” 

I nod, scissors still gliding through Bob’s hair gently. 

He doesn’t move an inch, but I know he’s grinning, too.  

“You sober enough to cut my hair next?” Jake asks softly. 

I nod again without breaking my gaze from Bob’s locks. 

“Then me,” Phoenix adds, voice low, “can’t forget ‘bout me.”

“Couldn’t forget about you,” I grin, shaking my head, “you, too, Bradley? Taming the mane?”

He’s looking at me from his spot on the floor, Stevie curled into his lap as he carefully scratches her head. She’s purring beneath the spinning record, leaning into Rooster’s touch. Bitch. Rooster’s eyes are hot on my cheek, watching as my expression glides from gleeful to serious while I gently cut. 

“Thought that was implied,” Rooster teases, “you know, saving the best for last and all that.”

Blindly, Phoenix reaches out and thumps Rooster on the back of the head.

“Sap,” she insists, sighing deeply.

There’s a beat where no one talks. 

Rooster rubs the back of his head with a smile still gracing his lips, Phoenix’s hand falling onto his shoulder good-naturedly. Hangman is watching us, still--watching the fragments of Bob’s hair fall onto the shoulders of Bob’s shirt.

“So,” Hangman grins, turning to Phoenix, “tell me more about Flea-bitten Faye.” 

“Well,” Phoenix sighs, eyes half-shut, “she’s only the fastest gunslinger in all of the West.”

And then the three of them are laughing, humming, chuckling.  

Phoenix is half-asleep in her spot, all her sentences muffled by her mouthful of couch. Rooster is nodding and Hangman is smirking. 

Phoenix is so much like Maggie right now--the main source of entertainment, the life of the party even when she’s half asleep. Even after coming home from the bar, Maggie would still read people’s palms and tell them their fortunes, pulling a pack of tarot out of her purse. She was the kind of person people would look to when they needed a laugh--needed something, anything to be reminded of the good nature of humans. 

“She’s just like Maggie sometimes,” I whisper to Bob, pink dusting my cheeks, “it’s uncanny.” 

“Wish Maggie was here,” Bob whispers to me softly, suddenly.

I’m the only one that hears him.  

I know he does. I do, too. She would’ve liked to have been here right now. 

She used to sit on the kitchen counter and watch me cut his hair, sometimes ripping a gasp from her chest to scare poor Bob. She used to beg to cut his hair too and he would never let her, somehow evading her cowering bottom lip and big, wet eyes. 

“Faye’s the only hairdresser in my life,” he would say calmly, “end of discussion!” 

She would’ve done a terrible job if he ever let her cut his hair. The kind of terrible that is really, truly only remedied by a buzzcut and an apology.

If she was here right now, she would be next in line. Maybe she even would’ve been drunk enough to let me cut a lot of hair off--maybe she would let me cut it to her shoulders or her chin. And instead of regretting it when she woke up, like any normal person, she would’ve leaned into it entirely--snipping a few stray hairs in the bathroom mirror and smoothing it with oil. She would look beautiful, too--a reckless, stupid, apathetic kind of beautiful. 

I’m too drunk to cry right now, though. So I just keep trimming, smiling. I’m trying to hold these thoughts of her, this grief in my chest, with grace--not only for myself but for Bob, who loved her as much as I did, who lost her as much as I did.

“Me too,” I return quietly, “you know she would’ve been reading everyone’s tarot right now.”

Bob smiles--his face is slack, serene. 

“And antagonizing Bagman.”

Yes, she would have. She would have been making up her own meanings for the cards, quietly cursing under her breath when she revealed them, grimacing as Hangman watched her carefully. She would’ve really put on a show for him. 

“Well, I’m sure there’s another meaning here,” she would’ve mumbled to herself, biting a smirk, “the Death card doesn’t have to mean Death. I think...”  

When Bob is pleased with my work, his grin pink and wide in the bathroom mirror, he thumps Hangman softly on the back to replace him before he settles on the couch again. Rooster ambles to the record player at the same time, kissing my nose and squeezing the curve of my waist before he flicks through the records. 

Jake sinks deeply into the wooden chair, which groans under his weight. He’s still in his jeans and button-down, except now it’s almost entirely unbuttoned and leaves little to the imagination. He sits with his legs spread apart wide, hands resting on his denim-clad thighs. 

“Hey, cowboy,” I whisper, softly skimming against his scalp, vein across my nose throbbing, “what’re you in for?”

He has almost the exact same reaction to my touch as Bob--his head is very heavy beneath my fingers, his eyes slipped shut blissfully, his lips parted. A small groan falls from his lips, even. I think it is pride that I feel deep in my gut, a strange sense of pride that stems from my ability to dismantle brick-walled guards. 

“Trust you, sugar plum,” he whispers, “couldn’t steer me wrong if you tried.”

I want to scoff--really, I do. But I am too fond of him to scoff, even if he’s smirking lightly, even if he’s cracked an eye open and he’s peering at me through his lashes. 

“Right,” I whisper, shaking my head, “we’ll just clean you up, then.”

Rooster carefully lifts the record player’s needle and places it on his choice. Sound floods the room--at first that static that makes me think of my sister’s laugh, but then a familiar song.

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen is playing now. 

“Are you calling me a dirty boy?” Hangman asks, grinning. 

I sigh, shaking my head. 

“We’ve gotta start a jar or something,” Bob groans from the couch, “he can’t keep getting away with this.”

“Hangman’s Horny Jar,” Phoenix suggests. 

I don’t look, but I know that Rooster is nodding, know that Phoenix and Bob are pressing their knuckles together. 

Carefully, I begin to trim Hangman’s blonde hair, his head heavy, his face slack. His hair is smooth like Bob’s, but thinner and finer. It is different than Rooster’s, which is thick and coarse and much darker. It’s soft in my grip, beneath the pads of my fingers.  

He’s humming along to the song, lashes fluttering, Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks nice like this, head tipped back and jaw flexed. He looks relaxed--looks very kind, very soft. This is the Jake that I like, the one that sits in kitchen chairs and doesn’t micromanage haircuts. 

“We get married in about fifteen hours,” Rooster announces as I bite my lip hard. 

There’s that flush again, spreading from my chest to my belly, that tight grip around my pulsing heart. 

Bob and Phoenix cheer quietly, whistling, clapping. Not a moment later, they both stand at the insistence of Rooster and meander down the hallway to get ready for bed. And not a moment after that, Rooster comes around to kiss my cheek and tell me he’s going to take a quick shower before his haircut. 

Then it’s just me and Hangman, my hands in his hair and his throat hot. 

I know he’s going to say something before I even really know--I can feel it sitting thickly on his tongue, can feel it between his cheeks, crunched under his molars. I think about announcing another unsavory fact, but wonder if I’m jumping the gun--I am drunk after all, very drunk. 

“Fifteen hours,” he echoes quietly, eyes still shut. 

That’s all he says at first. I just hum in response, sighing. 

“That’s what they tell me,” I say. 

He nods, eyebrows slightly furrowed. A beat passes--just the sound of Leonard Cohen and scissors slicing hair surround us.

“This song is about someone else’s wife,” I whisper and I don’t know why I say it, but I do because it’s true and the song is too soft and it is too quiet here. 

Hangman’s eyebrows pinch.   

Fuck.  

“Always thought this was a love song,” he muses quietly, his voice tinging on ragged. 

I swallow, eyes heavy. 

“It is,” I respond. 

The silence almost swallows us whole--we are almost in the belly of the beast.

And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind 

“Rooster’s like a brother to me, you know,” he starts, voice soft. 

His breath is bated. I know he wants to say more, needs to say more. 

Please don’t say anything else. Please let that be the end of it. I am begging him silently, desperately. Please be quiet. 

But he still hasn’t learned this secret, silent language. He is not like Bob and Phoenix, doesn’t absorb the fire in my eyes, the twist in my lips. He can’t look at my face and know exactly what I’m going to say the way they can.    

He inhales sharply and my belly flips. My fingers are steady, though. 

“But I would do anything to have met you before him,” he whispers, “terrible, demented things.”

He cracks an eye open when my fingers fall from his hair. He wants me to laugh--I know this. But I can’t laugh right now. My throat is too dry. I can’t laugh because I know that he is mostly serious--I know that he wants to be with me. And I do not want to be with him.

This sobers him in a small way. 

He clears his throat, eyes slipping shut again.

“In another life, I guess,” he mumbles quietly. 

I nod, finding his hair again. 

“Maybe,” I whisper to him and it feels like the only thing I can say. 

Another beat. 

“If I had met you before,” he starts, licking his lips, “do you think you could’ve loved me like you love him?”

My fingers are suddenly cold. Fuck.  

I sigh deeply, a sigh that touches the innermost parts of my belly and chest. 

“God, Jake,” I say softly, “can’t you just be quiet and let me cut your hair?”

He shakes his head. No, he can’t just be quiet and let me cut his hair.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him, snipping here and there gently, “really, I don’t.”

He inhales deeply, chest expanding below me. He leans back, too, in a measured way so the top of his head is nestled against my ribs. It is a touch light enough to be innocent, an accident; except that I know it is not. I know he’s drunk. I know he’s drunk enough to stumble and maybe drunk enough to throw up, even. But he is not drunk enough to touch me in these small ways accidentally, not drunk enough to forget about this thing that lies between us and swallows him, only him.  

He swallows thickly, eyes still closed.  

“Maybe I should get it out of my system before you’re someone else’s wife,” he muses, “you don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just talk.”

Someone else’s wife.  

I want to yank him back by his hair and tell him that he needs to get his shit together. I know it’s what my sister would have done for me. But it is not in my nature--I cannot do that. So I just sigh. I don’t say yes and I don’t say no, the same response I had for the ten months after my sister died, the same response that got me into trouble. 

“I think ‘bout you all the time,” he admits softly, “when I’m tired, when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m drunk--’specially when I’m drunk.”

It’s my turn to take a bated breath. My fingers are frigid, but I’m still able to keep my grip on the scissors and trim gently. His eyes are still closed.

“Wish I would’ve met you a long time ago,” he continues, “like, way before the mission. When you were still flying. Think I could’ve charmed you, sugar plum. Think I could’ve loved you right.”

This is when he finally opens his eyes--they are very deep, his pupils blown. He’s just looking up at me and I’m looking down at him, scissors still moving through his hair. He’s searching my face, eyebrows knit. 

My belly is aching, my spine prickling.

“I have to say it,” he tells me, his voice strained.

I know what he is going to say--wish fervently that I didn’t.  

“You don’t,” I return just as quietly. 

He blinks, cringes like he’s in pain. He sucks in a breath, lips parting. 

“I do love you,” he tells me. 

A lightning bolt strikes my chest and sizzles my skin, burns my hair. 

It is what we’ve been dancing around since we first met--what I’ve been able to dismantle and dodge. But I am too drunk to dismantle it, to dodge it. Now it is sitting in the air around us and we are alone in here. An admission, a big one, one bigger than both of us.

“Stop it,” I whisper, hands falling from his hair as my brows come together. 

He continues, though, licking his lips. 

“I would never try anything with you ‘cause I respect you too much, Faye. I respect you more than anyone, kid,” he tells me, coming up to grasp my wrist, “I think you’re my favorite person. I do love you. I do.”

Swallowing thickly, I just shake my head. I don’t know what to say to him and my throat is tight and my chest is tighter. So I just look down at him, at his gaze, and shake my head.

“You’re drunk,” I try. 

He nods. Fuck.  

“So are you,” he says, “and I mean what I said.” 

I do not love him like he loves me. Not even a fraction of myself does--not a particle of skin or a follicle of hair or a fallen eyelash or the toenail on my pinky toe. Top to bottom, side to side, head to toe; I love Rooster. Only Rooster. 

“Why can’t you just be my friend?” I whisper. 

He swallows, shaking his head softly. His grip on my wrist tightens slightly, not enough to hurt me, but enough to keep me close to him.  

“I am your friend,” he says, “of course I’m your friend.”

A long beat passes. Somewhere else in the house, the shower turns off, the constant hum abruptly pausing. Rooster will be back soon. 

“But it’s not enough for you?”

He stares up at me--his gaze is earnest, frightened. It makes me want to go outside and drink up all the air out there. It makes me want to stand beneath the star-sprinkled sky, skin goosing in the nippy winter air. 

“It can be,” he insists softly. 

I sigh. 

Another beat passes.

“It’s enough for me,” I nod, “you know that I think you’re a good man. Be a good friend.”

This makes him close his eyes in that unintentional way, when he just can’t look at me anymore, when they seem to flutter shut in a sharp, pained way. He turns his cheek, chin tilted towards the floor. 

“I’m trying,” he says. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Try harder, Jake.”

And I’m pushing him right now, I can feel it. I’m pushing him because I love him so much, love that he calls me on his bad days, love that he watches whatever Meg Ryan movie I tell him about and never brings his dates carnations. 

He nods one time, a slow and sad kind of nod.

“You say it like it’s easy,” he whispers and then he sucks in a big breath, “and you know what? Maybe being your friend isn’t enough for me, Faye. Maybe it’s just not.” 

And my chest feels like it’s been blown wide open suddenly. Because as much as I know that there are feelings in his chest reserved specifically for me, that there is a place between his ribs where pieces of me reside perpetually, as much as everyone can chide about it, as much as we all  laugh about it--I did not think he would ever say it. We have done this dance since we’ve met; he spins me out and I let go of his hand, he pulls me close and I turn my cheek, he dips me and I slip from his grip. He has never said it--never explicitly said the words, even if they were implied. But now my chest is open and wide because he is my friend--a good friend, a close one. One that I need, one that I want. It feels like that’s slipping away suddenly--like I am losing him.

“Don’t do this to me the night before my wedding,” I beg, “please, Jake.”

He sighs and brings one of his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. 

“I’m not tryin’ to do anything, kid,” he says softly, “I had to say it.”

There’s that insistence again; he had to. He had to.

“So, what now?” I ask softly, “you say that and I don’t say it back and now we’re supposed to move forward, keep going?”

He groans softly and it’s muffled by his palm.

“Dunno,” he mumbles, “didn’t think that far.” 

He’s still rubbing his face. He still sounds drunk. 

“You’re one of my best friends--!”

“--Yeah, I get it, Faye. Friends,” he says curtly, staring at the floor, leaning forward in the chair, “you don’t have to twist the knife, darlin’.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. I wonder, just for a second, if I have stepped into some alternate timeline. One where he has admitted his feelings and we are both too drunk to do anything about it and he will not be my friend anymore after this. 

“Well, that’s not fair,” I whisper finally. 

He groans quietly into his palms, still not meeting my gaze. 

“Do you think this is fair to me,” he whispers, “because it’s not. This has never been fair to me.”

The house feels very still, very quiet. I feel like we are the only ones here--like everyone else left and we are entirely alone. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” I tell him, my voice thin, “what can I do?”

And I’m being entirely truthful now--of course I don’t want to lose him. We are friends now, have been friends since the beginning of it all, even if we really weren’t friends. I am soft with him and he’s even softer with me. His oozing ego staunches when he is alone with me--a facade dissipates, a mask unties and falls. I know that he is himself in front of me, know that he trusts me to see these parts of himself that other people don’t. 

He groans louder now, shaking his head. His voice is dripping with exhaustion, frustration. 

“Nothing,” he tells me, “not a damn thing, Faye.”

That makes me feel like I’ve just dove into a pool of rusty nails. Like I need to be stitched and bandaged, like I need a tetanus injection. I feel like I should be in a hospital bed, blinking up at a white ceiling. 

I’m still standing here in my dress from earlier, the one that is a thin sheath between my bare body and the rest of the world. It is the ballet-slipper pink dress that Jake likes so much, the dress Bradley will take off me soon. I still have my veil on, a genuine marker that I am a bride--the only bride now that Bob and Phoenix are out of the room. My makeup is surely messy, melted by sweat and laughter and small tears. He’s the only one in his clothes from earlier, too--his jeans tight on his legs and his shirt loose around his chest. Here we are, alone, dressed with nowhere to go right now. 

All I can see from here, with my soft-edged vision in this lamplit room, is the back of his head and his neck, his back. He’s breathing evenly, trying to compose himself I think. 

I wonder, fleetingly, if he’s as good at soothing himself as he is at soothing me. 

“Don’t leave me, Jake,” I say. 

It makes me feel cruel almost--saying this to him after what he’s said to me. But I mean that I need him, I really do--just in a different way that he needs me. He was the one that held me together when we thought Rooster was gone, collecting my limbs when they were clicking out of place and flailing with grief. He was the one that promised to come and get me after it all, after everything, after nothing. He was the one that told me his favorite stories of my sister and I that flirted around whatever base he was stationed at in the time before he knew me. He was the one that humiliated me so thoroughly that night on the beach, the one that truly repented, the one that crawled back into my good graces with bloody knees and broken fingernails. He was the one that wanted to be my friend. He was the one that made me care about him, leaning into my fleeting touch and telling me we would do right by my sister when I danced for the first time in The Hard Deck since she died.

Why should I be punished for being loved by him? 

I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. But when he turns in the seat, turns so his legs are facing me, I don’t move away. I should move away. And when he carefully reaches out and settles his hand in mine, I should retreat--but I can’t. It isn’t even that I want him to hold me, but that I know that he needs me to hold him, the way I knew he needed me on the carrier when he was not chosen as Maverick’s wingman. But I can’t get my fingers to curl around his. 

When he looks up at me, his eyes are glimmering sadly, his lips frowning. His eyebrows are knit and his cheeks are flaxen. When he swallows, it’s with great effort. He looks anguished, entirely consumed by grief--the same way he looked when he found me in the hallway outside the control room. 

I know I must not look much different--anguished, heart-wrenched, formerly beautiful. I know my eyes are watery and my brows are pulled together and the flat part of my chest is naked, my pulse throbbing. I know my hair is messy now, longer than it was last May, streaked by the winter sun. I know I must look wrecked right now--glossy and bleary. Drunk and woeful. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

His hand is soft, the skin lotioned. But his grip is hard--harder than it was earlier when he was holding me in place by my wrist. This grip is tighter, more desperate. I still can’t get my fingers to move. I can’t get any part of myself to move.

“What can I do?” I ask again, quieter. 

My heart is throbbing in my throat, threatening to burst out of my neck and lay on the floor in a bloody heap. He is watching me, watching my eyes. His grip is tightening--my fingertips are red and his knuckles are white.

“Love me,” he says, laughing dryly and without a smile. 

I shake my head. 

“I do love you, Jake.”

“Not the way I want you to,” he returns. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.  

Tequila pulses through my temple. 

“C’mon,” I say, “please.” 

I’m waiting for us to step outside of this alternate dimension again. I’m waiting for both of us to wake up, snap out of it. I’m waiting to not feel drunk anymore, but I still really do feel drunk. I’m waiting for someone to walk into the room and take us away from each other. I’m waiting for him to admit that he’s just drunk--that he won’t even remember this in the morning. I’m waiting for something, anything. 

“Can’t keep pretending like I’m not in love with you,” he says decidedly. 

My knees almost buckle, but I lock my hip, transferring my weight to my right side. My mouth is dry, full of sand. 

I want so badly to wake the fuck up now.   

“Why not?” 

My cheeks are red. He laughs another humorless laugh. 

“‘Cause it ain’t fair to me, you, or him.”

He’s right. I know that he’s right. 

He blinks up at me, stubble suddenly wildly apparent as he lets his free hand fall down his face again, pulling his skin towards the earth.

It makes me angry, how pained he seems, how utterly dejected he is. Because he is telling me this on the eve of my wedding, looking up at me with his stubble and his green eyes, and punishing me for not being in love with him. He is telling me these things he knows that I will not say back and making my heart sink in my chest and pretending like it’s hurting him the most.

“So, that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time? Just pretending to be my friend, pretending that you’re interested in anything other than fucking me?”

Fuck. There it is--that bitterness, the unintentional cruelty--leaking out of me.

 He shakes his head rapidly, scoffing. 

“That’s what you got from everything I just said? Jesus Christ, Faye,” he seethes, narrowing his eyes, “I’m not a fuckin’ villain. You are one of my best friends in the world, alright? I am delighted to be your fuckin’ friend, honey. Of course I wanna fuck you--but don’t think for a minute that means I don’t care about you, about being your friend.”

I’m stuck still, my breath a pathetic gust of hot air in my throat--clinging to my trachea. Of course I wanna fuck you. I think I might be sick, I think I might just turn around and walk away and pretend like none of this is happening at all. 

But I don’t think I could wrench my hand from his grip without my skin degloving. 

His eyes hold me in place--narrow, green eyes that watch me like I am the only flimsy flame in a very dark room. My whole body is flushed again--I’m suddenly embarrassed and keenly aware that I am wearing a thin dress with not even the hint of a stitch on underneath it.

His face is red now--his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You can’t say that,” I am able to whisper, my voice thin and broken, “can’t say that to me.”

He doesn’t look away from my eyes--doesn’t let go of me. But he nods. He nods just one time, a solid and short thing. He agrees. Okay. I won’t say that.   

“Just stop,” I suggest defeatedly, “just stop being in love with me.”

He scoffs again, quieter now. His eyes fall to my chest and I know that he’s thinking about being on the carrier with me, holding me together, putting me on the floor, touching my skin, slowing my breathing, blowing onto my fingers. Maybe he’s thinking about it because it was the closest he has ever been to me--probably the closest he will ever be to me. 

“Okay,” he says, equally as defeated, “I’ll get right on that.”

Now it’s very quiet between us. He’s still holding my hand and I’m still just looking down at his face. The clock is ticking on and on, closer to my wedding, closer to me tethering myself to Bradley officially.

He is the one that speaks next. His voice is gravely pensive. His eyebrows are unfurrowed, his eyes wide and swimming as he gazes up at me. He looks sober, painfully sober. He lets go of my hand suddenly, lips parting as his jaw flexes.   

“I don’t know if I can watch you love him forever, Faye.”

It feels like a blow--an upper-cut to the chin, a gunshot to the chest, a firework pelted at my belly. 

When did we get here? When did Jake and I slip into this place, this place he can’t get back from but I can? Why is this so hard? Why is he telling me this fifteen hours before I get married? 

“You’re being cruel,” I say, my voice cracking, breaking.

“I’m being cruel?” 

He asks this brokenly, his tone not bitter and accusatory. He asks this like he really needs me to answer him--like I really need to tell him the truth because he doesn’t know. 

I have to swallow very hard before I can speak again. My hands are shaking.

“What did you expect to happen?”

He knows what I mean. He knows what I’m asking.

Did he think I was going to take his hand and walk out the front door and never look back? Did he think I would pity him enough and just give him a little bit of myself--just a quick and quiet kiss on the mouth, enough to keep him going, enough to keep quiet between the two of us? Did he think that I would suddenly open my chest to him, let him inside, hold him close to my heart? Did he think I would realize that it was him all along--that he is the one I am supposed to be with? 

Or did he just want to punish me? 

There’s that anguished expression on his face again--now I’m the one that closes my eyes, turns my cheek, because I cannot look at him when he looks like that. I don’t like it when he looks at me like that, so sad and broken, so eager for me to put him together again even though I cannot.

But I know then--I know what he wanted to happen. He wanted me to choose him, wanted me to sit shotgun in his truck all the way back to North Carolina, wanted to take this dress off me somewhere dark and quiet, wanted me to just forget about the wedding ticking closer and closer. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck.  

My heart is hammering in my chest.  

“Faye…”

“You’re drunk,” I say again and he is just blinking up at me.

Really, it’s an olive branch that I’m extending to him. Really I am giving him an out so that when I wake up tomorrow, when I slip into my wedding dress and my veil, we can pretend like this only happened because of pink champagne and tequila. 

I’m begging him wordlessly. My face looks like the word please. 

It dawns on him very slowly, deflating every feature of his face. His chest sinks. 

“Yes,” he whispers, “I’m drunk.”

I bring the scissors up and cut one final tuft of uneven hair. 

He stays still, lets me, keeps quiet. 

“There,” I whisper, “all done.”

He turns again, blinking up at me. His cheeks are red. 

My voice is very soft, very quiet when I speak again. It is not an unkind tone that I take with him; I cannot find it in my heart to be bitter and unkind to him. Not after everything we’ve been through--not after everything we’ve done for each other, to each other. 

“Get out of my chair,” I whisper gently, “and wash your face with cold water. Take an ibuprofen. Go to sleep.”  

When he nods, he looks very much like a child being told what to do. He is submitting to me, to my words, letting them guide him. He’s doing as he’s told, carefully moving his eyes from mine and sitting up again, hands still on his thighs.

“So when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to pretend like none of this happened?”

He doesn’t look at me when he says this. He just whispers it with his back turned to me, his eyes trained on the empty stairs before him. He sounds dejected--broken. He sounds like this is the one thing that he cannot handle--if I pretend like this conversation never happened, if I try to dance around all of his words and keep being friends like nothing happened.

“I never said that.”

He nods, but still doesn’t look at me. 

Phoenix moves into the room as he stands up, smiling tiredly before she yawns.

But Phoenix is good at reading the room--good at reading my face, Jake’s face even when she’s drunk. I know the blush has dripped from my cheeks down to my chest, know that my eyebrows are still knit and my mouth is flat. I’m not smiling anymore--neither is Jake. 

Jake is slinking towards the hallway with his cheeks hollowed, his hand raking through his trimmed hair.  

“You okay?”

She asks this when it’s just her and I in the room. 

Her face is clean and free of makeup now, her hair brushed and her veil disappeared. Her dress has been replaced with a Navy sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants--it makes her look soft and small.

I could lie to her--could just smile and say oh, yes, I’m fine. Just tired. Big day tomorrow! But she reminds me too much of my sister, who is the one person I wish was here, the one person who would listen to my qualms and work through them vivaciously. 

When I open my mouth, though--I still feel too empty to say anything. And I suddenly feel that saying what Jake said to me is betraying his trust in me, his vulnerability. He is still my friend. I still love him--just not the way he wants me to. 

My hands quiver as I set the scissors on the coffee table.   

“He’s relentless sometimes,” I tell her, my voice thin, “and I’m too soft. And I’m pretty drunk.”

That’s all I have to say--she nods, registering what must have happened, perhaps thinking that one of his flirtations struck the wrong cord finally. 

Carefully, she shuffles across the floor and around the tufts of hair to sit in the wooden chair. It is probably still warm from his body.  

“I’ll talk to him,” she whispers, “don’t worry about it.”

I just braid Phoenix’s hair--combing my fingers through it and very carefully layering the French braid down her back as the boys file back in the room. Everyone is fresh-faced and in their pajamas, still bleary-eyed and hiccupping lightly. But now it’s mostly quiet as I band Phoenix’s hair, smoothing it with my slick palms a final time before I sigh. 

When I look out to the boys, my head is throbbing smally; I don’t know if it’s because of the champagne or because of Jake or because of the hour or because of the exhaustion flooding my gut. Bob is on the couch, eyes slipping shut slowly as he watches Phoenix climb out of the chair. Hangman is sitting on the floor again, legs stretched out before him once more. But he isn’t looking at my face now--he’s watching my legs, my bare feet. Rooster is standing from his spot on the ottoman, grinning at me, oblivious to the pulsing vein in my head and the strange air between Hangman and I. 

“Ready for me, honey?”

He cups my cheeks, tilting my head towards him, and kisses me a few times. His lips taste minty, his breathing very soft as it fans across my lips. And it’s not that I have to be reminded of this, but he does remind me of it when he does this: he is a good man. He is the kind of person I am ready to spend the rest of my life with. These are the lips I should be kissing, this is the body I should be pressed against. 

“‘M gonna get some air,” Jake says suddenly, standing from his spot and crossing to the back door before I can even detach myself from Bradley. 

The backdoor slams shut behind him, vibrates the kitchen door. 

“Wedding jitters?” Bob guesses quietly from the sofa, shrugging. 

“Probably,” I whisper. 

And it’s when Rooster sits in the chair, when Bob and Phoenix fall asleep in tandem on the couch covered by a wool blanket, when I hear the patio chair scrape against the bricks and know that Hangman is sitting beneath the night sky by himself, that the knot in my chest comes undone. Finally, it is just Rooster and I here, everyone else just figures, just fragments. 

Rooster is so tall that his head rests against my chest when I rake my fingers through his damp hair. He groans lowly, head falling into my palms, lips parting prettily. I just do that for a few moments, let my fingers brush against his scalp and through his sandy curls, carefully detangling them. 

“Not long now,” he hums, peeking at me through a nearly-shut eye, “cold feet?”

I am reeling still from my conversation with Jake minutes ago, reeling from his gaze burning my ankles and feet, reeling from this sudden confession. But I am also very happy--very happy to be marrying Bradley tomorrow, very happy to be having my wedding here with all of my friends. 

I am ready to be Bradley’s wife. I know that we are tied together and have been since before either of us even knew. 

The wedding will be good--perfect, even.   

I’m just drunk. I’m just drunk and one of my best friends broke our unspoken rule and told me that he is in love with me and I told him to wash his face and go to bed.  

I swallow thickly, bringing the scissors up to his hair, grinning widely despite myself, despite my pulsing and aching.

“No,” I whisper, snipping the first curl carefully, “you?”

He chuckles, eyes slipped shut again. He is so beautiful bathed in lamplight, so beautiful when he gives me his weight and lets me hold it close to my body. 

“Should’ve married you a long time ago,” he whispers.  

My eyes water.   

Yes, this is what I want. This is who I want.  

“Rookie mistake,” I whisper to him. 

He grins--it is the grin that I love so much, the one that is molded around a mustache and scars and teeth and tanned skin. It’s a grin that is on the face that I love so much. It makes me set the scissors down, makes me hold his cheeks as I tip his head back, makes me bend at the waist to give him an upside-down kiss. 

“I would’ve married you the first day I saw you, baby,” I whisper into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, “all you had to do was ask.”

☾☽

I am awake before anyone else is in the house--it feels like I’m up before anyone else in California for a fleeting few minutes as I blink at the ceiling, orienting myself. It feels like I’m awake before anyone else in this great, wide world--like my eyes are open before anyone else’s. 

 It’s still dark outside, the calling birds distant and hollow-sounding as they cry for the light. The house is quiet--an easy kind of quiet, a plentiful sort of quiet that accompanies sleeping bodies. The house is the kind of clean that amplifies silence, too--spotless except for the tufts of hair peppering the living room floor, the tufts that must be swept and thrown away.

The dim morning light is starting to obscure the darkness of the bedroom, the maple-scented candle having never been lit in mine and Rooster’s rump to the bedroom late last night after his haircut. The bed is warm from our unwashed skin--the skin that’s pressed deeply into the wrinkles and folds of this linen, this cotton. These sheets are tangled around us, the way they have been since July of 2019. They smell like us now--somewhere between pepper and honey--a scent that was born when we tethered ourselves to each other. 

I am sure that no one in the living room is awake yet--can hear the soft sound of the air conditioner below the puffs of breath and bending limbs. It sounds like they’re dreaming in there. For just a split second, I wonder if Hangman is dreaming about me. The thought makes me pulse all over, makes my throat ache. Thinking about our conversation at all suddenly has bile rising in my throat, threatening to spew if I move too suddenly. I cannot deny the reality of it now that I am awake, blinking at my bedroom ceiling, acutely hungover, achingly sober: Jake is in love with me.

Fuck.  

Filling my lungs, I hold my breath there. I measure the seconds with Rooster’s breathing. Everything’s okay. Everything’s good. I am able to hold myself there, hold myself still, for twenty-seven seconds before my lungs start to burn. 

When I exhale, it’s slow and steady, my fingers colder than they were last night.   

Stevie is stretched out across Rooster’s feet, more fluff than feline, far away in her dreams. Her whiskers twitch when she stretches her paws out before her, but still she doesn’t awaken. This is where she sleeps each night--careful not to drape her tail over my legs or toes. Bitch.   

Rooster is sleeping beside me, stripped down to a pair of briefs, sprawled across the middle of the bed with his mouth buried in my hair in a sweet attempt to reach my throat. He’s holding me close, holding me tight, a thick hand splayed across my belly and an even thicker thigh pinning my legs to the bed. His mustache is tickling the exposed lobe of my ear and I would move if I didn’t treasure those bristly hairs pressed against my skin, if I didn’t love the chill up my spine. His eyelashes are fluttering--they’re gingerly twitching there against the side of my face in accidental butterfly kisses. He’s breathing those loud, hard breaths into my tangled locks--his breath smells like the draft beer he likes at The Hard Deck.

This is how I am going to wake up every morning after this point. Yes, just like this--us entwined on these sheets, him holding me against the bed, me waking up before him. We will not be in this house anymore come September, probably. Come May, we will be packing boxes, staking a For Sale sign in the front yard. 

But not today--no, today we are getting married. 

I am good at getting out of bed without waking Rooster up. I’m good at navigating our room in the mostly-dark morning, good at slipping my robe on silently. I’m even good at navigating the rest of the house in the dark, stepping over piles of hair and sleeping bodies, closing the doors soundlessly until I am on the back patio with just my phone. 

It’s still cold now--colder than it was last night when I ached to be under the sky. The birds are louder now, too--swooping gracefully from one branch to the other, calling gleefully. I can still see the buttery moon hanging in the cobalt sky above; a waning crescent.  

But it is beautiful out here, very beautiful. The brick patio, which used to be a humble square, has been extended beyond its original placement and covers half the backyard now. It gives way to trimmed, green grass perimetered by the tall wooden fence Bradley painted white last month. There are trees, too, dotting the corners of the yard; big, sturdy eucalyptus trees with sage-colored leaves and smoky bark. 

Perhaps the most identifiable change, though, are the flowers that flood the lawn. All over, sprawling and crawling, are flowers. They’re in rows and not in rows, planted wherever we saw fit, growing in an array of colors ranging from indigo to canary to azure. There are all kinds of flowers, too; daffodils, early tulips, breath of heavens, tuscan blues, lilac vines, California poppies. 

Out here, in the nippy air, the flowers emit a most consuming scent. It smells like a picnic on a Sunday morning in the park, like laying on a gingham blanket and sitting beside a wicker basket. Like flicking thick-bodies ants into the freshly cut grass and tearing pieces off a baguette with unwashed hands. Like hard ground against soft skin, like rusty swingsets and idle clouds. It smells like my grandmother’s farm--like running around the haybales with Maggie, like scaring the cows, like eating apple butter on buttermilk biscuits. It smells like hiding behind a big red barn and pulling splinters out of my sister’s palms. 

It just smells like Maggie out here, I think. Like something that is inside the earth. 

I know this is the place I should do it if I’m going to do it--in the backyard that we used to polish wine bottles off in, surrounded by native wildflowers, a chill in the air to offset the heat in my face. I know that this is the time to do it if I’m going to do it--everybody in the world is asleep, everybody in the world is dreaming. I know this is the day to do it--my wedding day, the day we naively spoke about under the false pretense of togetherness, brazenly unaware that we would not be together at all, naive to the delicate pendulum of death that would suddenly strike her. 

So I do it. 

My fingers are cold, very cold. It is hard to bend them, hard to dial the number that I still remember so very well. 619-295-9472. When I press call, her face fills my screen--all chipped-tooth smiles, rosy cheeks, wet lips, tired eyes--just below her contact name: Maggie Moo.  

This grief that sits in my chest has not grown lighter since she died, but my muscles have grown around it--I have pushed forward, bearing the weight, bearing the brunt of it all. And I have not heard her voice in a very long time, not since the last time I called her, which was on the day I came home from the rehabilitation center. I will allow myself this--I will allow myself to hear my sister’s voicemail right now, in this beautiful backyard that will no longer be mine in a few months, on the day that I am going to marry the love of my life. 

The line trills one time and hitches as her voicemail starts. 

“Lieutenant Maggie ‘Crimson’ Ledger is busy right now, sorry! Try calling Lieutenant Faye ‘Clover’ Ledger if it’s really an emergency--or if it’s Bob. Hey, Bob! I guess Cyclone, too. Sir! Okay, so Bob and Cyclone can call Faye if it’s really an emergency--or if you just want to chat, I’m sure she’d answer right away. But if this is, like, a telemarketer or something then you can hang the fuc--”

It cuts off there. 

I used to beg her to change her voicemail, endlessly worrying that she was going to miss an important professional call and find herself in an awkward situation. But now, now that I have my phone pressed against my face and her voice is so close to my ear, I’m so glad she didn’t listen to me. 

She sounds so happy, so alive. She definitely recorded it in the car--I can hear the highway around her, the radio humming distantly. Maybe she was on her way to work. Maybe she was on her way home from the grocery store, ice cream melting inside a paper bag in the backseat. Maybe she was coming here to my house and we were going to watch You’ve Got Mail. I wish I knew when she recorded it, wish I knew where she was and what she was doing. 

I play it again, eyes slipping shut. 

It’s been a very long time since I’ve heard my name fall out of her mouth like that, so very easily, so very casually. It’s the name she said first, before her own name, before mama or dada. It was Faye that she uttered gleefully, grabbing a fistful of my hair as we toddled around blocks on the living room floor. And now it’s recorded for eternity in this voicemail, her voice the same scratchy-sweet tone I remember. 

One day, I worry that she will start to slip away. God, it’s a thought that has crept into my skull in moments between asleep and awake--a thought that’s made a nest at the edge of my brain, nestled between pink folds, burrowing deeply in my mind. I am afraid that one day she will have been gone for so long that I will forget what her laugh sounded like, forget about what her left kneecap looked like, forget what her favorite song was, forget what her face looked like when she was annoyed. It makes tears cloud my eyes each time, makes an impossible knot tangle my gut tightly. Because I don’t want to forget any piece of her at all--even the pieces that don’t matter very much. 

I play it a third time and let it finish, let the automated voice prompt me to leave a voicemail. And for some reason, when the beep sounds, my lips part. 

“Hi, Maggie,” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep and tears, “God, I feel stupid doing this. But this is the closest I can get to you right now, Mags. This is all I’ve got left.”

The crackly silence rings through on the other end. 

I sniffle. 

“Can you believe I’m getting married today? Fuck, that’s weird. Bob’s going to wear a flower crown,” I laugh softly, palming the tears from my cheeks, “and he’s been real good to me, real sweet. Came with me to pick out my dress, helped plan the reception. He offered to walk me down the aisle, too, but I told him I need him to just be the man of honor. I can walk myself down.”

Another beat of silence. The birds call hoarsely above me. 

“The backyard’s lovely,” I start again, sighing, “we fixed it up nice and pretty, planted flowers, painted the house. All that boring shit you would’ve hated. But it’s pretty. And it smells good--smells like you. And I think it’s going to be sunny today, which makes me happy. Guess rain on your wedding day isn’t necessarily common in Southern California, though, huh?” 

I wish she was here, on the other end of the phone, humming along with me.  

“Wish you were here now. I wish you were here right now more than I ever have before,” I whisper and my vision is blurring, my throat tightening, “because I just feel like today isn’t real without you here. I wish you were here to tell me that flower crowns aren’t going to be in style in a few years and that I should have my hair up instead. I wish you were here to drink too much champagne and make an inappropriate speech. I wish you were here to hand Bob a handkerchief--he’s gonna be a wreck. I wish you were here to just tell me what to do. Just want you to boss me around.”

I let the silence on the other end wash over me, let it carve my chest out, let it wring me dry. For a moment, I pretend like that’s her voice. That deep, staticy, hollowing silence.  

“I love you,” I say quietly, “How could you leave me hanging like this, Mags? You bitch. I miss you. So much. So, so much.” 

The tone cuts me off before I can continue, not that there is anything left for me to say to my dead sister’s voicemail. 

I won’t listen to her voicemail again for a long time, won’t be able to hear her say my name, won’t be able to hear her tease me from beyond the grave. I won’t listen to it again until my grip starts to loosen--until I cannot remember which teeth her chipped, which ankle had that tiny butterfly tattoo, which eye she claimed was smaller than the other. Then I will let myself have it again. I’ll let her say my name. I’ll let myself pretend like the silence is her voice.  

It is enough for now, though. Enough for me to stand up and tilt my head towards the rising sun, enough for me to flex against the heavy grief on my chest. I can carry it today--I can hold it in my palms, walk it down the aisle, feed it the cake in the fridge, shower it in prosecco. 

The day begins as soon as I cross the threshold of the kitchen, as soon as my bare foot is flat on the tile. Everyone is suddenly awake, crowding the kitchen, their eyes bleary. 

It smells like bacon and coffee, the way Saturday mornings should smell--the scent is thick and fat, wafting through the air in a cloud almost.

Rooster is standing at the stove, a tea towel slung over his shoulder as he twirls the tongs in his right hand. Phoenix and Bob are sitting at the kitchen table, running over the schedule Bob has so graciously worked out (and typed, printed, color-coded, stapled) with two glasses of orange juice perched before them. Hangman is fiddling around with the coffeemaker, five empty mugs sitting before him on the copper countertop. 

Everyone has bleary eyes and stiff limbs. And everyone’s hair is shorter now--I squint against the light, making sure everyone’s ends are even. 

They don’t seem to notice me for a moment, standing in the doorway with tear-streaked cheeks and my phone clutched in my cold hand. But I’m glad to rest here in the doorway, the glass-paned door cool against my skin, watching these people I love mill around this kitchen I love this early in the morning. 

“Morning,” I greet after a moment. 

Everybody looks up at the same time, snapping to attention like an Admiral is on deck. Their faces are all happy ones--clean, shining, smiling. 

“Good morning,” Phoenix grins, “it’s wedding day!”

I’m smiling now, too--my face feels tight from saltwater, like I’ve been swimming in the ocean instead of just sitting in my backyard and crying on an empty voicemail. 

“Don’t worry,” Bob echoes closely, “we’re gonna make it real easy for you, Faye. Right, Phoenix? Smooth sailing here.”

Phoenix nods rapidly, her hair still somehow braided. 

“Thank you guys,” I smile softly, passing them as I walk further into the kitchen, fingers gently grazing the kitchen table. 

Hangman is smiling softly at me, eyes cloudy and crusted with sleep. His hands are resting on the countertop, knuckles inching towards white as his fingers wrap themselves around his palms. It’s like he’s holding himself there, holding himself back. 

“Morning,” I whisper to him, “how’re you feeling?”

I’m asking him this softly and without secrecy. When he looks into my eyes, he knows that my question extends beyond Bob’s Miracle Hangover Cure. He knows I’m testing the water. He doesn’t know, though, that seeing him makes my heart plummet to my belly like the ground has dropped out from under it. 

“I’ll be okay,” he says. 

And I know that he means that he will make it through today. I know that he remembers last night. I know that he remembers everything he said to me. I know the hurt must still be there, sitting between his shoulder blades in shapes that resemble the curve of my palms. 

“Good. We’re gonna need you today.”

His eyes fall from mine, down to the floor. 

Am I being cruel?  

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

And then Rooster is grinning at me over his shoulder, hair soft and shorter and curly, mustache unkempt, eyes dazzling and crinkled. He hums the wedding march quietly and I pretend that I’m not elated, playfully rolling my eyes before wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Happy wedding day,” he whispers gleefully, kissing the top of my head. 

“And yourself,” I mumble back, closing my eyes against his solid warmth, letting the scent of bacon consume me. 

He hums, still looking down at me. I know without opening my eyes that his brows are furrowed and his eyes are soft, the way they always are when he’s concerned. Big, brown puppy-dog eyes.  

“You alright?” he whispers to me softly, “saw you on the phone earlier.”

My chest tightens like someone is turning a key attached to my back, winding me up.

I can tell Rooster anything--I can tell him everything. I have given him the deepest of my secrets, the ugliest of my stories, and he has accepted them with ample grace and gratitude. He has eaten small pieces of me, devoured them, and I have sat comfortably inside his belly for over a year now. 

Some things, though--they just belong to me. Some things are just mine and Maggie’s. Twin things, sister things, aviator things. And this phone call, placed very early this morning, is just mine and hers. It will be kept between us, just like the gritty details of her death. 

“I was leaving a voicemail,” I whisper, “I’m alright.”

He nods. 

I know that he wants more, but he doesn’t pry. He’s good like that. He doesn’t push or pull me. He lets me lean into him, lets me come to him in my own time. I love that about him, love so much that he waits for me to walk to him without beckoning me--yet wants me so voraciously that I always know. I always know that he wants me, even when he doesn’t say it. It just emanates from him like body heat.  

“Good,” he sighs, “now, will you start toasting the bagels? Looks like Bagman’s gonna need two.”

“You’re a good man, Rooster,” Hangman sighs from his spot, raking his hand through his hair tiredly, “a smart one, too. Perceptive, even.”

And the day pushes forward like that--very easily.

We all eat breakfast together, just the five of us. We eat on my grandmother’s china, pristine eggshell-colored plates adorned with dainty crimson paisley, and good silverware that used to be Maggie’s. There are linen napkins strewn about, serving platters of all shapes and patterns splattered with capers and egg yolk. Everyone is drinking orange juice from mismatched glasses, cream for the steaming mugs of coffee sitting in a glass jar beside the bouquet of fresh flowers that were delivered just after eight. It smells of grease and citrus and gardenia and friends here --smells like home. The sunlight pours in through the windows now, flooding the room, painting everything bright and merry.   

The house starts to fill up just after we finish washing the dishes, just as we are all breaking to wash our faces and brush our teeth. First it’s Coyote, holding a duffel over his shoulder and a cardboard box. 

“Cameras?” Bob asks from the landing as Coyote steps into the house, grinning. 

Coyote nods eagerly. 

“All thirty of ‘em.”

Then it’s Maverick, Penny, and Amelia that show next. They’re grinning, too, each of them fresh-faced and holding their own bags. Just after them, it is Fanboy and Payback, bringing our total up to a whopping eleven guests in my cluttered house. 

It’s all hugging and kissing and smiling as everyone comes up the stairs and reports to Bob for their assignments--which he doles out with a remarkable amount of gumption for a man with slick under eye masks pressed against his skin. Phoenix acts as his second in command, his muscle--she stands beside him with identical eye masks, nodding along with him, clutching her stapled schedule to her chest. 

By ten in the morning, everyone is busying themselves with their assignment. 

Coyote and Hangman are setting up my extensive collection of lawn chairs, dutifully unfolding them and dusting them off as they form rows on either side of the brick patio. Fanboy and Payback are moving the thrifted wooden tables outside, arranging them prettily among the wildflowers and nestled in the green grass. Maverick is dropping a disposable film camera in each seat and helping to set the tables with the china I’ve been collecting, placing silverware beneath dainty linens and colored glass goblets atop the thick wooden tables. Amelia is collecting the flowers, arranging the centerpieces carefully and neatly at the kitchen table in the abundance of makeshift vases I’ve been collecting. Penny is beside Amelia, plucking flower petals off their stems and collecting them in a wicker basket for the ceremony. Phoenix is constructing the flower crowns for the bridal party, looping chrysanthemums, carnations, baby’s breath, honeysuckles, and marigolds. Bob is overseeing it all, stepping in place whenever another pair of hands becomes necessary, and keeping the records turning. 

   Right now, above all the laughter and the glasses clinking and the orders and the conversations, Baby, I’m Yours by Barbara Lewis is playing the way I like it--just a little bit too loud.

The bathroom counter is cold beneath my bottom and thighs, a hardness I am braced against. I am just in a pair of white cotton underwear, my legs smooth and lotioned as they open for Rooster to step between them. He is only wearing a pair of briefs, too--his body is lean and tan, wide between my knees as they press into his hips. His hands, his rough and big hands, fall onto the tops of my thighs where he grips me.

He is close enough to me to drown me in his sweet, familiar scent, close enough for his nose to press into mine when he ghosts his lips over mine. He’s radiating warmth like a personal heater, goosing my skin. He’s smiling down at me, his eyes soft when they land on my own identical smile.  

“Hold still,” I whisper. 

He stills between my legs, kneading the meat of my thighs mutely. 

I bring the scissors under his mustache, very carefully trimming it, narrowing my eyes and leaning forward. His breaths hit my face in short, hot bursts as he rounds his top lip over his teeth to give me more leverage. 

“Doing great, baby,” I add softly.

He chuckles, squeezes my thighs. Little pieces of his sandy mustache flake onto my naked lap, over his splayed hands.  

“Y’take such good care of me,” he whispers, eyes watching mine. 

It makes my throat swell, swell with that love that chokes me. 

I pause my trimming, carefully angling the small scissors away from his cheeks as I hold his jaw in my hands. He is so beautiful, standing here between my thighs, grinning down at me in the golden morning light. His eyes are shining, his grin spreading.

I brush a thumb over his bottom lip, press it there gently. 

“You make it easy,” I tell him, a lump in my throat. 

He presses his lips to mine and we kiss, his hands moving to my hips, pressing me into him. And when his tongue licks a warm line across my bottom lip, I know that I have to be the one to pull away. I do so laughing, quickly bringing the scissors back to his mustache.

“Baby, we can’t,” I whisper, “sex isn’t on Bob’s schedule.” 

“S’cruel to me,” he mumbles, shaking his head. 

I quirk my brow, flit my eyes to his through my lashes as he stills. 

“Well, which is it?”

He pinches my hips again and I bite my lip. 

“So, your heels are blue. The dress is new,” he starts, chuckling when I roll my eyes up to meet him again, lip curving around his uneven mustache, “what about something borrowed? Something old?”

He’s right--I don’t have a plan set in place for either of the customs, something that had fallen off my radar in between thrifting tables and planting flowers.

“I guess I don’t have either,” I say softly, “but I can ask someone for a quarter or something. I’m sure that works, right?”

He’s just gazing down at me now. His eyes, a deep amber hue washing over them, study my fluttering eyelashes. He’s smiling softly, mouth closed. Carefully, he inhales then moves to pepper a soft kiss to my nose. Then his hands move up from my hips to my belly, which is nearly pressed against his. His touch leaves behind a trail of rose petals, the color of an open flame, tickling my skin and swelling my throat. 

He stills there, on my belly. His palm is flat against me, against my emptiness. His thumbs reach up and swipe to follow the curve of my breasts, lazily dancing under their heaviness. His touch feels good--very good, too good. Sometimes it overwhelms me to think about having this touch on tap for the rest of my life. It makes me woozy, dizzy.  

“Noted,” he whispers, “trim me up nice and good, baby. Gotta look my best today.”

It’s almost four o’clock when I step outside of my bathroom again, my heels clumping softly against the emerald tiles then sinking into the carpet. The room is washed golden, the ceiling fan churning the maple-scented air around the room with an empty reverence.   

I’m wearing my dress now, which Phoenix and Penny dutifully helped me slip into, my body almost entirely bare before them. They zipped and tied me, adjusting me, preening, carefully breathing so as not to disturb the delicate silk slinking down my body.

“Here comes the bride,” Penny gleefully says from before me, gesturing to me from her spot outside the bathroom, beckoning me into the bedroom and closer to her.

I have to bunch the fabric in my hands softly, pulling it up just so that it doesn’t graze against the carpet and under my heels when I walk. 

Bob stands to attention suddenly from his palace at the window, his burnt umber slacks pressed and cuffed immaculately. His hair is gelled and his glasses are resting on his nose politely, not a speck on their lenses.

“Oh, Bob,” I grin, “you look so handsome!”

Something happens when Bob sees me--his breath catches in his throat, his smile fades, his eyes flutter before they narrow. And he just looks at me with his mouth ajar, watching me walk towards him, the soft dress like feathers against my skin. 

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Phoenix asks from beside Penny, biting her lip.

My heart is throbbing in my chest as Bob’s eyes find mine. His are watery suddenly, searching my rouged cheeks and painted lips as I stand there before him: a bride. 

And it feels like the day has blinked suddenly by us. 

Bob has made everything so very easy, stepping into the room and guiding me from hair to makeup, bringing my garter to me on a small tufted pillow, showing me the rings in his pocket every half hour for the sake of his peace of mind and mine. He’s been the one to bring me granola bars every two hours, asking me an infinite amount of time if I want a smoothie or a margarita or a xanax.

My Robert from Major Authors--the one who feels like a child to me sometimes, the one whose hair I cut in college in my ugly galley kitchen, the one who has punched precisely one face in his life to defend my feelings, the one who has always loved me without taking more than I give him.  

“Bob,” I whisper, “if you cry, I’ll cry.”

Bob blinks rapidly, sputtering a dry laugh, turning his cheek.

“I’m afraid to know what happens when Bob cries,” Penny says softly, nudging him teasingly.

“I think a puppy would die or something,” Phoenix adds. 

I know this is Phoenix’s attempt at drying our eyes, confiscating our wet cheeks. I know that she would cry, too, if Bob cried--that is how much she loves him. That is how good of friends they are. We are connected in that way again--the common ground spreads and we step closer to each other. 

“I know, I know --no crying in the Navy,” he insists, stepping towards me, running his fingers along the shoulder of my dress, “but my best friend is getting married. S’enough to make a grown man cry!”

Everyone in here is grinning, laughing. The room is still bright in the afternoon light, sunlight painting the wallpaper and duvet. It smells like expensive perfume and hairspray, like sticks of gum and watered down lattes. 

“Why don’t you crown her,” Penny suggests, her voice very soft as she nods towards the flower crowns perched on my bureau, “and we’ll veil her?”

Bob nods, pulling his fingers away softly, his blue eyes big and round as he finds mine again. We just look at each other for a moment, inhaling this bedroom on this day, raising our eyebrows at the same time. You okay? Yes, I’m okay. Are you? I’m good. It’s that language of ours, the one that is all eyebrow and lip and cheek but never sound. 

“Right,” Bob says, clearing his throat, “I’ve got you, Faye.”

It is all very sweet, very ceremonious. Bob places the plush crown against my clean hair, carefully pressing stray strands from my lashes and cheeks, his touch the most gentle its ever been. He is close enough for me to smell the gum between his teeth, close enough for me to press my lips against his cheek, leaving behind a print of my pink lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper to him. 

And then Phoenix and Penny settle the cream-colored veil at the base of the flower crown, letting it flutter down my bare back and settle at the base of my spine in a sprawling cream-colored blanket of silk. 

Then they’re all three standing before me, eyes wet, smiles wide. It makes me flush, all of them looking at me like that, like their hearts are in their throats. So I grin, just grin, because there is an overwhelming sense of pride rushing over my entire being as I look at my bridal party. 

Bob and Phoenix in their corresponding colors, his dress shirt pristine and white, her dress olive-green and flowering around her calves in sheaths of velvet. Even Penny in her floral gown, her hair pinned up, her cheeks glowing. They make me a proud person to love and to be loved by them. 

“Knock, knock,” Jake’s voice suddenly echoes in the bedroom as he turns the handle and raps his knuckles against the door, “y’all decent?”

My heart stutters in its place. We haven’t spoken more than a few words since breakfast. But he was happy then, laughing between bites of bagel, eyes bleary and teeth especially white for the occasion. Other than that, other than his apparent joy, we have only slid past each other in the hallway, waved through windows. He’s been busy getting Rooster ready and I’ve been busy getting myself ready, separated by a few walls and a few members of our squadron.

Jake doesn’t wait for an answer--he comes into the room with a grin, whistling lowly at the bridal party before me, smoothly waltzing towards us with a small velvet box in his hand. 

“Y’all clean up nicely,” he compliments, his trimmed hair coiffed and his stubble trimmed, “where’s your veil, Bob?”

Bob rolls his eyes, not looking away from me, biting a grin. He looks very proud, very pleased.

“Gave it to the bride,” Bob teases back, breaking so Hangman can step between himself and Phoenix, “look for yourself.” 

And that’s precisely when Jake sees me. He stutters in his place, expression dropping completely in a single instant. Fuck. The grin thins and dissipates as his eyebrows slope, his mouth slack. I think I even see the breath in his throat catch, even see his Adam’s apple bob like a buoy in unforgiving, stormy waters.

His eyes wash over me slowly, starting at the flower crown and ending at the velvet toes of my heels. He’s looking at me like this is what he’s been waiting for all day, like he can’t believe that this is happening, like he has to see it to believe it. 

Fuck.  

And when his gaze finally meets mine, his mouth is still ajar and his cheeks are pale.

I think we are close enough friends for him to understand the crinkle between my brow. Please, don’t. Just be my friend. Please be my friend. It’s practically pulsing. 

He swallows thickly. 

“You’re a vision,” he says, his voice ragged. 

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping towards him carefully, “everybody here?”

Phoenix is watching my face, Bob is watching Jake’s. I know they’re wondering--I know they’re trying to decipher, dismantle. I know they want to know what happened last night. But even if I did want to tell them, it makes a lump grow in my throat each time, makes me want to weep. And I am too happy to weep now--too dizzyingly excited, anxious to marry Rooster. 

“Yes,” he says dryly, eyes resting on my throat, “just came ‘round to tell you guys to take your places.”

He turns his cheek carefully, glancing at Penny, Phoenix, and Bob.

“I’ll walk Faye to the door,” he adds quietly. 

What he means is: leave, please.   

They nod, grinning, taking sharp breaths before squeezing my arms and carefully sweeping their eyes over me to make sure nothing is out of place. It’s Bob who catches my gaze again, asking in his silent way if everything is okay, reading the crease in between my brows and the pout in my lips.

Everything’s okay. Everything’s good.    

“See you out there, honey,” Bob says from the door, Phoenix and Penny already walking down the hallway, “you got this.”

Then it’s just Jake and I again. 

Except now I am in a wedding dress. 

The dress is, by far, the most perfect thing I’ve ever owned. It is made entirely of silk, the color of a freshwater pearl, and falls down my body in one heave of heavenly fabric. The neckline dips tastefully, a small portion of the place where my ribs meet peering through the fabric. The sleeves are billow and rouche just past my elbows. It is an elegant dress, a sweet one--one Bob helped me pick out in September, him and I sorting through yards of fabric and bustiers and bejeweled skirts until we found this dress.

“Faye, that’s the one,” Bob had said immediately when I stepped out from behind the velvet curtain, my hair pulled back with a scrunchie and my socks bunched at my ankles, “oh my, God! You look perfect.”  

I know that I look beautiful right now. I know without even studying myself in the mirror that I look beautiful right now. My dress is perfect, my crown made of flowers is handmade, my veil lovely and ethereal. My cheeks are rosy and my lips are pink, my eyes dusted lightly, my jewelry dainty and golden. I am spritzed in my favorite perfume and my hair falls down my body in precious, cascading waves. 

It’s the most beautiful I have ever been--I know this. And I know that if I were alone and to study myself in the mirror, at my face that is mine but also my sister’s, at my body that is twenty-eight now, then I would see her there with me. Perhaps I wouldn’t even be able to imagine her beside me if I saw how truly decadent I really look--I would just see her face staring back at me. That’s when I see her in me; when I am beautiful, very beautiful. 

And Jake’s wearing a pair of brown pants with smart creases, his leather shoes worn but polished, his scent that same papery-cologne from before. He looks handsome, too--like a cowboy. He looks like last night never even happened.

His cheeks are beginning to redden, his lips beginning to part. 

“You look,” he sighs, dragging his eyes up from my throat, “like a fuckin’ angel.”  

There’s only a few paces separating us. He’s gripping the velvet box so hard that his knuckles are whitening. 

My heart is jumping in my belly, pounding, prancing.

When he’s this close to me, all I can think about is his quiet insistence last night. All I can think about is the tequila that pulsed through my temple when he uttered his confession, when he said he wanted to fuck me, when he told me he couldn’t watch me love Bradley forever. All I can think about is him walking away and never looking back and me calling an empty voicemail every time the Cowboys win. 

And I shouldn’t be thinking about these things, not right now, not when I am about to get married. But he is my friend--I do love him. I will mourn him if I lose him.  

“Thank you,” I whisper. 

I wish that last night never happened. I truly wish that we could just stand in here as two friends and just be in the same room without that big, nasty thing looming over us, between us. I wish that he never said anything at all. I wish that he could just flirt the way he usually does, the kind that is easy to roll off the shoulders--but it feels different now. He hasn’t even come forward to kiss my head today like he usually does when he sees me.

 The air is thick with tension, with words left unuttered. 

I’m not sure if I want him to say everything or nothing. I’m not sure I want him to say anything at all, really.  

“S’beautiful out there,” he says, “you did a good job.”

I nod again because my throat is aching too badly to speak. 

He clears his throat again, then gestures to the velvet box in his hand. 

“From the groom,” he whispers, crossing the floor to press it into my palm. 

I wish that things were different now. I wish that we were still the kind of friends that could sit close together when I open this, wish that I could lean on his shoulder, wish that he could wrap his arm around me without feeling like we are hurting each other. 

It’s quiet. He presses the box into my hand and then doesn’t move. 

So I carefully open the box--breath catching in my throat when I see the simple, gold pin resting in the box, a white pearl adorning its head. It’s cold when I press it against my fingers, shining in the dying sunlight, gleaming up at me. 

“He said it was his mama’s,” Jake sighs, crossing his arms as he comes even closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, “guess she wore it on her wedding day, too.”

I feel like I knew that as soon as I saw it--could imagine her wearing it, pinned to the frilly sleeve of a puffy dress, all grins and big hair and exuberance. And now it is mine, my something borrowed, my something old. From the mother that would’ve adored me, given to me by the son that I am completely devoted to.

It’s love that pulses through me then, love for Rooster, for what we have. It is a certainty, one that puddles in my gut, even when Jake carefully takes the pin from me and steps before me. The toes of his shoes are against mine now as he looms over me, eyebrows creased. 

“Here?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer again. His eyes flicker to mine and he looks genuinely pained, being this close to me without touching me, seeing me in a wedding dress. But that doesn’t stop him--he very gingerly pinches the thin seam that connects the brassiere of my dress, careful not to pull it away from my body as he pins the brooch to me. And then his eyes rest there, just between my breasts, just above the bit of bare skin of my ribs. 

“Jake,” I whisper, stepping back. 

He nods, turning his cheek, biting his lip. 

He inhales deeply there, just before me. And I think if his hair wasn’t gelled, he would rake his fingers there. But it is so he just wipes his palms against his pants. 

The vein across my nose throbs again. 

“I need you to be my friend, please,” I say softly, really meaning it, the absence of my sister growing wildly apparent with each moment that passes, “even if it’s just for today.”

He nods without looking at me again. 

“You know, ‘m always gonna love you,” he says, voice flat and quiet as he slowly shakes his head, “and ‘m always gonna be your friend.”

That makes me feel rotten.  

Now I am the one that sighs, that wants to run my fingers through my hair. 

“Shouldn’t have said what I did last night,” he adds, letting his hands grab his hips as his eyes burn a hole in the carpet at my feet, “shouldn’t have done that to you, Faye. Wasn’t fair.”

My spit feels thick as honey. 

“You’ve never been very good at saying you’re sorry,” I whisper lowly, carefully nudging him, “cowboy.”  

I am testing the water. He knows this, lets himself smile in that small way, lets himself exhale and deflate. It feels easier now--the air a tad thinner.  

“You know that I am,” he says softly.

“And you know that I forgive you,” I whisper, “I always do.”

And before I can really even process what is happening, before I can lean forward and press my hand against his shoulder, he has closed the space between us. He has his arms wrapped around me, his grip constraining and tight, hands securely pressed against my ribs on either side. His head is very carefully hovering above mine, mindful of my hair and my makeup. And he’s very solid, just like he always has been for me, just like he always will be for me. 

After a moment, I hold him, too--I wrap my arms around his shoulders, let my eyelashes flutter against his dress shirt. He’s inhaling me, breathing in my scent, stroking the fabric of my dress, hugging me to him as tight as he can. 

I almost cannot breathe, but I don’t say anything. I just hug him back.

Almost, I whisper that I’m sorry that I don’t love him the way he wants me to. Almost, I whisper that we have just missed each other in this lifetime. We passed each other in separate taxis, his south-bound and mine north-bound. We are not meant to be together. 

We say nothing. I am the one that pulls away finally, carefully dragging my fingers across his shoulder as I detangle myself from his grip, careful to keep the tears in the corner of my eyes right where they are. 

And then he’s giving me this pitiful grin and his eyes are wet and wide and his face is flushed. He carefully wipes his thumb beneath my lip, correcting a nonexistent smear of lipstick. Then he smooths his hands over my hair, my veil. 

I wipe a single, stray tear from his left cheek when it spills over his lash line. His face is warm beneath my hand, his cheek heavy when he leans into my touch. 

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. 

I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

He sniffles, bites his lip hard, nods mutely. 

“You’re an angel,” he whispers back.  

Then I let my hand fall and it’s quiet in here again, just the two of us with open wounds on our chests.  

I can hear everything happening outside the window suddenly. I can hear the record player from its perch on a kitchen chair just outside the backdoor, an old Frank Sinatra song floating through the winter breeze. I can hear Hondo’s kids playing with Warlock’s kids, all giggles and shouts and clamoring feet. I can hear everyone chattering in their seats, probably turned around to talk to whoever is behind them, familiar faces against familiar faces. I can hear everybody holding their disposable cameras in their laps, showing their kids how to crank the camera before capturing images, explaining the process of dropping the cameras off at the pharmacy and picking them up a few weeks later. I think I can even hear Bradley’s voice above everyone else’s, can hear him talking to the officiant, can hear him laughing lowly.

There are birds calling, California natives. They’re in my eucalyptus trees and fluttering past all the flowers we have been growing. Certainly they must be basking in the warmth of this winter sun, too--preening their feathers before perching on a branch. Maybe that is what Maggie is today; a calling bird, her song mournful and sweet, perched high above us to witness what she could not be a part of. 

Yes, that is what she is today. I’ve thought about it and so it must be.  

That’s when I know that we need to go. That’s when my palms start to itch because Bradley is waiting for me--he is standing in our backyard, at the end of the brick aisle, wearing a most handsome button down and pair of well-fitting slacks. I know that his heart must be jumping inside his chest, his throat aching as he waits for me there.

“I’ll lead the way,” Hangman says.

He moves his arm--offers me his bicep. He’s smiling again.

So I loop my arm through Hangman’s, squeeze him. He inhales, chest expanding, bites his tongue. I wrap my fingers around his bicep, praying that my touch doesn’t provoke pain. 

“Knew you’d come get me,” I whisper to him. 

My heart is steadily beginning to race. 

He looks at me, looks at me right in my eyes, and nods despite himself. He’s smiling a sad kind of smile, a smile that is almost wet, almost a frown.

That’s when he does it. Very slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s a long moment that he lingers there, his lips puckered, his eyes closed. That familiar kiss--it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.  

“My pleasure,” he whispers against my forehead, “now let’s get you married.” 

So he walks me down the hallway of my home, this home that I love so much. He walks slow, matches his pace to mine, flexes his bicep beneath my fingers. He walks with his spine straight, his jaw squared. I try to walk the same way, measuring my breaths as we emerge from the living room into the kitchen, when everyone is suddenly looking at us.

He squeezes my fingers as everyone’s eyes fall to mine, like he knows how tight my throat suddenly is.

“Right on time,” Bob grins.  

It’s much brighter here than the bedroom, the room made almost entirely of light and warmth. 

I have always loved this kitchen very much--have worked hard to love it very much. It is copper and green and lovely, a place that I find solace in. It is a place that my sister used to frequent, perched on the counter as I made us sandwiches after swimming all day, mindlessly thumbing through cookbooks on her lap. She used to bump her hip against the island every time she rounded the corner, every time groaning and moaning. It used to be one of the only rooms in my house with working air conditioning, used to be where I spent much of my time before I met Bradley, before he fixed all the broken things in my home. It is where I find Bradley in the middle of the night sometimes, leaning against the kitchen counter with a makeshift charcuterie board spread lazily across a paper towel, his eyes half closed as he chews pepperoni. It’s where we have danced together, holding hands, spinning each other out and in, my hair whipping against the cabinets and his socked feet sliding against the cold floors. This is where we ate breakfast this morning, all together, each of us grinning as salmon oil coated our tongues. This is a very happy room, yes. But seeing everyone here now, everyone with their top button done up and their dresses steamed and their hair pinned and their grins wide--it is the happiest I have ever seen this room. 

Bob and Phoenix are standing beside Maverick and Cyclone, each of them dressed very nicely, not a hair out of place. They’re all grinning at us, letting their eyes wash over me. 

It is a strange thing to know that I look beautiful right now. I know that I should be gazed upon right now. Every piece of my look has been carefully curated, crafted. The moon earrings, the opal necklace, the opal and diamond engagement ring, the pearl pin; they are all things that have been specially given to me in celebration of this day. 

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Maverick grins, coming forward to press a kiss to my cheek. 

I let go of Jake’s arm.

“Bradley’s a lucky man,” Phoenix follows closely, smoothing her hand across my veil, “and I’m sure he won’t ever forget that.”

“Certainly never lets us forget it,” Bob adds, pretending to roll his eyes.

Bob watches on like a proud parent, arms crossed over his chest, smile prideful and boastful.  

“Thank you,” I smile, “everything ready to go?”

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: yeeeeeehaaaawwwww the wedding chapter is finally here!! I split it up into two parts but this part is 25k..........so sorry about that. mental illness really popped off w this one!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[kithtaehyung]

The Five Huntsmen (Teaser) | PJM

➵ title: the five huntsmen (m) ➵ pairing: prince!jimin x princess!reader(f) ➵ teaser wc: 2.8k ➵ total wc: tbd, possibly 20-30k ➵ fairytale: the twelve huntsmen ➵ genres/rating: 18+ ; angst, fluff, smut ; fantasy, royalty, strangers(?) to lovers ➵ warnings: language, ANGST, fighting, weapons, blood, betrayal, shifters (humans to animals, vice versa), final nsfw warnings to be added to full fic when posted but nothing’s needed for the teaser ➵ summary: you and prince jimin have promised to marry, but his father falls deathly ill, so he ventures back home to see him one last time. news of your lover choosing to wed another princess leaves you thoroughly distraught—until your mother tells you there’s fight in you yet. besides, isn’t the handsome heir to that throne in need of elite guards for protection for his coronation? perhaps the likes of hooded, masked huntsmen you had secretly been training with ever since you could run?  ➵ note: this fic will be posted as part of the bangtan grimm event hosted by the amazing @hobeemin​​!! hope you’re all ready for some fairytales coming to life with a bangtan spin. i may break this up into chapters depending on the ending word count, as well. ➵ taglist: open! message me, comment, or mention in a reblog to be added! ➵ tentative release: september 6th, 2021, 8pm est

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“That one looks like you.” 

“If that one looks like me, I can’t believe you haven’t fled by now.” 

Your beloved prince chuckles beside you and, while your palms are tenderly pressed, you can’t help but compare the sound to the very clouds floating across your vision. Like the scent of honeysuckle and verdpine that twirls around your prone forms, his soft laughs are some of your favorite things.

The pair of you didn’t plan on cloud watching at first. Your stroll through the castle gardens was supposed to be a quick one since the kitchens were almost done with the afternoon meal. But you didn’t mind the way Jimin suddenly planted his bottom on a random patch of soft grass, even softer fingers tugging you down to join him. You definitely berated him for being the cause of dirtying your dress, though, at which he simply winked in triumph. 

His hand squeezes yours into the cool ground as he hums, “Maybe I have a type.” 

“Puffy and fleeting?” 

“Puffy… Fleeting… Lazy…” 

Your nudge against his shoulder kicks another chuckle out of his throat. “I am not any of those things.” You ignore the look he sends you as he shifts his head. 

“Right. And I’m not a prince.” 

“I am not lazy.”

“But you are puffy and fleeting?”

“Looks like someone doesn’t want to stay for supper.” 

Without pause, Jimin rolls his form over your side. “I don’t need to stay for that if I can have you right now,” he murmurs, the words dripping onto your face and painting it one shade darker.

“Oh?”

“Mm,” he purrs, drawing the syllable out. After a flicker of mischief you catch too late, Jimin’s whole tone suddenly changes as he yells, “Think fast!” 

Fingers dive into your side, launching you off the ground with a gasp and tugging yelps out of your throat.

“Laughter suits you more than words,” your prince loftily jokes as you swipe at his thin wrists, trying to get back at him through your giggling duress. 

You also attempt to nudge Jimin with one of your knees, but he has your dress mercilessly pinned. 

No matter. When he’s busy attacking your sides, you jut your arms out to tackle his armpits, shouting, “I should say the same to you!”

Love and mirth swirl around the garden as you and Jimin try to best each other. Though his hands are quick, yours end up quicker, eliciting the loveliest of cackles and unabashed noises. 

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” he relents after a series of your attacks. The pair of you settle back into the grass, chests heaving and cheeks burning. “You’re really cutting down my dignity today.” 

“Shouldn’t you be used to this by now?” 

“I am.” The prince takes your hand and wraps it around his torso. “Which is why I will be prepared for when we’re married.” 

Affection blooms in your chest as you smile, knowing that he will be your greatest companion, your softest, sturdiest shield. Your marriage will be the joining of two already thriving kingdoms—Avarest and Zenborn—sealing their protection and fortune even tighter. But more than that, you know that he will be a gracious man, a generous lover—and you will be just the same. “Good thing, too,” you whisper, eyes alight with starfire. “I’ve trained you well.” 

Jimin’s face softens with content, stray locks rolling across his forehead as he looks at nothing but you. Though sunlight bathes the garden around him in gold, his smile outshines it all—endless, breathtaking. “I love you,” he whispers ardently. “I’ll always love you.” 

“And I you.” In a burst of passion, you cup the back of his head, digging your fingers into his soft strands while you claim his mouth with confidence. At his soft groan, you harden your embrace before situating yourself on top of his now-dirtied dress robes. 

Not that either of you truly care. 

Your knees dig into the grass on either side of him, and you smile at the tender hands swimming in the waves of your dress. “Forever.”

“No more talking,” Jimin whispers, brows furrowed and impatient. “Kiss me.” 

You oblige, latching your lips onto the expanse of his neck. The swipes of your tongue push deeper the more your prince moans underneath you, and you can start to feel a bulge lifting your belly, despite the multiple layers of dastardly clothing between. 

Jimin shoves your face away from his neck with his jaw, clutching your lips right after. Everything is heightened when he does, as if your passion brings out the best qualities of the surrounding flora. Right as you yank Jimin’s hair and demand him to ruin you for all the daffodils to see, a calm voice weasels behind you, taking you and your prince by surprise. 

Immediately, you twist your body around. Standing with the air of someone with terrible news is one of your soldiers, still shifted. You know the otter’s name—for you know everyone’s in your castle—but it is irrelevant. “Pardon me, Princess. And Your Highness.” 

Your ascent back to your feet is stiff, with Jimin straightening and staying by your side. When the armored shifter doesn’t divulge any further, you fake patience, “You have news for me, dear?” 

The poor otter’s reply comes out stilted, “It’s… It’s news for Prince Jimin.” 

“Me?” When you turn towards your lover, his brows are already deeply set, his feet seeming to move forward on their own accord. “What’s wrong?” 

“Your father,” the soldier sighs, claws nervously tutting and voice shaken. “King Park has fallen ill. Word is that he doesn’t have much time.” 

“What?” Jimin’s eyes threaten to fall when he shakily responds, giving way to suspicion. “He was in great health when I left. What happened?”

Your otter soldier shakes his head before explaining, “I’m afraid I don’t know for sure, Your Highness, but... rumors are that he got injured by a viperboar while out on his hunt.”

“Great Valahara,” you whisper piously, reaching out to clutch Jimin’s billowy sleeve. “My love…” 

When he doesn’t budge for a moment, worry sprouts quickly from your heart; when he turns, it fades into a dull aching, and you want to wipe the rush of tears from his eyes. 

Your prince’s voice is clogged when he whispers, “I must go to see him… Before he...” 

“You must,” you agree, though laden with longing already. “Go.” 

“Your horse is ready, Prince Jimin.” 

When the man ignores the otter and positions himself in front of you, you can tell he’s trying his best to memorize your face. “It may be long before I see you again,” he whispers, eyes downcast and pink-rimmed. And he is right. 

“I’ll be here. I will wait for you.” 

A forehead presses into yours. “I don’t want to leave you.”  

“But you must.” 

Trembling fingers grip your own, giving them a good squeeze before a kiss is planted in the ridges of your bones. 

“I’ll always love you.” 

“Forever.” 

You don’t know how much time has passed since your prince departed. But you know that the ache you feel in your chest creeps further and further into the rest of your limbs, like the slow approach of frost before winter’s claim. Trudging. Lethargic. The constant longing weighs you down like an anchor plummeting deeper and deeper into the Wandering Sea. 

But you don’t let it keep you there. You busy yourself doing many things: helping your mother delegate duties around the castle, assisting your father in constructing new roadways as Avarest grows and grows. 

And even though all of these tasks keep you moving, the one thing that always wakes your spirit, without fail, only happens in the dead of night, when even the duskfall owls flap to their treetops to sleep. 

Your dagger clashes with another as you block your opponent’s fourth blow, angry orange sparks bouncing between your black clothes. 

Training. Sparring. Fighting. 

That is what keeps your veins alight, your blood pulsing—the pure blood of a princess that’s adored by many, never known to fight when the stars are at their brightest. 

A low kick threatens to take out your knees, but you leap backward before propelling yourself towards your attacker, your low stance almost allowing a hit before your blow is defended. One, two, three metal clangs later, you’re still both left unscathed. 

Almost no one knows of these late nights you spend in Hobsknock Forest, hidden from civilian life deep within its perimeter. Only high flying animals would be able to spot your hideaway—a clearing littered with weapons, broken training equipment, and boxes of replacements. 

It’s one of the bases of your Kingdom’s masked assassins, created by your mother herself. 

The Huntsmen.

Your feet find purchase as you cross your arms to avoid a dagger to your head, and your knee launches up in an attempt to catch their solid stomach. A full fight of punches, dagger swipes, and kicks erupts, your muscles burning and singing with each hit. 

“Someone’s enjoying this a bit too much,” your masked sparring partner notes, his eyes shining and smug.

You block a punch and grab his arm. “Talking about yourself, Taehyung?” 

He’s going hard tonight. Whenever this happens, he’s either bored out of his mind or they have a mission coming up. Regardless, you don’t care; in fact, the exertion is a great way to blow off the steam you’ve kept condensed inside of your bones. 

He wrenches himself free before slicing at your side, and you jump backwards to avoid the swipe. “You seem pretty eager to me,” you observe with a huff.  

Stopping for a moment, Taehyung assumes a fighting stance. “I am,” he admits. “We’re leaving soon.” 

“For?”

He throws himself forward, barely catching you off-guard before you tilt to the side and scrape your dagger against his. Rude. 

Grunting while pressing his weapon against yours, your partner sighs, “I’ll tell you, but you won’t like it.” 

“What do you mean,” you seethe, thrusting your arm out in a quick succession of strikes—all parried. 

He leaps to the side to swipe at your abdomen, but you quickly dodge by rolling away. “He’s gone,” the masked boy breathes out. “King Park is dead.” 

He doesn’t give you another chance to speak because he launches himself forward, his long legs allowing him to cover the entire distance you created. Grunting, you keep your defenses up, your feet backing up with every swift clash. 

Metallic hits ring across the clearing, arguing with another sparring match happening beside you and the sound of a bowstring tightening for another training shot. 

When your back hits a tree, you duck to avoid a neck blow, splinters raining on your head before you roll and skid a few meters away. 

But Taehyung stops when he sees you breathing a bit harder than normal. Taking his grace period to catch your breath, you wipe a hand across your forehead, puffs warming your cheeks behind your mask. “And?” 

“We’re tasked to help… Him.” 

Oxygen threatens to abandon you. “...Jimin?” 

His voice is hardened when he confirms, “Yes. But there’s more.” 

Suddenly, a stern voice addressing your partner juts into your conversation. You whip your head to the side to see Seokjin—the eldest Huntsmen—giving his younger friend a knowing look as his bow rests against his leg. 

You don’t look away from him as you respond to Taehyung, fire erupting in your eyes. “Just tell me.” 

“His coronation is coming up.” When you side-eye your partner, he’s deftly playing catch with his weapon, the black metal barely grabbing the light of the moon in its edges. Snatching his dagger from the air, Taehyung continues, “And he’s set to marry a princess from Balon. I don’t remember which one, though. They have way too many.” 

Your heart suddenly doesn’t know how to function, its beating ceasing and its pathways closing. Gulping to try to dislodge the emotions in your throat, you struggle to even respond, words and pleas and disbelief dying on your tongue. 

Jimin? 

Your prince? 

To wed… another? 

Around your dagger, fingers tremble. Your eyes, unblinking. 

There are voices around you, whispers that get closer and closer. But you don’t register them. They mean nothing. Everything means nothing. 

“I’ll always love you.” 

“Princess?” 

Your focus snaps into place as you feel a tense hand on your shoulder. When you finally look around you, all four of the young men you have been accompanying that night are regarding you with caution. Worry. 

They’re Huntsmen, after all. They must have sensed your distress before your esophagus even closed. 

Regarding the one with his hand on your shoulder, you blink before starting to breathe again. “I’m fine, Hoseok,” you whisper. “I just… It’s shocking, is all.” 

The man removes his hand from you after giving a reassuring squeeze. “We know. I’m sorry.” 

Fiddling with your weapon as you start to gain control of your fingers, you shake your head. “I’ll be fine.” 

“You sure?” 

Turning, you nod to another one of your Huntsmen, your friends, your closest companions since childhood. “Yes, Kook, I’m sure. I just need to be alone.” You start to walk away from their concerning stares, the weight of them beginning to suffocate. 

When you reach the edge of the clearing, you throw your weapon into the ground, the dagger’s top glinting in the night as you immerse yourself in the shadows of the forest canopy. 

It is much later when you visit your mother in her study—knowing she will be there, as she always is—to see if what they say is true. When she sadly validates their claims, you fling yourself on her lap, distressed and confused and utterly betrayed. 

Why didn’t anyone tell you? Why did you have to find out this way? 

“A messenger hawk flew in just this morning,” the Queen whispers, smoothing your hair with both her words and her fingers. 

But you cannot be consoled. You don’t know what to do. The both of you were going to be betrothed. To each other. 

How could Jimin forget so quickly? There’s no way he could have… Right? 

“We were supposed to wed,” you choke on your solid fist. 

“Why speak as if it’s already untrue?”

“You received the message,” you sniff, bitterly. “It’s already set in stone.” 

“You don’t know for sure unless you find out.” 

A pause. When you look up into her caring eyes and search them for answers, you see sparks of rebellion, flecks of what she’s trying to convey. 

Is she telling you to question it? 

Is she telling you to find out… yourself?

Brows furrow and lips purse as you rasp, “Mother… What are you saying?”

“I believe you already know.” 

“But why?” 

“The ones that never question things never end up with what they truly want,” she whispers as she brushes over your hair once more. “Even I didn’t bow down to royal customs, didn’t accept them as fate. I would be a hypocrite if I told you any different.” 

“But he betrayed me, mother,” you sigh, hot tears leaking from your eyes. 

“How do you know that for sure?” 

Something in you turns like a key in a lock, opening a box of suspicion that leaks into the rest of your body. The Queen has a point. What if something happened? What if there’s something you’re missing? You’ve been bombarded with so much emotion that it has clouded any logic or judgment.

But… You’re the princess. You must stay in your kingdom. How are you supposed to just show up unannounced in another part of the realm and expect everything to be okay? What can you possibly use as an excuse to go other than jealousy or rage or suspicion?

All of your doubts and fears are plastered on your face, but your mother swipes them away with a gentle thumb.  “Be smart, and keep a sharp eye,” she advises. “I’ll deal with your father.” 

“I…” How is she able to instill this much trust and responsibility in you? You have a firm relationship with the Queen, but this isn’t something you ever thought she would let you do. “Mother, I don’t even know how I would go.” 

“But I do. After all… You’ve trained with them all this time.” 

You freeze. 

What? 

There’s no way she knows about that. 

You’ve made sure to keep that secret hidden from everyone. From the time you begged them to let you train with them as a little girl, you made sure to suppress that part of your life. All the times you snuck around, the nights you slipped into your covers fresh and clean for the mornings, the times you deftly fibbed about your activities. 

Tonight, you even made sure to wash after training and dress into your flowing night clothes. Your voice is disbelieving as you breathe out, “How do you know?” 

The Queen simply smiles down upon your quivering gaze. “Because while your clothes and scent may lie…” Loving fingers travel along your arm. “You cannot hide the strength under your skin, or the energy in your eyes.” 

She knew this entire time? 

Why hadn’t she said anything? 

You want to ask your mother so many things, unearth other secrets she has about her past—but she ends the conversation before you utter another word. 

“There’s fight in you yet, child,” she says, hushed. “Now go. The Huntsmen leave at dawn.”

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to be continued...

a/n: ahhh if you made it to the end, hello! i am SO excited for this piece and i’m having a blast writing it, so i hope you all enjoy it, as well. :D taglist is open so message, comment, dm, or mention in a reblog if you want to be added. i wanted some fantasy au’s on my blog so HERE WE GO!! lastly, here’s the link to my masterlist if you want to peruse, and my inbox is always open if you’d like to chat!🏹