#Navy drill hall

[thebunnednun]

If you really love me, let me go PI

Parings: Red Haired Shanks x Vice Admiral! Reader

Prompt:

Hey Mami! Soo I've been thinking about our beloved Shanks x Vice admiral!Reader. Cuz why not? He's so carefree, so it would be nice to see him with someone who is the opposite of him.

Warning: Angst.

For, @orange-milky who gave me the prompt for this story. Always making me flustered with their nicknames for me.

ON WITH THE SHOW!!~~

You were peacefully sleeping, the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that came after an exhausting day of paperwork and drills. The cool breeze from the open window gently rustled the curtains, and all was silent in your little abode atop the plateau that overlooked the town.

Everything was still, quiet—until a sudden, sharp crash from downstairs jolted you awake.

Your eyes snapped open, heart still calm and steady despite the noise. You groaned softly, already reaching for the duel pistols you kept under your pillow, a natural reaction born from years of training as a Vice Admiral in the Navy. The best-case scenario flashed in your mind: Luffy and his friends, showing up unannounced again for some reckless, impromptu visit.

You wouldn’t put it past the kid, not after the last time they used your backyard as a training ground for their latest techniques.

But you weren’t one to take chances. Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible, you padded across the room in your fuzzy bunny slippers, your anchor-shaped earrings gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

A quick glance in the mirror showed your reflection: hair in rollers, a green mud mask you’d forgotten to wash off, and your pajamas—a set featuring Uta's face plastered all over, a playful gift from her before she went to sail with Luffy.

The robe you wrapped around yourself was adorned with Luffy’s jolly roger, a ridiculous but endearing gift from the cutie  himself. You sighed, raising your dual pistols to your side, wondering what kind of chaos you’d be walking into this time.

The hall was silent as you made your way down the stairs, moving like a shadow, every step measured, controlled. You clutched the pistols tightly, ready for anything. As you neared the kitchen, the faint sound of muffled whispers reached your ears—low voices, trying (and failing) to be quiet. You rolled your eyes, already guessing the culprits.

There were too many deep voices to be Luffy’s crew.

When you flicked on the light, the kitchen was suddenly bathed in a warm glow, and the scene before you could only be described as utter madness. Every available surface was covered in food, bottles of rum, and—most tellingly—members of the Red Hair Pirates. The twelve of them were scattered across your kitchen as if they owned the place.

Shanks’ crew, all of them: Benn Beckman, Lucky Roux, Yasopp, Hongo, Limejuice, Bonk Punch, Monster, Building Snake, Gab, Rockstar, and—by some cruel twist of fate—Uta wasn’t there this time. She was still off with her brother.

Yasopp was the first to notice you, though his reaction wasn’t what you expected. The second his gaze fell on you, still standing in the doorway with your pistols in hand and a full-on “I-will-kill-you” expression on your face, he burst into laughter. 

It started as a quiet chuckle but quickly grew louder, causing a ripple effect across the room. One by one, the rest of the crew joined in, their laughter filling the space until it felt like the walls themselves were vibrating with the sound.

Your eye twitched in annoyance. Standing there in your bunny slippers, hair in rollers, Uta PJ’s, green mud mask still smeared across your face, you probably looked more ridiculous than intimidating.

Like a pop princess wicked witch of the west. But you were still a Vice Admiral, and your patience had limits.

“Oh, this is rich,” Yasopp wheezed, doubling over as tears streamed from his eyes. “We’re gonna die—” He cut off with another fit of laughter, but before you could decide whether to shoot him or not, the back door swung open, revealing a familiar mop of red hair.

Shanks strode in, his entrance casual as ever. His trademark grin stretched across his face, a bottle of rum in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other. His eyes lit up when he saw you, seemingly oblivious to the chaos he had caused.

“Hello my love!” he said brightly, as though this were a perfectly normal scene to walk into at what had to be three in the morning.

Your response was instinctive. You raised both pistols and fired—ten rapid shots that would’ve made any rookie in the Navy tremble. Shanks, to his credit, dodged every single one of them with that infuriating grace he always seemed to have, weaving between the bullets like it was all just a game.

“Now, now, let’s not start with violence!” Shanks laughed, clearly unfazed by the near-death experience. He took a step forward and offered the flowers toward you. “For you, my little sea monster.”

You huffed, your glare softening just a fraction as you lowered your pistols. Behind him, Benn Beckman gave you an apologetic smile, his hand already reaching into his coat. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. I wrote you a letter ahead of time,” he explained, holding out the envelope, 

“and we tried to be quiet…”

You sighed, arms crossing as you stared at the lot of them, still lounging around your kitchen as though they lived here. “Clearly, you failed.”

They all muttered their apologies, though none of them seemed particularly guilty. Lucky Roux stuffed his mouth with another pastry, while Bonk Punch and Monster shared a conspiratorial glance. Yasopp was still grinning like a fool, clearly amused by your appearance, though he was at least trying to stifle his laughter now.

Benn stepped forward with a steaming cup of tea, which he handed to you with a practiced air of calm. “In case you woke up,” he said gently, and before you could take a sip, Shanks handed you the bottle of rum with a wink.

“Don’t forget the important part.”

You rolled your eyes but accepted both. “You’re all lucky I like you,” you muttered before taking a seat in the barely-used dining room. Pistols stashed into your pockets, the crew, now more relaxed, went back to their conversations, though they kept their volume lower, out of some remaining respect for your sleep.

Shanks slid into the chair beside you, his arm resting lazily on the back of your seat. He didn’t say anything for a while, content to watch you as you stirred a bit of rum into your tea, the warmth from the cup seeping into your hands.

After a few quiet moments, he leaned in, his voice dropping into that soft, almost tender tone he used only with you. 

“Come with me for a second?”

You arched a brow but didn’t protest. Shanks stood, grabbing the rum bottle as you followed him out of the room. He led you outside, through the back door and up a hidden staircase to the roof. The air was cool, the stars glittering above you like a sea of diamonds, and from this height, you could see the town below, quiet and peaceful in the night.

Shanks leaned against the railing, his gaze wandering across the horizon. You joined him, your eyes following the lines of the ships docked in the harbor and the soft glow of lanterns lining the streets.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the sound of distant waves crashing against the shore filling the silence. Then, Shanks let out a low chuckle.

“You’re still mad, huh?”

You snorted softly, taking a sip of your rum-laced tea. “You and your crew have a terrible sense of timing.”

His grin was mischievous, but there was something softer behind his eyes as he looked at you. “Well, I’ve always had a bad habit of showing up unannounced.” He reached over, brushing a thumb against your cheek, his touch light but affectionate. “But you’ve always taken care of us anyway.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Someone has to.”

The stars above stretched endlessly across the night sky, their brightness cutting through the dark canopy like diamonds spilled across velvet. It was your favorite part of living here—how open and vast the heavens always seemed. You found comfort in how steady they remained, unmoved by the chaos of life below. 

Sometimes, as you looked up at the twinkling lights, you wondered what it would be like to sail in the sky itself, drifting from planet to planet like the sea of stars was just another ocean. Luffy, ever the dreamer, always promised to make your wildest fantasies come true, and knowing him, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. 

But what about you? What about your responsibilities?

Shanks' voice pulled you from your thoughts, though you hadn’t caught his words.

"Hey, are you alright lass?" he asked softly, his tone laced with a gentle concern.

You blinked, turning your attention back to him, meeting those familiar, warm eyes that seemed to hold a world of their own. 

"Sorry, no. What did you say?"

He smiled, that easy, carefree grin that never quite matched the weight of his words. "I was asking if you’d join me at sea again."

The idea hung between you like the scent of saltwater that always seemed to cling to him. You opened your mouth, glancing toward the town below, gesturing to the village that stretched out in the distance, its peaceful quietness versus the unpredictability of a pirate’s life. The flicker of lanterns from the homes and streets was like the heartbeat of the place you’d sworn to protect.

But Shanks shook his head, his expression unbothered by your hesitation. "Not for long," he clarified. "Just two weeks. I know you couldn’t stay forever."

His words were calm, non-pressuring, but the temptation lingered like a beckoning wave. You mulled it over, your mind swimming with the responsibilities that weighed you down. You weren’t young anymore, at least not in the way that counted. The youthful impulsiveness of picking up and leaving whenever you felt like it had long passed. 

Now, you had cadets who looked up to you, a village that relied on your protection, and a life you couldn’t simply walk away from. The thought of leaving—even just for a few weeks—and returning to disaster haunted you.

Yet, here stood Shanks, the man who could never be caught, the one who had always captured your heart. He wasn’t crowding you, wasn’t demanding an answer. He was just… there, waiting, like always. He reached into his pocket and passed you a handkerchief. You hadn’t realized you still had remnants of your green face mask smeared across your cheek.

You took the handkerchief with a small, grateful nod, wiping away the last smudge of your mask. Shanks’ grin widened as he watched you, a mischievous glint lighting up his features.

"Lovely as ever," he said with that familiar charm.

You raised an eyebrow, disbelief clear on your face. "Really now?"

"Yes," he said, his tone softening into something more genuine. "Like the first day I saw you. You just keep getting better and better."

His words, while honest and genuine, cut deep. They were too real, too heartfelt for the situation you were both in. It hurt—knowing he meant every word. You let out a heavy sigh, your chest tightening as you voiced what was already understood. 

"That’s what makes this so painful, Shanks. We’ve been dancing around each other for years. How long can we keep playing this game?"

You both fell silent, a weight settling between you like the fog rolling off the sea. The unspoken truth was something everyone knew—from the Celestial Dragons to the mermaids deep in the ocean. Even the sea beasts you used to ride in your younger days knew: You and Shanks were in love. But there were laws to nature that even love couldn’t break. 

A bird and a fish could admire each other, even come to each other’s aid when needed, but they could never be together. One couldn’t fly, and the other couldn’t swim—not where it mattered.

"What a cruel twist of fate this is," you whispered, your voice barely carried by the wind.

Shanks nodded solemnly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Indeed."

The night carried on in its quiet way, the hum of distant waves filling the silence between you. You both sat there, not speaking, just watching each other, as if memorizing the lines of each other’s face.

His presence was like the sea—calm, vast, and eternal. You felt it deep in your bones, the pull toward him that was as strong as the tide, and yet you remained anchored here, to this place, this life.

Eventually, your eyes drifted back up to the sky, the stars glittering down on you like an endless sea of possibilities. The two of you were suspended between worlds, the stars and the ocean, the past and the future, and all you had was this fragile, fleeting moment.

Shanks followed your gaze, his hand brushing against yours in a light, almost accidental touch, as if he too was trying to capture something too precious to hold onto.

For now, that was enough.

There was no real use crying over it. You had both spent countless nights easing the sorrow of your situation in your own ways—Shanks drowning his thoughts at the bottom of another bottle, while you buried yourself in the work that defined you. The understanding he’d given you when you first saw this village in ruins so many years ago, when you decided to stay and rebuild it, still lingered between you. 

It had been a quiet acknowledgment, a silent support. He didn’t fight your decision, didn’t call it betrayal. Instead, he—and the rest of his crew—had simply accepted it, open arms waiting if you ever wanted to come back.

The night you became Vice Admiral was one you still laughed about, remembering their terrible disguises as they snuck into your ceremony. There was Benn Beckman in a comically oversized face mask, (you were all thankful that he wasn’t immediately recognized) Lucky Roux sporting a pair of ridiculous sunglasses, and Yasopp trying to hide his distinct dreads under a crooked wig. 

You’d all spent the evening in a local pub, singing sea shanties and dancing like no one was watching. The memories were a balm to the ache of what you couldn't have—the laughter, the carefree joy.

You smiled faintly now, the sea breeze playing with your hair as the memories came flooding back. Shanks had always been at the heart of it. You teased him mercilessly when you heard he’d taken in a daughter.

"Shanks, raising a kid? Who’s the poor soul responsible for keeping the both of you in line?" you had joked.

It was Benn, obviously. His face had lit up with pride as he spoke of Uta, and before, when he told you about a scrappy young boy named Luffy—the boy he believed would change the world.

And Luffy had. 

You’d come to know him well, hiding him and his crew whenever they came to pass. They always treated you like family, laughing and eating meals around your dining table, as if this was their home away from the seas. You adored Luffy’s brothers too—Ace, with his fiery spirit, and Sabo, with his quiet determination.

They’d both been reckless and had nearly gotten themselves killed more than once, leading to your stern lectures. But they always grinned sheepishly, knowing your scolding came from a place of deep affection.

Even Buggy—oh, Buggy. You picked fights with him like it was second nature, always at each other’s throats with bickering and insults. But despite the chaos, you were one of his oldest friends. The bond between you two ran deeper than either of you cared to admit.

When you’d heard about what he’d done to other villages, you punched him square in the nose. "Get it together, you ass hat," you growled, and he’d just sulked before eventually grumbling an apology.

And then there was Shanks' trust. His absolute faith in you, especially when it came to Uta. Whenever he had dangerous missions, he left her in your care, knowing no harm would come to her under your watch. The girl had become like a daughter to you, and even now, she sailed alongside Luffy, her spirit as free as the wind.

You entertained Mihawk whenever he happened to sail by, sharing quiet conversations and sparring matches under the moonlight. Perona would pop in with her gloomy charm, and you welcomed her with the same warmth you gave all of Luffy’s friends.

You had become a mother of sorts—a matriarch to all these misfit pirates who called the sea home. You were the unofficial wife of the Sea King, Shanks himself. Everyone saw it. The way he looked at you, the way you moved through his world without ever truly leaving yours.

And yet, despite it all, you didn’t rule by each other’s side.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, and Shanks exhaled slowly beside you. His eyes were distant now, focused on the horizon, but there was a heaviness in his posture that wasn’t there moments ago. The weight of your shared history pressed down on him as much as it did on you. His hand rested loosely on his bottle of rum, fingers tracing the glass absentmindedly. He’d had countless battles, faced impossible odds, but nothing stung quite like this—the unspoken truth that neither of you could deny.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again, almost as if the words were too much to bear. "It does kill me, you know," he said, still staring out at the sea. "Not being able to hold you, not waking up with you by my side."

The confession hung between you, thick and painful. Your heart twisted, but you kept your eyes trained on the stars, refusing to let the emotion slip into your voice. "We have our duties," you replied softly. 

"Responsibilities of the same weight, just in different forms."

Your words were practical, almost cold in their truth. But beneath them lay the same yearning, the same ache that Shanks felt. He was right—it killed him. And it killed you too. But you both knew the rules of the game.

A fish couldn’t live in the sky, and a bird couldn’t swim in the depths.

You had your village, your cadets, your rank as Vice Admiral. He had the seas, his crew, the freedom to roam wherever the wind took him.

Your lives ran parallel but never quite intersected.

He shifted beside you, finally looking your way. There was a sadness in his eyes, one he never let anyone else see. "I never wanted to cage you," he murmured.

"But I never wanted to let you go either."

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze head-on. The raw vulnerability in his expression was too much. You reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort in the midst of all this uncertainty.

"I know," you whispered, your voice gentle but firm.

"I know."

For a long moment, you simply held his gaze, letting the sea breeze carry away the tension between you. There was no easy answer, no solution to the impossible situation you found yourselves in. 

The stars twinkled overhead, casting their gentle light over the quiet village. The night was cool, and the sea breeze carried the scent of salt, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the nearby forest. You sat beside Shanks on a grassy knoll, the two of you a striking contrast to the stillness around you. The village, your home, rested in peaceful slumber behind you, its rooftops barely visible in the low light. 

You could hear the distant crash of waves against the shore, and for a brief moment, it was as though the world belonged to just the two of you.

There was a time where you both had talked about marriage. Shanks had brought it up many times over the years, his playful grin turning serious when the conversation lingered too long. You could still feel the warmth of his words, the weight of his unspoken promises, and the quiet desperation behind his eyes each time he spoke about wanting to make you his.

And yet, here you were. Still not married. Still bound by the same chains that had kept you apart for so long. You glanced over at him now, taking in the sight of the man who held your heart so tightly. His red hair, wild as ever, blew in the breeze, and the familiar scar over his eye seemed to catch the light just so.

His eyes, those deep, piercing eyes, held a softness reserved only for you, but there was something darker there too—an unspoken sorrow.

“We could’ve been married by now,” Shanks said, his voice low, cutting through the stillness. His gaze was fixed on the stars, but you knew his thoughts were off somewhere far deeper. “But I couldn’t do that to you. Not when it would ruin your life, your career.”

The words stung, but they were true. Marriage to a pirate, especially one like Shanks, would be a death sentence for your career. You’d lose everything—your rank as Vice Admiral, your home, your people.

You’d be hunted down, imprisoned, forced to leave the people you loved, the people you swore to protect. Your entire life would be torn apart.

Worst of all, they’d use you to lure out Shanks and have him killed.  

And Shanks knew it. He always did.

“I love you too much to put you through that kind of pain,” he continued, his voice soft but resolute. His fingers fidgeted with the bottle of rum beside him, but there was a tension in his posture, a heaviness in his shoulders. He hated this as much as you did—this cruel twist of fate that kept you apart.

You sighed, turning your gaze back to the stars. They twinkled innocently above, indifferent to the turmoil below. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I hate the thought of us being this… couple that can never truly be together. Not for more than a night.”

The thought weighed on you constantly—the idea that you could never have a life together. That you would always be bound by your respective worlds, able to steal moments but never truly share them. You had responsibilities. You had a village to protect, cadets who relied on you, a duty that couldn’t be abandoned. And Shanks had his crew, his mission, his endless journey across the seas.

But there was more to it. You knew Shanks. He was a man of action, a man who followed his heart. And in his heart, he refused to leave this world without being joined with you before God, as he had said countless times. The idea of dying without you as his wife was a torment he didn’t express often, but you knew it haunted him.

“What if something happened to me?” he asked suddenly, his voice thick with the weight of unspoken fears. He looked at you now, his eyes full of emotion.

“What if I died? You wouldn’t have any legal right to me. You’d be left with nothing. Unless…” His voice trailed off, and a bitter smile crossed his lips. “Unless the crew managed to pull off some ‘common law marriage’ scheme."

"But we’re more than that.”

You bit your lip, feeling the tightness in your chest. The thought of losing him, of having no claim to him, no right to mourn him as his wife, was unbearable. You were worth more than that. Your love was worth more than that. You weren’t some fleeting romance or a temporary connection.

You were each other’s heart and soul, two people who had shared years of laughter, hardship, and devotion.

And Shanks wanted to make it official. He wanted to make you his woman, his wife, and let the world know that you were his in every sense of the word.

He reached out then, his hand resting gently on yours. His touch was warm, familiar, and it steadied the storm brewing inside you. “I want to make you an honest woman,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I want to stand before God and make you mine, for real. No more games, no more pretending we’re something we’re not.”

You looked down at your hands, his fingers intertwining with yours, and the warmth of his palm grounded you. He had always been your anchor, the one person who could make everything feel right, even when the world seemed against you. But this—this was bigger than anything you could’ve imagined.

“Shanks,” you began, your voice wavering.

His grip tightened ever so slightly, his gaze intense as he leaned in closer. “I know. And that’s why I’ve never pushed it. But if there’s a way—if we could find a way—"

"I’d give up everything to have you by my side.”

The raw emotion in his voice, the sheer vulnerability, tore at your heart. This man, this legendary pirate who commanded the seas, who had fought wars and won impossible battles, was here, willing to risk it all for you. And you… you were stuck between two worlds, two impossible choices.

The stars seemed to dim in that moment, as if even they felt the weight of your decision. The village behind you, quiet and peaceful, stood as a reminder of all that you had built, all that you would lose. But beside you sat the man who had claimed your heart long ago, the man who wanted nothing more than to make you his forever.

“What do we do?” you whispered, your voice barely audible against the sound of the waves.

Shanks smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and shook his head. “We figure it out, like we always do.”

And with that, he pulled you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest, the strength in his embrace. You could lose yourself in the warmth of his presence, in the silent promise of the future you both wanted but could never fully grasp.

You pull away from Shanks' embrace slowly, feeling the warmth of his arm linger on your skin as you give him a small squeeze of reassurance. His presence, solid and comforting, is something you’ve known for so long, yet each time you step out of his hold, it feels like a tug on your heart.

With a soft sigh, you turn to face the open sky again, the stars above you glittering like a sea of diamonds.

“I could never ask you to abandon the sea,” you say quietly, breaking the stillness between you, “the same way you never asked me to abandon these people.”

The weight of those words sinks in as you reach up to take the curlers out of your hair. It’s a familiar routine, one you’ve done countless times. Yet tonight, with Shanks by your side, it feels different. There’s a certain tenderness in the air, a shared silence that speaks louder than any words ever could.

His rough, calloused fingers soon join yours, gently separating the pins and pulling each curler free. You let him help, allowing yourself to relish in the intimacy of this quiet moment.

One by one, the curlers come out, leaving your hair feeling lighter, bouncier, freer. Shanks hums softly, an old sea shanty you both know, as he carefully runs his fingers through your strands, styling it the way you like. The way he likes. His touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who’s lived such a rugged life, and you close your eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth of his hands in your hair.

There’s a stillness between you, but the energy that passes through his fingertips speaks volumes. You feel it in the way his fingers brush lightly against your scalp, in the unspoken affection he shows through every careful motion. 

And all the while, there’s that look in his eyes again—the one you hate. That mix of longing and resignation, as if he’s silently saying goodbye to something he knows he can never truly keep.

Finally, when he’s satisfied with your hair, he drops his hand, letting it fall to his side, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped.

The stars, the village, the sea—all of it fades into the background, leaving just the two of you suspended in this fragile, bittersweet moment.

You can see the question in his eyes, the same one that’s been lingering between you for years: How much time do we have left? How many more moments like this can we steal before the world inevitably pulls us apart again? 

It’s a question neither of you can answer, but it’s always there, lurking beneath every shared glance, every touch, every word left unsaid.

Below, you can hear the sounds of the crew bustling in your kitchen. Their laughter and chatter filter through the open window, grounding you in the present. Plates clink together as they wash the dishes, their voices teasing and jovial as they talk about what they’ll bring you from the market tomorrow. 

You can almost picture them in your mind—scrubbing your pans with exaggerated care, making a mess of your kitchen, and scribbling down a list of things to restock your pantry. It brings a small smile to your lips, knowing they’re looking out for you in their own way.

The crew’s presence is a comfort, a reminder that you had a family on the seas. A family you’ve built with Shanks and his men. They’d never judged you for staying behind, for choosing a life of responsibility and duty over adventure. They understood you, accepted you, celebrated you, and always welcomed you back with open arms whenever you needed them.

They were your family too, in a way that was different from the villagers you protected.

Shanks, watching your expression soften, finally breaks the silence. “You know they’ll be back tomorrow, right?” he says, his voice low and teasing. “Probably with more supplies than you’ll know what to do with.”

You chuckle softly, breaking the tension as you shake your head. “I can already see it—half the market will be in my kitchen by morning.”

He laughs, a rich sound that rumbles deep in his chest, and it eases some of the ache in your heart.

Shanks’ laughter fades into a quiet hum, the sound trailing off as the two of you sit in the comforting stillness. Together, you glance over your garden, your gaze sweeping over the large pumpkins resting snugly in their beds of soil, their vibrant orange hue a testament to the months of careful tending. 

The last of your harvest is waiting to be gathered—a few stubborn tomatoes clinging to their vines, and some squash ready to be plucked before the first frost. Despite the season's end, your wildflowers still bloom with surprising vitality, their colorful petals swaying gently in the cool evening breeze, defying the inevitable chill creeping in.

Shanks shifts beside you, looking down at your small patch of land as though he’s taking mental notes. He’s never been much of a gardener, but he appreciates the life you've built here. He tilts his head thoughtfully before turning to you with a familiar grin.

“I’ll clean your gutters tomorrow,” he offers with a hint of amusement in his voice, knowing full well you’d never ask him outright.

You smile softly in return, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you," that lingers between you like a secret. But then, silence falls again. The two of you begin to search for excuses to prolong the moment, your eyes wandering over the garden and the stars, avoiding the looming reality of parting.

You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin atop them, making yourself smaller as the cool night air gently settles around your shoulders.

Shanks moves beside you, his hand lifting slightly as though to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, but he hesitates. Instead, his fingers shift course, and he cups your cheek with the softest touch. His thumb moves in slow circles over the apple of your cheek, the roughness of his skin a contrast to the tender way he holds you.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it carries with it a thousand unspoken words, memories, and years of shared longing.

His touch lingers, pulling your gaze upward, and you meet his eyes. For a moment, the world seems to fade away. The years flash before you like a slideshow—quick scenes of laughter, of whispered promises, of stolen moments that felt too fleeting.

You can see it in his eyes too, the weight of time, the shared joy and heartache, all caught in that brief exchange. It overwhelms you, the thought of how much time has passed, how much you’ve both given and lost to the lives you’ve chosen.

Before you can stop yourself, you crawl into his arms, your body moving on instinct as you bury your face against his chest. His arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close, holding you as though you might disappear at any moment. Shanks doesn’t say a word, and for that, you’re grateful. He understands. 

He always does.

You feel the tightness in your throat, and as your tears begin to gather, you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep them at bay. But it’s no use. The warmth of Shanks’ embrace, the quiet hum of the night, the distant sounds of the crew still lingering in the kitchen—it all presses down on you, and a tear slips free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. You know he feels it, but he doesn’t comment. He just holds you tighter.

Shanks rests his chin atop your head, his breath slow and steady, but you can feel the slight tremble in his arms. He’s fighting his own tears, just like you. The weight of all the years, all the distance, all the longing—it’s too much for either of you to bear alone, but together, in this small stolen moment, it’s almost manageable.

A breeze rustles through the trees, sending a few stray leaves fluttering down into the garden below. The wildflowers sway again, their petals catching the moonlight in a delicate dance. Above, the stars continue to shine, as if oblivious to the heavy silence that hangs between you.

The world continues on, indifferent to your pain, but in Shanks’ arms, it feels like, just for a moment, the two of you are the only ones in it.

Neither of you speaks. You don’t need to. The tears you shed, the way you cling to him, the way he holds you close—all of it says more than words ever could. Neither of you wants to break the fragile moment, both knowing that the weight of your responsibilities keeps you from being together in the way your hearts long for.

Suddenly, with a shift of movement, Shanks stands, taking you with him in a single fluid motion. His arm slides under your bottom, steadying you as he bounces you up to secure your position.

You yelp in surprise, wrapping your arms around his neck and instinctively hooking your legs around his waist. A laugh bubbles from your lips, despite the lingering sadness, as he effortlessly carries you down from the roof.

The soft crunch of grass beneath his boots fills the quiet air, mingling with the distant sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore.

Shanks walks for what feels like forever, carrying you down the steep path toward the beach. You keep your eyes closed, resting your head against his shoulder, listening to the rhythm of his steps and the gentle lull of the ocean.

When you finally open your eyes, you see Shanks has a small dinghy set up near the water, a modest lantern flickering at its side. He sets you down gently, taking a step back before bowing dramatically, a roguish smile playing at his lips. 

“My lady, would you do me the honor,” he says in mock formality, “of joining me on the water tonight?”

Your heart flutters, a mix of excitement and hesitation swelling in your chest. The responsible part of you screams that you have work tomorrow, that you could be seen. But your heart—oh, your heart aches to say yes. After all, so little happens here, and no one’s likely keeping watch. You gaze at the man you’ve loved for more than half your life, his eyes shimmering with the moonlight and something deeper.

“How could I refuse such a gracious offer from a fine gentleman like yourself?” you respond playfully, your lips curving into a smile.

Shanks grins and takes your hand, helping you step into the small boat before he pushes off from the shore. The dinghy rocks gently as the ocean cradles it, the sound of water lapping against the hull blending with the night’s peaceful rhythm. Soon, the lantern’s glow is the only thing illuminating the quiet waters as the two of you drift farther from the beach.

The moonlight glistens on the surface of the ocean, catching the peaks of the waves like scattered diamonds. The soft, silvery light bathes the world around you in a dreamlike glow, and for a moment, it feels as though time has slowed, leaving just you, Shanks, and the sea. 

You dip your fingers into the cool water, feeling its gentle caress against your skin. Shanks chuckles softly beside you, warning, “Mind your hands.”

You splash him lightly in response, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. The two of you share a quiet laugh, the tension easing as you lose yourselves in the serenity of the ocean.

'This,' you think, is what you’ve always loved most about sailing—the way the world transforms under the night sky, how the ocean becomes a tranquil mirror reflecting the stars above. It’s a reminder of how vast and beautiful the world is, even in its quiet moments.

Leaning over the side of the boat, you gaze down into the water, marveling at the world below. The fish and sea creatures seem to be sleeping, floating peacefully just beneath the surface. Everything feels so calm, so different from the chaos of the day. The ocean’s gentle lull, the stars twinkling above—it’s all mesmerizing.

But for Shanks, the real beauty isn’t the ocean or the stars—it’s you. He watches as you lose yourself in the wonder of the world around you, your eyes alight with curiosity and joy, your smile so radiant it could rival the sun. 

You don’t even realize it, but to him, you’ve always been the most ethereal sight, the one thing that makes this vast, untamable world feel like home.

The boat drifts gently on the quiet waters, the two of you nestled against each other as the lantern’s soft glow casts a warm circle of light. The ocean hums in the background, the sound of the waves gently slapping against the sides of the dinghy, while overhead, the stars twinkle like tiny beacons of light in the vast night sky.

It feels as though the world beyond the sea doesn’t exist, and for a while, you both simply enjoy the tranquility.

But soon, conversation naturally flows between you and Shanks, the easy back-and-forth of two souls who have shared a lifetime of stories and adventures. Luffy comes up first, his boundless energy and unshakable optimism always making you smile. Then there’s Ace, Uta, Sabo—each memory shared with fondness and a tinge of sadness as you recall the times spent with them, wondering where life will lead them next.

Shanks talks about Buggy, and you can’t help but chuckle at his long-time friend’s antics. “Buggy’s going to find the One Piece before any of us,” you tease, leaning back into Shanks' warmth. “Can’t wait to see the look on your face when he does.”

Shanks grins, shaking his head. “If that clown gets there first, I might just retire early,” he jokes, the humor in his voice laced with the familiarity of an old friendship.

Then, as conversations between you often do, the topic shifts to the grand mystery that’s captivated the world—the One Piece. You tilt your head, watching the moonlight dance over the water, your thoughts racing with ridiculous theories. 

“You know,” you begin, your tone half-serious, “I think the real reason Benn’s wanted dead is because of his past in the Marines.”

Shanks raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on…”

You lean in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I think Benn knows what the One Piece really is.”

Shanks smirks, amused by your sudden shift into wild theorizing. “Oh? And what’s that?”

You can’t help but grin, the ridiculousness of your idea bubbling up. “It’s a wax strip.”

He blinks, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind. “A… wax strip?”

“Yep,” you say, trying to keep a straight face. “You see, back in the day, there was this legendary sleepover with Monkey D. Dragon, Gold Roger, and Whitebeard. They tried this beauty regiment, you know, to keep their rugged looks under control. But something went horribly wrong, and now Dragon’s been walking around without eyebrows ever since.”

Shanks stares at you, and you can see the moment the absurdity of your theory sinks in. His eyes widen in disbelief before a bark of laughter escapes him. “Wait— so Dragon lost his eyebrows during a sleepover with Roger?!”

You nod solemnly. “Exactly. And the One Piece is the last remaining proof of that night—a wax strip containing Dragon’s eyebrows. That’s why they had to execute Roger, to keep the secret from getting out!”

Shanks doubles over, his laughter coming in great, booming waves. His whole body shakes with it, and he grips the edge of the boat, trying to steady himself.

“I— I can’t—” he chokes out between gasps for breath. His face is flushed, tears of laughter threatening to spill from his eyes.

You can’t help but join him, your own giggles bubbling up as you watch him lose it completely. You let go of the oars to clutch your stomach, trying not to tip the boat over as the two of you howl with laughter.

“I’m serious!” you manage to get out, though the ridiculousness of your own theory makes it hard to keep your voice steady.

Shanks wheezes, wiping a hand across his face. “Eyebrows… eyebrows… with a wax strip!”

He shakes his head, barely able to breathe as he leans back against the side of the boat, still snickering.

“I swear, only you could come up with something like that.”

The boat sways gently beneath you as you both try to regain control, and you grab the oars, taking over steering the dinghy while Shanks continues to laugh. You glance back at him, shaking your head in mock frustration.

“Well, someone’s gotta steer while you recover from my genius theory.”

Shanks sits up, trying to catch his breath. His eyes are still sparkling with mirth, the solemnity that had clouded them earlier completely wiped away by your absurdity. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks at you with a grin that’s both affectionate and teasing. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

You shrug, still chuckling. “Maybe. But I’ve kept you entertained all these years, haven’t I?”

He nods, his laughter finally dying down, but his smile remains. “That you have.” His voice softens, and the mood between you shifts slightly, the laughter giving way to something quieter, more intimate.

Moonlight reflects off the water, the gentle rocking of the boat creating a sense of calm that wraps around you both. As you dip your fingers into the cool water again, feeling the sea’s steady pulse, you can’t help but smile to yourself.

The beauty of the night, the ridiculousness of your conversation, and the way Shanks looks at you—everything feels perfect, like the ocean has swallowed up all the heaviness of the world and left you with just this moment.

And though Shanks has stopped laughing, he’s still watching you, his gaze filled with that familiar warmth. The sight of you leaning over the boat, eyes full of wonder as you take in the night sky and the calm waters, never fails to amaze him.

To him, you’re the real treasure in this world, your joy and curiosity shining brighter than any moon or stars.

Soon, it becomes even later, and you both return to your house. The house is still as you and Shanks quietly slip through the front door, the faint scent of saltwater and sea clinging to your clothes.

The soft sound of your slippers barely echoes as you both tiptoe through the rooms, careful not to wake the sleeping crew scattered across your kitchen and dining room. 

Blankets and pillows have been pulled from the guest closet, and you can make out the tangled mess of limbs, chests rising and falling in peaceful slumber. Someone’s snoring lightly, and the soft murmur of sleep-talking drifts through the air as you navigate past them.

You exchange a glance with Shanks, and a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. It feels like sneaking in after a long adventure, the comforting sense of home mingling with the reminder of the fleeting time you have together. His hand brushes yours, a fleeting touch that anchors you in the moment as you both climb the stairs with careful steps, finally making your way to your bedroom.

Once inside, you close the door gently behind you. The familiar scent of your sheets, the worn, cozy blankets, and the soft light filtering through the curtains create an intimate cocoon. Shanks shrugs off his coat, hanging it on the bedpost, and you can’t help but grin at the casual ease of it all.

For a moment, it feels like he’s never left.

“Have you taken any lovers since I last saw you?” you tease, your voice low and playful as you sit on the edge of the bed, pulling off his boots.

“I keep telling you that it wasn’t like that with Mihawk!” Shanks replied, his voice hushed but carrying a laugh.

“So you say,” you quip, eyes twinkling with mischief. But there’s no jealousy in your words, only the shared understanding that the bond between you both could never be betrayed.

You both giggle, the sound soft and intimate, knowing full well that neither of you would ever stray. Shanks stands, stepping over to your dresser where your anchor earrings sit. He plucks them up and then reaches into his pocket, retrieving a new set of earrings shaped like a ship's helm. Without a word, he places them next to your old ones, the subtle gesture saying more than words ever could. 

A piece of him, left with you.

You crawl back under the covers, the weight of the day catches up with you, the sea breeze still lingering on your skin. Shanks settles beside you, watching you with that ever-present glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

You watch him, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. He turns back to you, and before he can slip under the covers, you reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers poke and prod at him, squishing his cheeks in playful teasing.

His skin is warm under your touch, rough from years at sea, but familiar. You even pick at his scruff a bit. He squints at you in mock offense, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Go ahead, bite me,” you challenge with a grin, your voice barely above a whisper but playful nonetheless.

Shanks chuckles through his nose, his teeth flashing in the low light as he leans in and gently snaps his jaws at you, catching your finger between his teeth in the softest, most careful bite. He holds it there for a second before kissing it gently, the warmth of his lips sending a shiver down your spine.

You pull your hand back and snuggle down into the mattress, pulling the blankets up to your chin. Shanks joins you, his strong arms slipping around you as the two of you settle into the comfort of each other’s presence. His body is warm and familiar, his scent a mix of the ocean and the faint hint of rum.

The silence stretches out, peaceful but heavy with unspoken words. Shanks’ voice breaks it first, quiet and reflective.

“I’ll be gone in the morning.”

You swallow, your throat tightening at the inevitable. “I know,” you whisper, staring at the dark ceiling.

He shifts beside you, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur, filled with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“As will I,” you manage to say, though the words feel too small for the weight of what you feel.

A beat of silence passes before Shanks speaks again, this time his voice softer, more serious. “Can I tell you something?”

You turn your head to look at him, your eyes searching his face in the dim light. “Yes?”

He hesitates for just a moment, and when he speaks, his words are laced with raw emotion.

“I love you.”

The confession makes your heart clench, the quiet sincerity of it hitting you like a wave. You’ve known it, felt it in the way he’s always treated you, but hearing it spoken aloud—especially now, on the edge of another departure—makes part of you want to cry.

“I… I love you too,” you whisper, your voice trembling despite yourself.

Shanks’ hand moves to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes before you even realize it’s there. “In case I die tomorrow,” he says softly, his voice barely a breath, “I want you to hear it one more time.”

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air between you, and you can’t help but bury your face against his chest, trying to hold back the sob that threatens to escape. His arms tighten around you, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, grounding you in the present.

You close your eyes, willing the moment to last, even as the heaviness of his impending departure settles over both of you like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

The morning light pours through your window, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. You stir, reaching out to the empty space beside you, and, as expected, find it cold.

Shanks is gone, true to his word. You sigh softly, sitting up in bed, pulling the covers around you for just a moment longer. But then the smell of freshly baked bread wafts through the house, and your curiosity draws you downstairs.

In the kitchen, everything is pristine. The countertops gleam, your pantry is fully restocked, and a neat stack of notes sits on the stove. You pick one up, recognizing Benn’s precise, no-nonsense handwriting.

A brief note, polite as ever, informing you that everything was taken care of: your gutters cleaned, garden weeded, and the trash dutifully taken out. 

You smile at the thoroughness of it all, imagining Shanks probably supervising the entire crew to ensure everything was done right. Your eyes drift to the corner of the room where your favorite scarf used to hang, only to notice it’s missing.

In its place, a vibrant red sash and a neatly wrapped box for your pistols now rest, a clear sign that Shanks had left a part of himself behind once more.

You pick up the red sash and hold it for a moment, feeling the soft fabric between your fingers. Then, with a sigh, you begin to get dressed, opting for something simple at first—a starch white blouse that feels cool against your skin, paired with a navy blue pencil skirt.

But as time ticks away, the pressure of duty calls, and you finally surrender to the full uniform. You button up the military jacket with its crisp white fabric, pull on your cap, and lace up your combat boots.

The final touch is the red sash, which you tie snugly around your waist for comfort, a small piece of Shanks’ world blending with your own.

Stepping outside, the morning air feels crisp, the breeze carrying the faint scent of the sea. You make the familiar walk down the hill, your boots crunching over the dirt path, your thoughts scattered between Shanks’ departure and the day ahead. As you near the village, however, you’re met with an unusual commotion. There’s a buzz of excitement in the marketplace, people whispering and pointing toward the docks.

You pick up your pace, weaving through the crowded market, dodging vendors and children playing in the streets. The sound of hurried feet matches the beat of your heart as you make your way to the docks. And then you see it: the unmistakable sight of Admiral Garp’s great ship, its massive sails billowing as it rolls into the harbor.

The towering figure of Garp stands at the helm, his broad shoulders and unmistakable grin visible even from this distance.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, relief washing over you. With a quick salute to the other marines at the docks, you leap onto the ship, barely giving the cadets time to register your presence. They jump aside as you dart past them, your eyes fixed on the familiar figure ahead.

Before you can even greet him properly, Garp’s arms are around you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. His laugh is loud and booming, the kind that shakes your entire frame. His massive hand slaps your back with affection, the force almost sending you stumbling. 

“There you are!” Garp beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I was starting to think I’d have to drag you down from that hill of yours.”

You chuckle breathlessly, your ribs aching wonderfully from the sheer force of his hug. 

“You know I wouldn’t miss you coming into town, old man.”

Before you can say more, you feel a small weight cling to your hip. Looking down, you see a pair of tiny arms wrapped around your waist. A bright pair of curious eyes look up at you, and a grin splits your face as you recognize the small boy holding onto you.

Your heart swells as you see the familiar bright eyes of your seven-year-old son, his small arms wrapping tightly around your waist. His fiery red hair, unmistakably like his father’s, catches the sunlight, creating a soft halo around his cherubic face. His smile mirrors yours, full of joy and innocence. 

Not far behind him is your oldest daughter, walking with that confident stride you’ve seen in yourself for years. She’s fifteen now, her auburn hair rich and vibrant, carefully styled the half braided way you taught her, cascading down her shoulders in waves.

Her face is your mirror image, except for her eyes—either wide, deep pools like the night sky reflected in the ocean or sharp and cunning, with a twinkle of mischievous intent that’s all her own.

Or maybe a repressed part of you. 

“Mom!” your son exclaims, his small hand reaching for yours. You scoop him up in one swift motion, hugging him close to your heart. Your daughter sidles up next to you, her arms crossing playfully as she surveys the scene with that knowing smirk.

“Miss me?” you ask, ruffling your son’s hair and pressing a quick kiss to his temple. He giggles, nodding vigorously before trying to wriggle free.

“Of course, they missed you,” Garp chimes in, a grin on his face as he watches the reunion. “Though I think they enjoy ‘grandpa’ time more than they let on.”

You give Garp a grateful nod. “Thanks again for keeping them busy. I know how much they love running around with you.”

Your daughter laughs, her voice ringing with a mix of sarcasm and sincerity. “Oh yeah, grandpa has the best stories, especially the ones about how he used to throw cannonballs at people.”

You shoot her a look that says behave, but she just winks at you, flipping her auburn hair over her shoulder. Her brother, ever eager to help, adjusts the strap of her large bag that he’s somehow decided to carry for her. She, in turn, holds his much smaller backpack, their roles hilariously reversed as they shuffle beside you.

You three start the walk back home, their small hands in yours, swinging gently as they chatter about their adventures with "grandpa."

Your son’s voice is filled with awe as he recounts how Garp taught him to dodge imaginary cannonballs, while your daughter’s tone is more measured, full of wit as she talks about navigating the ship’s rigging like a pro.

“I could totally be a pirate, you know,” your daughter muses, casting a sidelong glance at you, her auburn hair gleaming in the sun.

“Not like a bad one, just… you know, one of those good ones, like Uncle Luffy.”

You smile knowingly, squeezing her hand. “A pirate, huh? You know your dad wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”

She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “He’s not here to say no, is he?”

Your son giggles at that, tugging on your arm as he jumps over a small rock.

"But I’m gonna be a marine! Just like you, Mama. And fight bad guys!"

His enthusiasm is contagious, and you can't help but laugh, thinking how they’ve inherited the best and most chaotic traits from both you and Shanks.

As you reach the house, the familiar creak of the door welcomes you home. Your son immediately kicks off his shoes, darting into the living room while your daughter takes a more measured approach, carefully setting down her bag and tidying up the space as if it’s her own personal domain.

“I’ll get changed,” your daughter calls out, already halfway up the stairs with your son at her heels.

“Don’t take too long,” you respond, your voice trailing after them. You take a moment to breathe, the house suddenly quiet save for the faint sounds of your children settling into their routine.

Your gaze falls on the kitchen counter, where the notes from Shanks' crew are stacked neatly. You pick them up, glancing at the distinct handwriting. These notes are a secret you’ve kept close to your heart, carefully hidden from prying eyes.

Not even Shanks knows about the of half of life you’ve built here. The villagers think you’re married to a man who works overseas. Only a few, like Mihawk and Luffy’s crew, have come close to uncovering the truth.

With the notes safely tucked into your purse, you can’t help but glance around the house—a place where every corner holds a memory of you and the kids. It’s a life filled with quiet joys, secrets woven into the fabric of your everyday life, a delicate balance between worlds.

The thought of Shanks lingers in the back of your mind, but for now, it's pushed aside as you focus on your children. They’re your best-kept secret, a legacy of love and strength that connects you to both the sea and the land, as you’ve always been torn between the two.

You watch as your daughter, Mariana, comes bounding down the stairs, her curly auburn hair bouncing with every step. She looks like a flash of sunlight, her bright eyes scanning the room as she carries her silver sandals in hand. You can’t help but smile—she’s always been so full of life, a perfect mix of your stubbornness and her father’s boundless energy. Her bare feet pad softly against the wooden floor, and she glances at you with a mischievous grin.

“Mom, are there any snacks?” she asks, already half-knowing the answer.

You tilt your head toward the back door, giving her a playful look.

"There’s still fruit from the yard."

“Score!” she exclaims, her excitement bubbling over as she practically skips toward the back door, already dreaming of the sweet taste of ripe peaches.

You watch as she swings the screen door open with a flick of her wrist, the sunlight filtering through and casting a golden glow over her figure. Her silhouette looks so much like you at that age, yet there’s something else—something wild and untamed about her that reminds you of the sea. 

It reminds you of him.

You sigh, feeling that familiar weight pressing on your chest. Shanks doesn’t know. He’s never known. And every day, as Mariana grows more curious and your son becomes more aware, the burden of that secret becomes heavier. You’ve managed to avoid the question time and time again, especially with Mariana. 

She’s smart—too smart for her own good—and every so often, her sharp, inquisitive nature leads her to ask about her father. You’ve always found a way to deflect, to change the subject, but with each passing year, it feels like you’re running out of excuses.

Your son, on the other hand, barely asks. He’s content in his little world, more attached to you and the village than Mariana ever has been. But that doesn’t lessen the guilt you feel. The worst part of it all? 

You’ve never told Shanks. Not one word.

He doesn’t know that he has a daughter who shares his vibrant spirit, or a son with his piercing red hair. 

He doesn’t know that the two children running through your home, laughing, playing, and growing up in the safety of this small village, are his.

And how could he?

How could you shatter his world with the truth? He’s worked his whole life to protect the seas, to maintain the balance of power, to keep the chaos at bay. You know what kind of man Shanks is—if he knew, he’d give it all up in a heartbeat to be here. To be with you. To raise them.

And who would be there to keep peace in the seas then?

You loved the village, the safety it provided. It was your sanctuary, a place where you didn’t have to worry about your children being held for ransom or hunted like some sick prize because of who their father is.

But every time you think of that last visit with Shanks, when he stood in your kitchen, laughing with you and stealing glances like he always had, it took everything in you not to crumble. To not bow and confess everything—the sins, the secrets, the life you’ve hidden from him for so long.

A part of you wanted to. You wanted to fall at his feet and tell him the truth, to take his hand and show him the family he didn’t know he had. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"Mom, I'm staying outside!" Mariana’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You look up, seeing her standing by the back door, already slipping her sandals on.

"Don’t go too far!" you call after her, though you know she’s probably already halfway back to the peach  tree, her favorite spot in the yard. You smile despite the ache in your heart.

Mariana, so full of life, is your pride and joy. She’s quick-witted and cunning, always one step ahead of everyone, including you. It’s the same kind of cleverness you’ve seen in Shanks a thousand times, the way he always seemed to anticipate what was coming before anyone else did.

You wonder how long it’ll be before she pieces it all together—the resemblance, the stories, the red hair her brother shares with the infamous pirate.

As she disappears into the garden, you run a hand over the kitchen counter, absently picking at the sash left by Shanks. Your eyes scan the outside, but your mind is elsewhere. Shanks is out there, somewhere, unaware of the legacy he’s left behind.

The truth lingers in the air, unspoken, but ever-present. And one day, you know, you won’t be able to keep it hidden any longer.

Mariana, your star of the sea, was already off in the yard, likely sitting high in the branches of the peach tree with her sandals discarded in the grass. Her laughter echoed faintly through the open window, blending with the soft rustle of the breeze. 

Inside, Luca, your moon, was making his usual descent—sliding down the banister of the stairs, too lazy to take them step by step. His red hair caught the light from the window as he landed with a thud, standing proudly before you with a mischievous grin plastered across his face.

“Oh, Luca,” you murmur, shaking your head with affection as he strides over to you, his chest puffed out. “What am I going to do with you?”

Luca, your greatest helper when it came to finding the “best” rocks on the beach. Who was very bit as in awe of the world around you. Who was skittish of thunder but always ready and willing to fight for his sister. His little arms always holding some wild creature that he’s found while exploring. Picking twigs out of his sister's hair while he himself was covered in sand.

The little one who had once dyed his hair blue using paint because he was curious about how it would look. 

If you had to pick him from a line up of other children with a resemblance to Shanks you’d choose this cool little dude that has a heart as big as his father. 

Luca doesn’t answer, only beams up at you with those bright eyes—your eyes—and you scoop him up into your arms despite his whines.

His legs kick in mock protest, but you kiss his round cheeks anyway, peppering his face with affection. His giggles fill the room, that sweet, innocent laughter that tugs at your heart.

“Stop! I’m a man!” he squeals between fits of laughter, trying to wriggle out of your embrace.

“Oh, a man, are you?” you tease, holding him tighter and pressing another kiss to his forehead. “Well, this man is still my baby boy.”

You hold him close, feeling the warmth of his small body against yours, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

Just you and your children in the safety of your home, far away from the dangers of the sea. You smooth a hand over Luca’s red hair, wondering—if Shanks could see this, if he could see how much Luca looks like him—would he even need you to say the words?

Raising them without him had been the hardest thing you’d ever done. It felt wrong, every lie, every evasion of the truth, every time you had to cover up why you couldn’t tell him.

You’d sent aid when you couldn’t be there for a fight, feigned illness or some convenient excuse when he’d visited on nights the children were staying in your room.

On those nights, you’d stayed downstairs, telling Shanks it was for old times’ sake, a ‘slumber party’ for the two of you, when in reality, you were protecting the secret that grew harder to contain with each passing day.

You’d felt Benn’s eyes on you, too. How many times had he nearly stumbled upon the bottles, pacifiers, and toys you’d hastily hidden? Maybe he already knew and was keeping your secret, but you’d never asked. The fewer people who knew, the safer your children would be.

Luca’s laughter dies down, and he nuzzles into you, resting his head on your shoulder. The weight of his small form in your arms feels like the weight of the world at times, the burden of secrets and lies pressing down on you. But here, now, in this moment, it’s just you and your son.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside. You don’t hear the soft creak of your front door opening or the steady sound of boots on the wooden floor. You're too wrapped up in Luca, kissing his cheeks again, earning another round of giggles. It’s only when you hear your name being called—familiar, yet unexpected—that your heart skips a beat.

“My love?”

The voice is unmistakable, and your breath catches in your throat as you turn, still holding Luca in your arms. There, standing in the entryway, is Shanks.

The room seems to shrink, and time feels like it slows to a crawl. Shanks stands in the doorway, sunlight framing his figure, his usual carefree smile faltering slightly as his eyes land on you and Luca.

There’s a moment of silence, thick with unspoken words and heavy with the weight of what you’ve hidden for so long. Luca, oblivious to the tension, wriggles in your arms, his small voice breaking through the quiet. 

“Mama, who’s that?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as Shanks’ gaze shifts to Luca, his eyes widening slightly. For a moment, he looks at Luca—really looks at him—and you can see the realization starting to dawn on his face. The same red hair, your sweet grin, the spark of life in his eyes.

“y/n…”

End of part 1, second half to be posted 09/09/24

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 4: Read Between The Lines]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Boulevard Of Broken Dreams” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.6k

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It is your first week of basic training at Great Lakes on the north side of Chicago, and as you lie in the top bunk of your assigned bed you wonder what the hell you’ve done. You enlisted right out of high school, eighteen, no driver’s license, no work history, never been more than fifty miles outside of Soft Shell, Kentucky. The drill sergeants are always yelling and you’re bad at push-ups; you can’t understand the recruits from big cities like Los Angeles, Miami, Las Vegas, Detroit, Houston, and they don’t seem to get you either, and aren’t interested enough to try. Sometimes you wish you hadn’t signed that five-year contract, but where would you be if you weren’t here? Home is not words but textures, colors, fumes that still burn in your sinuses: cigarette ash on rose pink carpets, red embers glowing in the wood stove, Hamburger Helper and Mountain Dew, coffee creamer in Hungry Jack potatoes, laughter and heavy footsteps and slamming doors, scratch-off games, dogs barking, collecting coins from couch cushions for gas money, scrubbing clothes in the bathtub when the washer quits, Mama taking gulps from her favorite cup—plastic, Virginia Beach, filled with equal parts Hawaiian Punch and vodka���when she thinks no one is looking, blue shows flickering on the television, Family Feud, Maury, Good Morning America, WWE SmackDown. For as long as you can remember you’ve known you couldn’t stay. Now you’re getting out, but nothing in life is free.

You are at Class A Technical School in Gulfport, Mississippi, and even though it’s hotter than some noxious, volcanic hellscape—Mercury, Venus, Io—you are beginning to like it. You taste the salt of sweat when you lick your lips, sugar in the sweet tea they serve in the chow hall. There’s a magic in building something where there was only empty space before, in patching roofs and painting walls. Here being quiet and watchful is exactly what they want from you: head down, hammer striking nails, measurements and angles and long hours under the sun with no complaints. You’re not just running away anymore. You are creating something new.

You are sitting beneath swaying palm trees and a full moon on Diego Garcia, draining cans of Guinness with Rio, and he’s telling you things he shouldn’t, too personal, too honest: Sophie wants to try for a baby next time he’s home on leave, and part of him wants that too but he’s terrified. As thunder rumbles in the distance and raindrops begin to patter on the waves of the Indian Ocean, you tell Rio you think he’d be a good father. He wonders how you figure that, and you say because he’s not like any of the men from home. He gives you one of his crooked smiles—a flash of teeth, knowing dark eyes—and doesn’t ask what you mean.

But of course, when you swim up from the inky currents of sleep you are in none of these places. You are curled up on the floor of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio, cheap worn black carpet peppered with stars and swirls in neon green, pink, blue. You stretch out with a yawn. Someone has left a Lemon Tea Snapple within reach; you twist it open and guzzle it, hoping to extinguish the pounding in your skull, a rhythmic thudding of warm maroon, half Captain Morgan and half misery. The music isn’t helping. From the green Toshiba CD player, a man is singing in Spanish. Aegon and Rio are sitting at the nearest table and playing Uno.

Aegon says as he ponders his cards: “You know Enrique Iglesias, right Rio?”

“You are so racist.” Rio puts down a wild. “And the new color is red. Racist.”

“So what’s he saying?”

“Aegon, buddy, I told you, I was born here. My grandparents came over in the 60s. I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You can’t understand any of it?” Aegon is skeptical. He plays a skip, a reverse, and a seven. “My dad never taught me a word of Greek but I can recognize plenty of phrases. Vlákas means idiot. Spatáli chórou is a waste of space.”

Rio sighs, relenting. He puts down a two. “The song is called Súbeme La Radio, Turn Up The Radio For Me. Bring me the alcohol that numbs the pain… I don’t care about anything anymore…You’ve left me in the shadows…”

“Damn, now I’m sad. Draw four, bitch.”

“When the night comes and you don’t answer, I swear to you I’ll stay waiting at your door…” Rio studies his cards. “What’s the new color?”

“Green.”

“Yes!” Rio slams down a skip. “Fleeing from the past in every dawn, I can’t find any way to erase our history…”

Everyone else is awake already. As muted late-morning daylight streams in through the small tinted windows, Aemond is weaving between tables, pointedly checking on each person. He glances at you, says nothing, turns around and walks the other way.

“That’s tough,” Rio says sympathetically, popping open the tab on a can of Chef Boyardee and shoveling ravioli into his mouth with a plastic fork.

Aegon gives you a smirk. “You want to fake date now?”

“I’ll think about it.” No you won’t.

Helaena appears, a prairie girl vision in a modest blue sundress and with her hair tied back with a matching scarf. She reaches into her burlap messenger bag and offers you a choice between a ranch-flavored tuna pouch or a silvery pack of Pop-Tarts. “Strawberry,” she tells you.

“I’ll take the Pop-Tarts.”

Helaena gives them to you and then shakes a bottle of Advil. You’re so groggy it takes you a few seconds to figure out what she wants, then you obediently hold out a hand. Helaena lays two tablets in the center of your palm and moves on, soundlessly like a rabbit or a spider.

You wash the pills down with Snapple. As you nibble half-heartedly on a Pop-Tart—trying not to look at Aemond, multicolored sprinkles falling down onto the carpet—your eyes drift to the tattoo on the underside of Aegon’s forearm. It’s not over ‘til you’re underground. You’ve spotted it before. Only now do you remember where you recognize the lyric from. “Is that Green Day?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says, enthused that you noticed. “Letterbomb.”

“I love that whole album.”

“Me too. I could sing it front to back if you asked me to.”

“I’m not asking.”

Aegon cackles and resumes his Uno game with Rio. Baela is wearing denim shorts and a crop top, slathering her belly with Palmer’s cocoa butter from Walmart as she chats with Rhaena and eats Teddy Grahams. Daeron is waxing the string of his compound bow. Jace is gnawing on a Twizzler as he scrutinizes Aegon’s map, annotated with Xs and circles and arrows in sparkling gel pen green.

“I’m going to be a thousand years old by the time we get there,” Jace mutters.

Aegon hits the table with his fist. The discard pile collapses and cascades, an avalanche of Uno cards. Rio, undisturbed, continues contemplating his next move. “You know what, Jace? The cities are full of zombies, the interstates are blocked by fifty-car pileups, if we bump into anyone else who’s still alive they’re just as likely to rob and murder us as want to be friends, and on top of all that I’m trying to do you the favor of preventing you from getting so irradiated you turn into Spider-Man. If you have a better route in mind, I’d love to hear it.”

“Spider-Man…? You’re such a dumbass, what are you talking about?!”

Luke says from where he stands by a window: “Aemond, someone’s outside.”

“What?” Aemond stares at him. “Zombies?”

“No. People.”

Aemond bolts to the doors, the rest of you close behind him. Rhaena turns off the CD player. You, Rio, and Aegon squeeze together to peer out of one of the windows. There are men—three of them, no, four, all appearing to be in their forties—passing by on the main road through town. They are armed with what are either AR-15s or M16s, you can’t tell which.

Rio whistles. “If you get shot by one of those, the exit wound will be the size of an orange.” Everyone looks at him. This was not an encouraging thing to say.

You elaborate: “Thirty-round magazines. Semiautomatic, assuming they’re AR-15s for civilian use. I guess they could have gotten ahold of M16s somehow. Those have a fully automatic setting.”

“So regardless, we’re out-gunned,” Jace says.

“If they know how to use them. Some men think guns are wall decorations, like deer heads or fish.”

Aegon recoils. “Fish?! What the fuck. I’m glad the colonies left.”

“Maybe they’ll keep walking,” Daeron says hopefully. One of the men stops and points at the bowling alley, saying something to his companions. They laugh and begin crossing the small parking lot. They are less than two minutes from the door. “Oh, great…”

“There’s an emergency exit in the back,” Baela says.

Aegon snorts. “Yeah, that we stacked about twenty boxes of bowling pins in front of to zombie-proof.”

“We won’t be able to get out before they hear us,” Aemond says. Then he abruptly orders: “Grab your guns, let’s go. Helaena, Baela, Rhaena, you’re staying here.” Aemond’s remaining eye—briefly, reluctantly—skates over you as Rio, Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Daeron scatter to obey him. “You too.”

“But I’m the best shot.”

“I don’t want them to know we have women with us.”

“I’m of more use to you outside.”

Aemond rips his Glock out of its holster, pointing it at the floor. His frustration is palpable, an electric shock, heat that refracts light rays until they become mirages on the horizon. “You’re going to stay here, and if a stranger comes through those doors you’re going to kill them. Okay?”

His urgency stuns you; his eye is blue-white summer storm lightning. “Okay.”

“Now get back.”

You soar to the nearest table, duck under it, reach for your Beretta M9 and double-check the clip, fully loaded. You click off the safety.

“Aemond, wait, let me go first,” Aegon is saying by the door. “I’m better at de-escalation, I’m less…uh…intimidating.”

“Less socially incompetent, you mean,” Jace quips.

“I’ll lead,” Aemond insists. “Aegon can talk. Rio, you’re up front with me.”

Rio pumps his Remington 12 gauge. “I’d be delighted.”

Jace is amused. “I’ve been demoted, huh?”

“He’s bigger,” Aemond replies simply, then opens the door and vanishes through a blinding curtain of daylight. The others follow closely; Daeron, the last one out—his compound bow in hand, the strap of his Marlin .22 slung over his shoulder—shuts the door behind him.

Very faintly, you can hear Aegon: “Hey, guys! What’s happening? How’s the apocalypse treating you…?”

Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are under the table with you. They deserve to have options. You tell them: “If you want to go hide behind the lanes or try to get out the back door, now’s your chance.”

Helaena shakes her head, clutching your t-shirt: black, Star Wars, pawed off a shelf at the Walmart. “I want to stay with you.”

“Same,” Baela says determinedly, gripping her Ruger. She barely knows how to use it, but she’ll try. Rhaena is shaking, her eyes filling up her face, small fragile bones like a bird’s.

You can’t hear voices from outside anymore, but there are no gunshots either. You keep your M9 aimed at the doors, your breathing slow and deep, your heart rate low. Your hands are steady. Your eyes hunt for the slightest movement, for the momentary shadow of someone passing by a window. Against your will, your thoughts wander to Aemond. I hope Aegon is on his left side. Aemond can’t see there.

“Rhaena, get your gun out,” Baela says sharply. “Come on. Turn the safety off. What if you were alone right now? What if we weren’t here to protect you?”

Rhaena nods, fumbling to free her revolver from its holster. “I’m sorry…I’m trying…”

Now there is a stranger’s voice, gruff and deep. He must be just beyond the door, the farthest one to the right. There is a creak of hinges, a sliver of sunlight. “That’s just too damn bad, fellas. You got a nice little hideout here, and you’re gonna have to share it—”

The door opens. Two unfamiliar faces, too shellshocked to raise their rifles in time. You close an eye, line up your sights, fire twice, and that’s all it takes: one headshot, one in the throat, blood like a fountain, spurting scarlet ruin, thuds against the carpet strewn with neon stars, gurgling and spasms as their brains send out those final electrical impulses: danger, catastrophe, apocalypse. Rhaena is screaming. Helaena is covering her ears with both hands.

You run to the doorway; there are more booms of gunfire out in the parking lot. You cross into the late-morning light to see the other two men on the pavement: one with an arrow through the eye, the other with a gaping, hemorrhaging hole where his heart once was. Rio is admiring his work, holding his shotgun aloft. He scoops a handful of Cheddar Whales out of his shorts pocket and shovels them into his mouth.

“Goddamn, I love Remington Arms Company.”

“Oh, that was awesome,” Aegon says, wan and panting, hands on his waist. “Yeah, that was…that was…” He bends over and vomits Snapple and Cool Ranch Doritos onto the asphalt.

“Everyone okay in there?” Rio asks you.

“Yeah.” Behind you, Baela, Rhaena, and Helaena are stepping through the doorway. Your thoughts are whirling sickly: I killed someone. I killed someone. “They wouldn’t leave?”

“We told them the bowling alley was ours,” Aemond says, not looking at you. “We asked them very politely to keep moving. They chose to try to intimidate us into letting them stay. They weren’t good people, and these are the consequences.”

You click on the safety and re-holster your M9. You’re wearing Rio’s on your other hip. They seem to weigh so much more than they did ten minutes ago. I’m not supposed to be a killer. I’m a builder.

“Aegon, are you okay?” Daeron asks, a palm on his brother’s back.

Aegon retches again. “Shut up. You can’t even buy fireworks.”

“Zombies.” Luke is peering through his binoculars. “Not many, just two. Way up the road.”

“There will be more.” Baela’s cradling her belly; you don’t even think she’s aware of it. “They heard the gunshots, the sound carries for miles.”

“We’re leaving,” Aemond says. “Right now. Everyone get your things.”

As backpacks are hastily zipped and Daeron and Aegon stand guard in the parking lot, you kneel down beside the men you murdered and check their rifles. They are M16s, either stolen or illegally purchased: there’s a little switch by the trigger to choose between semi-automatic or the so-called machine gun mode.

“They barely had any bullets left,” you tell Rio. Just like us when we were trapped on that transmission tower.

“Yeah, same story for the other two guys. Four bullets in one magazine, a half dozen in the other. But it only takes once. We don’t have any ammo that will work with M16s, do we?”

“No, we definitely don’t.”

“Fantastic. Well, we’ll throw them in a Walmart cart and take them with us just in case.”

You’re staring down at the man you shot through the head. His eternal resting place is a puddle of blood and brains in a bowling alley in rural Ohio; surely no one deserves that. “He was a real person,” you say, dazed. “Not a zombie. Just a person.”

“Hey.” Rio grabs your shoulders and spins you towards him. From where he is helping Luke gather up the remaining food, Aemond’s head snaps up to watch. “You hurt him before he could hurt us. You did the right thing.”

“Sure.”

“I killed a dude too. I blew his heart right out of his chest. You think I’m going to hell for that?”

“No,” you admit, smiling. “And if you’d be there with me, I guess I wouldn’t mind so much.”

Rio grins, wide and toothy. “Well alright then. Let’s finish packing.”

The ten of you depart from Shenandoah, Ohio heading northwest on Route 603 just like Aegon marked on his map, Jace chauffeuring Baela in one shopping cart, Rio pushing another loaded high with food and M16s.

“It looks like rain,” Helaena says.

Everyone else peers up into a clear, cerulean sky, wondering what she means.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re a few miles north of Shiloh when the storm rolls in, cold rain and furious wind, daylight that vanishes behind dark churning thunderheads, jagged scars of lightning in an opaque sky. The road is only two lanes, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ravaged crops and untilled earth; it would look like the patchwork of a quilt if you were gazing down from an airplane, but of course the FAA grounded all flights over a month ago when the world went mad: Revelations, Ragnarök, the fabric of the universe unweaving as death burned through families, cities, nations like a fever, like plague.

“Maybe we should cut across one of these fields,” Jace says, pointing. He is soaked with rain; it drips from his curls, runs into his eyes. Baela is in her cart again; each time she tries to get out and walk, she’s gasping and can’t keep up within half an hour. You’ve all taken turns pushing her, much to Baela’s dismay. She’d be humiliated if she wasn’t too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

“Here, let me do it,” you offer, and Jace gratefully relinquishes the cart. Baela gives you a frail wave of appreciation.

“We stay on the road,” Aemond insists, flinching as rain pelts his scarred face. “Farmhouses have driveways and mailboxes, we’ll pass one eventually. If we lose the road, we might not be able to find it again. We’ll end up wandering around in circles in the woods.”

“Just like the Blair Witch Project,” Aegon says glumly, his Sperry Bahama sneakers audibly soggy.

“There!” Luke announces, spotting something with his binoculars. “Up ahead on the left. Past the bridge.”

You can’t see what Luke does until there is an especially brilliant flash of lightning: a farmhouse, old but seemingly not derelict, and with a number of accompanying buildings, guest houses and stables and barns and towering silos.

“Home sweet home!” Rio says. “And I don’t care if I have to kill a hundred of those undead bastards to get in, it’s mine.”

“Well, hopefully not a hundred,” you reply, in better spirits now that a sanctuary has been found. Aemond keeps glancing back at you as you push Baela’s cart. If he wants to say something, he’s doing a good job of resisting the temptation. “We don’t have that much ammo.”

There is a concrete bridge over a river, probably unremarkable and only five or ten feet deep normally but now torrential with rain. Water rushes by beneath, a muddy incline on each side as the earth rises back up to meet the road. A reflective green sign proclaims that you are only two miles from Plymouth, which Aegon plans to skirt along the edges of. It’s a decent-sized town; he thinks you might be able to find a car to steal there, something with gas in the tank and keys on a hook just inside the house.

“I call the master bedroom,” Jace says craftily, rubbing his palms together. You’re near the center of the bridge now, another ten yards to go. “Nice big bed, warm cozy blankets, and I was up for half of last night keeping watch so tonight I am off duty, I am a free man, it’s going to just be me and my girl and eight glorious uninterrupted hours of sleep—”

Rhaena shrieks, and then you hear it over the noise of the storm, pounding rain and rumbling thunder: moans, growls, hisses like snakes. Not one zombie. A lot more than one. They’re crawling up from under the bridge, from the filthy quagmire at both ends. There was a hoard of them waiting, aimless, dormant, almost hibernating. But now they are awake. They are grasping for you with bony, dirt-covered claws. They are snapping with jaws that leak blood and pus and bile as their organs curdle to a putrid soup.

“Get off the bridge!” Aemond is shouting. He has his Glock in his right hand, a baseball bat in his left. He’ll shoot until he’s out of bullets, and then, and then…

Rio helps you get Baela out of the cart, then opens fire. His Remington doesn’t just pierce skulls, it vaporizes them. When he’s out of shells—there are more in his backpack, but no time to reload—he yanks the M16s out of the other Walmart cart and empties each of them, mowing down zombies as the rest of you scramble across the bridge. All around you are explosions of gunshots, thunder, lightning, zombie skulls crushed by bullets and blunt force trauma. Baela is firing her Ruger as you half-drag her, one arm hooked beneath hers and around her back. When the last M16 is empty, Rio starts clubbing zombies with the butt of it. You’ve all reached the north side of the bridge, except…

“Fuck off, you freaks!” Jace is screaming. They’ve backed him up against the guardrail, a swarm of ten or more. His Remington shotgun is out of ammo; he’s swinging it wildly, but he doesn’t even have enough room to maneuver. There are still more zombies emerging from under the bridge. You can hear them snarling and groaning. You swipe an M9 off your belt and put a bullet in the brain of a zombie as its fingers close around your ankle, then you start picking off the ones mobbing Jace. You aren’t fast enough. As they lean in to bite him, teeth gnashing at the delicious throbbing heat of his jugular, Jace throws himself over the barrier and into the surging water below.

“No!” Baela cries. She careens off the road and into the field, running parallel to the river as swiftly as she can. You are helping her, steadying her, firing at any zombies you have a clear line of sight on. The others are here too: slipping in the muck of the flooding earth, shouting for Jace. He surfaces through the frothing current, flails pitifully, disappears beneath the water again. You glimpse a white hand, a shadow of his dark hair, a kicking shoe. There are more zombies on the opposite side of the river, trailing after Jace, lurching and slobbering viscous, gory saliva. They cannot swim, but they can follow him until he washes ashore.

Jace bursts up through the waves, gasping. “Help! Aemond…Aemond, for the love of God, help me…” He blubbers and then is dragged under. Aemond and Luke are continuing frantically after him. Baela is hysterical, sobbing, trembling with adrenaline. Aegon is yowling as he swings at zombies with his bloodied golf club. Helaena is darting around almost invisibly, always cowering behind Daeron or Aegon or Rio.

You glance north towards the farmhouse, growing not closer but farther away. We can’t leave shelter. We can’t leave the road. You lock eyes with Rio. He’s thinking the same thing.

“Aemond, we have to go,” Rio says, but in the midst of the rain and the turmoil it barely registers.

“Jace, we’re coming to get you!” Aemond swears. The ground is increasingly sodden, deep, difficult to trudge through. Jace resurfaces, coughing and sputtering.

“Jace!” Aegon wails. He caves in the skull of a zombie who was once a registered nurse as Helaena crouches behind him. “Jace, I’m sorry! I’m gonna miss you, man!”

Jace splashes in the rising river, his arms flailing helplessly. He is being swept away far faster than any of you can move on foot. “Aegon, you dumb bitch!” Jace manages, then slips beneath the water and doesn’t reappear.

“Where is he?!” Baela is saying. “Aemond, where…?”

You are trying to soothe her, to bring her back to reality. She was always so pragmatic before; you have to wake her up. “Baela, listen, we can’t stay here, he would want you and the baby to be safe—”

“Aemond! Aemond, we have to go!” Rio catches him, wrenches him around, roars into his face as driving rain pummels them both: “We have to go, or we’re going to die here too!”

It hits Aemond all at once; he understands, horror and agony in his sole blue eye. “We have to go,” he agrees. And then louder, to everyone: “Get to the farmhouse!”

Baela collapses into the mud, howling, tears flooding down her face. “No, he’s still alive, he’s still alive, we can’t leave him!”

You and Rhaena are trying to haul Baela to her feet. Now Aemond is here, pulling you away from her—his fingers tight and urgent around your wrist—as he and Luke take your place. “Go,” he commands. “You run. Don’t wait for us. Rio?”

“I got her,” Rio replies, grabbing your free hand with an iron grip. Gales of wind rip at you; every millimeter of your skin is soaked with rain. As you flee across the fields towards the farmhouse, dozens of zombies pursue you. More are still staggering along the banks of the river, swept up in the hoards chasing Jace and the promise of his waterlogged corpse when it reaches its final destination. Daeron has run out of arrows and is shooting with his .22, which is very much not his preference. Aegon trips, getting covered in mud as he rolls, and Rio stops to help him. While he is distracted, you look back at Aemond. He, Luke, and Baela are moving quickly, but not quickly enough. A drove of zombies is closing in on them. You have a spare few seconds at last. You yank your backpack off, grab a box of ammo inside, and reload your M9.

“Chips?!” Rio calls over his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

He knows you well enough to listen. The world goes quiet as your finger settles on the trigger. There’s a rhythm one slips into, an impassionate lethal efficiency. It’s easier to keep going than to stop and have to find it again. You fire over and over, dropping eight zombies. You sheath your M9 and whip Rio’s out of your other holster, the sights finding grotesque decaying faces illuminated by lightning. You pull the trigger: blood, bones, brains, corpses jerking and convulsing as they fall harmlessly to the mud. Aemond is here; when did he get here?

“I told you to run!” he’s shouting through the storm, furious. He’s shoving you towards the farmhouse. You resist him.

“Let me kill as many as I can—”

“Go! Now!” Aemond orders over the clashing thunder, and then sprints with you all the way to the front porch to make sure you listen. Everyone else is already there. Helaena has fetched a spare key from under the doormat and is turning it in the lock.

Daeron observes her anxiously. “We don’t know if it’s safe in there, Helaena.”

“Not in,” she says, insistent. “Through.” Through this building, and maybe through the next one too. The average zombie is not terribly clever. If they lose sight of you, without the benefit of the momentum of a hoard they are lost. Helaena opens the door. The living rush inside, and she locks it behind you. As you are bursting out the back door, you can hear zombies pounding their rotting palms against the front one. You soar through a stable full of dead horses and donkeys, leaving the doors open; this should keep the zombies distracted if they make it this far. Then you race to the farthest guest house. Luke, swiveling with his binoculars, spies no zombies approaching as you steal inside. There is no spare key this time; Rio punches out a first-floor window for you to climb through. Once everyone is inside, he and Aegon move a bookshelf to cover the opening.

You all stand in the living room, gasping and shivering, dripping rain down onto the rug and the hardwood floor. The air is dusty but clean of any trace of vile, swampy decay. Outside, thunder booms and lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the lightless house. The sky is so dark it might as well be nightfall. Baela sinks to her knees, clamping both hands over her mouth so she won’t sob loudly enough for a zombie to hear. Rhaena and Luke are beside her, both weeping quiet rivulets of tears, trying to comfort her in whispers. Helaena is rummaging around searching for candles; she has already taken a lighter out of her soaked burlap messenger bag.

“Daeron, bro, come over here,” Aegon chokes out. He embraces Daeron, clutches him tightly and desperately, doesn’t let go. Rio is reloading his Remington 12 gauge.

Jace is dead. Jace is dead.

Aemond says to you, his voice low but seething: “What the fuck was that?”

You blink the raindrops out of your eyes as you stare at him, bewildered. “You needed help.”

“I told you to run.”

“I’m an asset, I have skills that can keep you alive, why am I here if I’m not going to be useful—?”

“You’re not in the fucking Navy anymore!” he hisses. “When I tell you to run, you run, you don’t stop, you don’t look back, because I can’t worry about you and take care of everyone else.”

“Nobody asked you to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

“Aemond,” Aegon pleads, waving him over. Aegon’s plump sunburned cheeks are glistening with rain and tears. “Man, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters now. Please come here.”

“I’m going to clear the house,” Aemond says instead.

Rio raises an eyebrow at you—this is one fucked up guy, Chips—and then pumps his shotgun. “Me too.” He sweeps with Aemond through the main floor and then vanishes up the staircase.

Helaena is lightning candles she found in the kitchen and arranging them around the living room. Daeron starts gathering food from the pantry. Rhaena and Baela are murmuring to each other softly, mournfully. It doesn’t feel like something you should intrude on. Luke is peeking out of a window with his binoculars, vigilant for threats. Aegon sniffles, wanders over to you with large, sad, shimmering eyes, pats your shoulder awkwardly.

“Hey, Chocolate Chip. You doing okay?”

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah. Me either.” Then he flops down on the hideous burnt orange couch and lies there motionless until Daeron brings him a can of Dr. Pepper. Aegon pops the tab, slurps up foam, and then begins singing to himself very quietly, a song so old you can remember your grandfather saying it was one of his favorites as a boy: A Tombstone Every Mile.

When Rio comes back downstairs—heavy footsteps, he can’t help that—you meet him at the bottom of the steps. “The house is good,” Rio says. “And Aemond’s in the big bedroom on the right if you’d like to go up there and talk to him.”

“I don’t think he wants to see me right now.”

“I could not disagree more,” Rio says with a miserable, exhausted smile. Then he goes to the couch to check on Aegon.

You pick up one of the flickering candles, white and scentless, and ascend the staircase. You find Aemond in the master bedroom, the same accommodations that Jace laid claim to when he was still alive. He is sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the wall, at nothing. Tentatively, you sit down beside him, placing the candle on the nightstand.

“Aemond…what happened to Jace…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Criston said I was in charge, that’s the very last thing he told me. They might be the last words I ever hear from him, and I just…” His voice breaks; he wipes the rain and tears from his face with open palms. “I really wanted to get everyone home.”

“I’m so sorry about what I said at the bowling alley,” you confess, like it’s a dire secret. “I don’t want to fight with you, Aemond, I…I want to help you. I can see what you’ve done for everyone here, me and Rio included, and I believe in you. I want to be a part of this.”

He nods, an acceptance of peace, but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Can we start over? I’ll never bring it up again, okay? I wasn’t trying to guilt you or upset you or anything. I should have just dropped it. I overreacted. And I understand why being with someone like me maybe wouldn’t be…super appealing.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

Aemond wrings his hands, shakes his head, at last turns to you, golden candlelight reflected in his eye, his scar cloaked in shadows. His words are hushed, clandestine, soft powerless surrender. “I’m already so afraid of losing you.”

He cares, he hopes, he wants me too? “I’m here right now, Aemond. I don’t know what else I can say. I’d promise you more if I could.”

He reaches out to touch you, to ghost his thumb across your cheekbone, wet with rain. Then he kisses you, so gently you cannot help but imagine the wispy borders of calm white summer clouds, the rustle of leaves as wind blows down the Appalachian Mountains. You don’t have to ask him what he’s thinking, what it feels like. You can read it in the startled, firelit wonder on his face.

You taste like the beginning of something, here at the end of the world.

[threshergm]

Eulogy

A little scene from my upcoming John and Talia slow-burn titled Missing Pieces. Wanted to see what the tumblr community thought of it first before I really committed to a serious writing schedule and started hammering out word count. @lpmurphy @authortobenamedlater @mrtobenamedlater @fabulaprima @silverpelt3600

@t65flyer @ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask @sarnakhwritesthings @makowrites @morganas-pendragons

@ageless-aislynn @pelgraine @inafieldofdaisies @helix-studios117 @littleneonlily

2327 hours, April 5th, 2552 (military calendar) UNSC Halcyon-class light cruiser Pillar of Autumn Slipspace transit on randomized vector per Cole Protocol Leaving the Branta system, bound for Reach

"Have you seen Corporal Perez?"

Even in just his techsuit, the Master Chief seemed to fill the corridor. Which is probably why the crewman apprentice he was addressing was trying to disappear into the bulkhead. Even with Cortana gone for six months now, he could practically hear her hum, "Social graces, Chief," and took a step back.

The E2 - name tape obscured by the apron he still wore upon emerging from the galleys - gaped and pointed down the corridor, muttering, "On the right," indicating a sliding steel door opposite the entrance to the forward enlisted mess.

Chief nodded once, gruffed a perfunctory, "Thank you," and stalked down the corridor. The Pillar of Autumn, functioning on military standard timekeeping now that they were underway, was in night mode. The chrono above the enlisted mess hatchway glowed a red 2327 hours, and the main lights overhead were off, leaving the only light in the corridor as one lonely lamp over the door labeled FREEZER A-19.

Chief snaked his hand into the recessed handle and yanked the door aside on its track, and stepped inside. He found a single light on inside as well; illuminating shelves and racks of frozen foods, three black body bags on the floor, and next to them, wrapped in a gray Navy-issue blanket, dark hair cascading off her shoulders, sat Corporal Perez.

Master Chief took two firm steps forward, stopping a stride from where the young Marine sat, legs tucked under herself. He stopped and settled into parade rest.

"Corporal Perez, why are you not at your post? Our shift began over a half-hour ago."

She didn't budge, save for breaths that came shallow and a little jaggedly, as if she'd been crying.

"Corporal Perez?"

Silence hung in the artificially frigid air, and Chief began to wonder if he should walk to the wall intercom and summon a medical corpsman. He glanced around, as if missing something, then returned his gaze to the small woman on the floor before him.

"Rand had a thing for me," she croaked out suddenly. So she had been crying. She didn't turn, didn’t move, except to reach a hand out from her woolen cocoon to stroke the bodybag nearest her.

"He always used to sit next to me in the chow hall on drill weekends, but he never knew what to talk about. 'Are you enjoying your chicken, Corporal?'" She laughed weakly, "'Rand, it's just fucking chicken. The same chicken we had last month and every month before that.'"

Her accent thickened alongside the sorrow in her voice. "We picked him up on Midvale back in '49, after the Red United Front bombed that dam. Pulled him off the roof of his family's ranch house with his two sisters. His sisters settled on Culloden, but he stayed. He was one of our full-timers; the Colonel found a job for him as the armorer's assistant. He lived on-base and sent all his pay to his sisters so they could buy land and start again."

She took in a shuddering breath, shoulders trembling underneath her blanket. "He said he saw something in the fog. Country boy, you know? Grew up hunting and I… I should have believed him."

She seemed to shrink in on herself for a moment, hunching against some wordless pain, until a low keening wail escaped, “He was only 19!” She shook her head, and Chief saw hot tears fly, while she bit her lip and fought to get her emotions under control. After a moment, with a grunt of pain, her hand shifted from one body bag to the next.

"Zara Bennett. She was our linguist. I loved her accent. She was from London, and she was the first person from Earth that I'd ever met. Her dad manages a titanium mine out in Tengeri back home on Reach. They're loaded, but you'd never guess it from Zara, we used to go thrift-shopping together. Her parents have a penthouse in downtown New Alexandria, and she could have gone to university back on Earth, easily. But she enlisted. Said she wanted to protect her new home." 

She patted the body bag fondly, black plastic crinkling in the silence, and her hand extended a little further.

"Milo Alvarez. He used to bag groceries down the street from my grandparent's place. He was an atheist, and we always used to argue and… oh, God!" Her voice broke. "I don't know where he is right now…" 

She bowed her head, leaning into the body bag, as if shielding it like Chief had shielded her from the glassing beam on that mountainside, sobs hitching her shoulders, "H-he didn't know you, Father, but take him home… take him home."

She lapsed into Spanish, a language Chief didn't know, and he fervently wished Cortana was there to translate. His brow furrowed; the lack of knowledge a gap in his preparation, the gap in his understanding suddenly a splinter in his mind. Without thinking, he took a step forward, closing the distance between the miserable scene before him, and kneeled beside Perez.

“You speak well for them.” He spoke in low tones; he wasn’t sure why. It simply felt right to do so. Perez stopped, turned upwards to face him, dark eyes reddened and slender face puffy in the dim light of the freezer. “God, I h-hope so. They’re m-my friends.” Tears still flowed freely down her cheeks, and her voice was hoarse. Umber eyes - the color of rich soil Chief had seen on a dozen worlds - held his gaze steadily in the dark, despite the pain swimming in them. “What were you saying, just now? In Spanish?” Chief cocked his head in question. Perez smiled weakly, eyes unfocused for a moment. “Yes, Spanish. I’m from Santiago Circle. I grew up speaking it at home,” she took another breath, steadier this time, “I-I’m Catholic. It was our Prayer for the Dead.” Her eyes met his own in the dark, and she held his gaze for a long moment. Chief wasn’t sure why, but he needed more. The name of a prayer wasn’t enough. He needed to understand this young woman sitting in a pool of her grief beside three corpses. “Tell me what you said,” he rumbled gently. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an order. He just needed to know. Perez kept his gaze for another long moment, then began to slowly recite, in English. In your hands, O Lord,

We humbly entrust our brothers and sisters.

In this life you embraced them with your tender love;

Deliver them now from every evil

And bid them eternal rest.

The old order has passed away:

Welcome them into paradise,

Where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,

But fullness of peace and joy

With your Son and the Holy Spirit

Forever and ever.Amen.

The freezer-turned-mortuary fell silent as her recitation ended, and her eyes remained locked with his. “Thank you, Corporal.” The Master Chief rose suddenly, took three steps back, and turned to face her, once more at parade rest, his expression unreadable.

“Corporal Perez, I am not rated in cryotube maintenance or repair. You are. There are 1,042 cryotubes in our area of responsibility and all need to be monitored and, if necessary, serviced without compromising function or the occupant inside. I need you to --”

“I can’t leave them,” Perez croaked, voice thickening once more. Her eyes were pleading, her head shaking slowly. Chief’s augmented heart ached to see it, but he couldn’t say why.

“Corporal Perez,” Chief started slowly, not sure how to proceed. “You’re no good to anyone watching over three bodies. What made them your friends is gone. There are 1,042 men, women, and children packed into an identical number of cryotubes, all constructed by the lowest bidder, housed in compartments that were never designed to support them. They need us. They need you.”

The Chief stepped back into the hatchway, turning to look at Perez out of one eye, half his face painted into shadow by the dark of the corridor outside.

“The living need you, Corporal.”

[poisonousquinzel]

hey, hey do y'all know about this scene from the novel about Harleen's first day at Arkham? cause I'm devastated we've yet to see her in an official flashback I need more positive accurate Harleen pls pls dc I'm begging you lemmensee her

Dr. Harleen Quinzel arrived for her first day on the job in the same kind of seriously professional outfit she’d worn for her interview. The tailored navy blue suit, cream-colored silk blouse, straight skirt, and conservative black pumps made her look like she always knew exactly what to do. The no-nonsense black-framed glasses added to the effect, as did her neat French roll hairdo. Her appearance projected confident competence, but if you looked twice, you’d notice she was also gorgeous, which had been why Dr. Leland had hesitated to hire her, even with her amazing med-school transcript and the many glowing references, all of which had checked out. So here she was, about to give this young, unwary woman a tour of what Dr. Lopez had called Hell’s waiting room.

They had just come up the short flight of stairs from the mezzanine level where all the doctors’ offices were located and started down the main corridor in Long-Term Wing A when the red and yellow ceiling lights began to flash and the alarms went off. Even after fifteen years, Joan Leland always jumped when this happened, but lovely, young Dr. Quinzel didn’t even flinch—she only looked around, eyebrows raised in an expression of mild curiosity.

“Code Croc!” yelled Armand LaDue over the PA system. “I repeat, Code Croc! This is not a drill!”

Dr. Leland felt a flash of irritation. Only Armand felt compelled to say not a drill, even though everyone would know it wasn’t. Arkham didn’t have drills, only emergencies.

“All personnel clear the halls and common spaces! Security only!” Armand went on. “I repeat, security only!”

Dr. Leland turned to Dr. Quinzel and took her elbow. “We need to go back to my office—” she began. But Dr. Quinzel wasn’t listening. She was looking at the end of the hall where Killer Croc had just appeared in all his hideous, scaly glory.

The Croc was definitely one of the more eye-catching Arkham inmates, as big as their biggest orderlies, with scaly green skin, a mouth full of nasty, sharp teeth, and hungry, reptilian eyes. Dr. Leland didn’t know if normal crocodiles ever made growling noises but Killer Croc certainly did, and it was one of the most frightening things Joan Leland had ever heard, the sound of an inhuman beast that had burst out of a nightmare to attack the real world. He had been a man once and technically he still was—his DNA, though mutated, wasn’t purely reptilian and his brain waves were human. But none of that mattered when he was bounding toward you with a murderous roar.

The inmates in the rooms lining the corridor began howling and jeering. The lights were still flashing, the alarms were still whooping, and Armand LaDue was still yelling on the PA. Joan Leland’s world suddenly started tilting sideways; she ordered herself to get a grip. This was no time to feel dizzy. But the world went on tilting as Killer Croc came at them, his brutish gaze fixed on the tasty morsel that was Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

Dr. Quinzel casually reached out and took a fire extinguisher off the wall beside her. Dr. Leland had just enough time to wonder if the woman thought the place was on fire before Killer Croc leaped. With a smooth, practically casual motion, Arkham’s newest staff psychiatrist swung the extinguisher forward and up, hitting Killer Croc squarely in his most sensitive spot.

The Croc’s roar went up three octaves as he collapsed on the floor a few feet from the round toes of Dr. Quinzel’s tasteful black pumps, holding his crotch and rolling from side to side. A second later, the orderlies pounced on him with sedatives and wrapped him up in a canvas cocoon.

“You okay, Doc?” one of them asked Dr. Leland, looking as boggled as she felt.

She nodded. As they carried the still-whimpering Croc away, she turned to Dr. Quinzel, who was busily inspecting the extinguisher.

“No damage,” Dr. Quinzel said cheerfully, “but it’ll have to be recharged next month.” She put it back on the wall, then smiled brightly at Dr. Leland. “You were saying?”

“I was?” Dr. Leland said.

Dr. Quinzel’s smile became even brighter. “About the new neuroleptics?”

“Oh, yes.” Dr. Leland still felt a bit shaky but at least the world wasn’t tilting anymore. “We have new neuroleptics.”

“How new?” asked Dr. Quinzel chattily.

“Some are recent releases,” Dr. Leland said. “But a couple aren’t on the market yet.”

Dr. Quinzel’s eyes widened behind her no-nonsense glasses. “Tell me about those.”

And,,,, it's directly tied to how Joker finds out about her in the novel, in exchange for them seeing each other during her walkthrough, and I love it cause it gives more detail into his fucked up Very Clearly Manipulative And Cruel perspective. A....

Within thirty minutes, everyone on the premises had heard how the utterly unflappable new doctor had taken down the Croc in full attack mode, then stood over him chatting with Dr. Leland until the orderlies hauled him away. Oh, and she was also a knockout.

Sitting in his room at the very bottom of criminally insane hell, the Joker was fascinated. He listened to several different accounts from both staff and patients. They all told the same story—a hot young blonde clocked the Croc in the family jewels without flinching, like he wasn’t the most grotesque thing she’d ever seen. She was described variously as Helen of Troy, the goddess Athena, a Valkyrie, and the reincarnation of an actress who was actually still alive.

This was the woman he’d been waiting for, the Joker thought. Someone who wasn’t going to bore him to death. Who might actually be worth whatever time and effort it would take to destroy her.

He couldn’t wait.

ooooooh I hate him so much

Harley Quinn: Mad Love Pg. 74-77

[topgunruinedme]

Daggers Daycare||o.7

Note: And I’m back! I admit this was getting a little too long so I had to cut this down into three seperate chapters. But here’s is your long (a whole year my god) awaited feast. You guys know the drill by now.

Synopsis: Maverick finds himself in a situation he cant explain. The daggers are unavailable, and he finds himself in need of help from his old crew. Of cause this wasn't the reunion they expected.

“Did you kidnap an orphanage Mav?”

Warning: age regression (they get turned into children), slight whump mostly fluff, slight swearing, homophobia and 5 idiots with no knowledge on kids caring for some.

Word Count: 5.1k

Read on Ao3

He frowned slightly, leaning heavily on the half filled cart. The metal on the side of the handle dug into his hand from the tight grip as he slumped in exhaustion. His shoulders brushing his ears as he curled slightly in an attempt to hide from the world, ducking his head to avoid anyones gaze. The feeling of being watched put him on edge, hair on the back of his neck standing at attention as he tried to focus on the aisle he was entering. 

God he wished he had changed before he had left Mav’s. Not only did he look out of place with the mass order he was collecting but he looked out of place in full Navy uniform. 

He felt ill-put without Wolf’s running commentary, his confident arora, the protection he had silently offered. He hadn’t realized how much safer he had felt with his comrade watching his back. How in the short time that they had been together, his body had warmed, his chest had rumbled in laughter and for once his smiles hadn’t felt forced. 

He shifted uncomfortably. His body shivered as it was overtaken by a chill, the sudden warmth chased away by the rabid breeze of the Iceman. The blizzard wrapped around him, freezing his fingers, his toes, his lips… and his heart. Joints stiff and by a sharp pin like pain traveling through his body when he tried to move, it almost felt like an unpleasant case of pins and needles. His skin felt cold, icey. His chest felt barren, empty of the love he had been offered so freely.  

He rubbed his hands together absently in an attempt to warm himself, to give himself something of comfort. He hadn't realized how much he had grown to struggle with people, events, places. Now without the buffer it was all hitting him at once. He knew that he had always gotten sweaty palms, a racing heart anytime he was in public, at conferences, in meetings. His voice almost failed, stalling as he conducted speeches, clearing his throat before giving feedback to a pupil.

He had pushed through it. Ignoring the voice in the back of his head screaming ‘what if’ at him. What if he stumbled, if he misspoke, what if he slipped, if he dropped something. Was his voice too high or too low? Were they all judging him? 

Perhaps if he had listened to them he wouldn't have lost Sarah, his friends, he wouldn't be running himself to the ground. Desperately trying to find a way to keep his body moving, giving it a purpose. Because if he didn't, he wasn't sure what he had to live for. No friends. No family. No kids. No wife. When he burnt in…no one would grief. No one. 

He had thought it was normal, that it was all normal. The way his mind screamed, the faked smiles. People say all smiles in politics are fake, so why was his always fake? Inside and outside the office. Why was it more natural for him to grab for, then something genuine. Something that he couldn't even remember how it looked on his face. 

The way his heart raced in big events, eyes tracking everything nervously trying to will people away from talking to him. The constant anxiety of saying the wrong thing. The way he wanted to claw at his skin when he stood in front of the possum as he gave another young aviator a medal, a promotion. 

He moved through it. Pushed it away. Suffered, sweating through his uniform plastering a smile on his face that haunted him as he walked through the halls of his building. Ignoring it in hopes that if he didn't acknowledge it, it would go away. 

He fought the urge to cringe, to cower as the hair on his arms, his neck, rose. Alarm building anytime he spotted anyone near him, closer than he felt comfortable with them being. His hands trembling every so slightly as he abused his check, teeth clenching down on the soft flesh of his cheek. Blood filled his mouth causing his stomach to churn as he swallowed. 

Eyes aching as he blinked, forcing himself not to doze as he tried to comprehend the ridiculous amount of jars in front of him. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep. He was always too busy, being woken by calls, staying up late with documents, cleaning up Mavericks messes had dragging him out of bed at odd hours a few times. He couldn't remember a night where he had simply relaxed, slept in, gone to bed early. He couldn't remember a night where he wasn’t weighed down with exhaustion and still forced his body to stay awake, vision blurring and doubling as he tried to read the never ending documents. 

He had learnt early on in his career that if he didn't stop, his body couldn't give out. 

He stared at the different brands in confusion, eyebrows lifting in alarm at the sheer amount. Nails tapping against the trolly handle nervously, mind still whirling as he felt himself speeding full speed ahead towards a breakdown. Something that had only occurred in the privacy of his own home, his body strumming from the backlash of adrenaline and emotional overload. 

He swallowed thickly. Regretting his choice to send Wolf off to put the car seats he had ordered into the man’s van. Surely he was due back soon. He scratched at his skin, ignoring the slight pin prick of pain as his nails dug into his skin. Flesh gave way to the sharp nails digging into his skin as he drew blood. He hoped the man would be quick. He had left almost half an hour ago leaving him to drift through the aisle aimlessly as he added things to his list. 

They needed a doctor. They had to get a full check up on the kids, allergy tests (you never know what allergies they had grown out of), they needed to find out about any medical condition (that may not be listed on Navy official documents). People could be sneaky; he knows that Ron had avoided adding his history of childhood asthma to his medical history. But more importantly they needed an accurate age. 

They would need to keep a careful eye out for any triggers they may have, no one wants to accidentally trigger the kids if any of them has developed any undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 

They would need to organize the rest of the bigger furniture, beds, toys, potties, it could all be ordered online for now. They would all have to be made and the rooms needed to be designed.  

They needed clothes, the kids couldn't stay in overgrown shirts forever. 

He had sent the man off in hopes he could gather a moment of peace, now he wants to know if it had been a good idea. He knew the man had been restless, benign, annoying and complaining was Wold’s way of dealing with stress, he had always done it, he did it in the academy and he did it after Goose’s death. It was just the way he coped and he certainly had the right to be stressed now that they had semi-custody of 7 children.

His mind began to whirl, he had been alone for far too long forcing himself to take on placement after placement and meeting after meeting until he had no choice but to continue. His body didn't know what to do with the sudden time off, it was bound tightly with tension that he knew would give him a headache but more importantly with the sudden shock of being reintroduced to the other flyboys it had done a hit on his body. Without the stimulation of work or the quiet reassurance Wolf offered with his constant chatter his mind started to panic. Becoming paranoid, anxiety jumped into the control seat as he swallowed thickly, briefly squeezing his eyes shut as he felt his heart rate skyrocket, feeling the pulsing of his heart in his ears as he blinked, hands tightening until he could see the whites of his knuckles. Without the stimulation Wolf had been providing through his playful whining and teasing, he couldn't focus. He wasn't even sure if he was taking in what was on the shelf. Eyes glancing over the labeled as he becomes more concerned. 

Why were there so many? He didn't understand. It was just food, wasn't it? There were packets of baby food, snacks, cans of formula. What the hell was he meant to choose? He forced himself to release the death grip on the trolley and reached out towards the shelf his hand hovered over the jar of applesauce, that was something kids ate, right?

He didn't like the way Jake looked. The way the boy's clothes flooded him far more than the others, how small his wrists were, how his face caved in slightly, the haunted look under the dark circles under his eyes. He looked vastly underweight and honestly it made him nervous. How close was the boy to collapsing, to fainting, how close was he until his body just stopped. What long term effects would it have on the boy’s health?

Bob, he looks…young. He was small, really small. It shouldn't surprise him, he knew that Bob was the youngest on the team and yet somehow it had. It had startled him looking down at the tiny kid amongst his teammates. 

The other kids looked like they would fit their weight range, assuming that they were around the 3-4 year mark. But Bob and Jake…  

He hesitated. He wasn't sure if he needed to take them to a dietitian or not. Perhaps he should, just to be safe. Ensure he was feeding them correctly, they both needed to put on weight. 

Bradley might be on the cusp of three, he faintly remembered the little boy's cake smeared cake from the party all those years ago, it would have been only 2 weeks after Nick's death. It was a photo that lived religiously in Maverick’s locker. Natasha, Mickey and Javy might be in the same age group. Jake was too sickly looking to correctly determine his age, he was afraid the boy was malnourished. Reuben looked like he was on the older side, placing the boy in the 4th year group. However, Bob could easily be between early 2 years or 3. The boy was tiny, absently he wondered if he had been a prem baby. Being premature would explain his smaller stature, but it wouldn't explain why the boy hasn't grown. He should have had a grown spirt by now. He wasn't an expert in children but he knew being that small was not normal. 

He worried his lip between his teeth as he took the container of applesauce off the shelf, adding it to the cart as he looked over the squeezie packet food - it would be a food idea to have snacks on them the kids could easily eat if they needed to move locations. The small yogurt packets of mashed food would be perfect and nutritious. Maybe it was something Jake and Bob could eat easily, he definitely wanted to make sure the kids had something to munch on wheil they changed locations to keep them at ease. He didn't want to compromise their smooth transition because someone got upset or fussy because they hadn't eaten. He wondered idly if they had eaten tonight yet. Surely slider would make sure they ate, they may not have been around much but they remembered what Bradley had been like wanting to eat every three seconds, he had of course been a growing teenager then but surely it still applied to children. Perhaps he should give wood a call….

He shook his head pursing his lips as he glanced back at the packet food before nodding to himself as he added a few extra packets to the cart with the boys in mind. Making sure to grab flavors he knew the boys were partial to from the brief spam texts Mav had sent him earlier in the year when he was ecstatic about his new kids. He wanted to ensure he had something the boys could eat, even if they were the only ones who did.

“Ice?”

He jumped slightly, spinning around to face the boogie, his spine pressed up against the handle of the trolley as his body tensed. Placing himself on guard, hands clenching around the handle bar by his hips. His heart jumped into his throat. Shit, he hadn't realized he had fallen so far into his head, he hadn't realized his guard had faltered, the boogie slid within his sights. Locked on target, right on his nose, tone ringing in his ears as his hand flexed mentally readying himself to turn the stick and fire.

He took a shaky breath as a familiar face came into a few in his panic-induced hazed vision, Wolf was giving him a worried look, lips pulled back with a downward tilt, his brows furrowed in stress hands twitching by his side. An empty cart was resting beside the man's right hip as he stepped away hand placed in front of him keeping a good space between them, he recognized the move from ‘86 when they used to bring Maverick out of his attacks. It was oddly soothing to see the familiar movement. 

He frowned slightly at the man, something dull pulled at his chest, when had he gotten back? 

Wolf tilted his head ever so slightly, eyeing him down, taking in his tense posture with a careful consideration; his lips tugging tighter in disapproval as he turned his attention from him to the shelf that he had been staring at with a confused look, “Baby food?”

He rolled his shoulders, his muscles protesting under the strain, back tingling as it tugged sharply under the tight ligaments putting a pressure on his chest as it tightened. He glanced over the man's shoulder carefully tracking the empty space behind Wolf ensuring no one snuck up on them and initiated a fire fight by sliding into a weapons envelope. He swallowed, forcing his muscles to unclench, shifting away from the trolley; hands flexing by his side as he turned back towards the shelf keeping his back covered tilting himself just enough to protect them and watch their backs at the same time. 

His shoes squeak on the tile floor and he cringes, ducking his head slightly, the collar of his uniform brushing against the lobe of his ear. The fabric scratched against his skin as the long tone in his ears grew louder the squeak quickly transforming into a shriek-

We have four on our tail. 

The lights above him flickered overhead briefly. 

That makes six of them!

His chest aches and he resisted the urge to rubbish chest with his knuckles to feel anything other than the clenching feeling. 

I’m engaged with five. I’m in deep shit. 

Something moved behind him. 

Engage!

“Ice?”

Maverick, get your butt down here!

He's going to leave him. The stick molded in his hand, the creak of his gloves around the handle made bile rise in his throat. He could feel sweet blooming on his neck from the heat of the cockpit. 

Engage!

His head squeezed as the helmet dug into his skin, the harness on his chest tugging him further back into the seat as the G-force landed on him pinning him back trapping him. 

Goddammit. Mavericks disengaging. 

Mav…come back. Don’t leave me here. 

Engage!

Please don't leave me here. Wolfie! Wood! They had just been behind them hadn’t they? They’d help him right, he likes them enough that he was sure that they would come to his rescue while Maverick left him out to dry. 

I can't get him off my tail!

He could feel the rock of the jet as the mistle collided, eyes shutting as the cockpit rolled behind his eyelids, his own panicked expression meeting him in the reflection as he tried to operate the smoking machine that threatened to dive from the sky as they took damage to their wing. 

I’m hit. We're hit in the right engine. 

“Ice. Come back to me buddy”. 

You! You are still dangerous. 

Maverick. His hair slicked back in messy updo from his helmet, bright green eyes wide in excitement and adrenaline as he grinned widely looking around at the celebration. The same eyes that poured into him with that same intensity that the man offered his jet when he brushed his hand against it and called it sweetheart when no one was looking, how he looked at Nick when the man was tugging Slider closer by his lapel all those years ago, how he stared up at him in the locker room arrogance flooding from him as he stood up to the challenge. I am dangerous, Ice-Man. The intensity of the fire that burned within the man that he loved as Maverick gave him a sly smile and clasped his hand. 

You can be my wingman anytime. 

The sound of crying broke through the clouds dragging him down to the present as he ejected without a parachute, body jerking through the sky in a freefall strap just out of reach, unable to pull it to activate the chute. Body falling further and further, the ground growing closer as he- 

He cleared his throat trying desert to blink away the tears in his eyes and the way his shoulders curled to shield himself from others trying to forget the burning stare of his friend whose heavy gaze felt like acid burning through his cheek. 

“Malnourishment” he muttered mentally shaking his head to try to shake off the cloudiness as his panic attempted to retake its hold on him, anxiety prickling at his skin. How much had Wolf seen, did he notice? He bit his tongue trying to ignore the way the man's hand had dropped where he stood stiffly, automatically stepping closer to him and shielding him from anyone who stepped into the aisle, his calculating gaze traveling from him to the space behind him again and again and again. 

He didn't have time for this. He couldn't break, not now. He had so much to do. He just needed to work more, yes, he just needed to work more until he passed out. If he kept going and didn't stop then he wouldn't burn out. He had meetings that he was already despising that he had pushed back, paperwork with approaching deadlines, a speech at an upcoming gala that he was meant to attend that he had to get someone else to deliver. He had to get the kids, he had to get them somewhere safe, a room, where they can be kids without them having to worry about them finding anything absolutely not kid-friendly most likely left behind by the man himself or one of his one night stands, not that he really considered Penny as that anyway.

He needed to get them health checks, organize therapy because these kids who weren't already in it, certainly would now. He had to figure out what mental space they were in; were they really kids or adults trapped in kid bodies? Which was worse? Aviators the size of children wanting to get back in a jet or children who didn't understand what was happening and possibly had no recollection of anything in the last few years since the detachment that brought them all together. He had to figure out how to inform the Navy that his best soldiers were now children, children who finger painted, who smeared pasta sauce across their clothes and who cried in the middle of the night when they wanted affection. 

His career - flying until he was forced out of the air, working behind a desk rubbing elbows, spending hours upon hours of work for another star on his shoulder - had been demoted to watching children. A babysitter, as if he didn't already get hazard pay for dealing with Maverick. 

He would need to call the daggers out sick, and he needed to figure out what the hell to tell Beau while dodging the man's own verbal argument on why Maverick shouldn't even be there to begin with. He had no idea who he would explain to the man that his aviators were not going to make the Monday hop. Ideally he amused the idea of inviting the two men over - because of course he was going to use Solomon as a barrier without shame - for dinner and order in a nice merlot. 

He dragged his attention back to the food ignorant of him, yogurts right. He gave the shelf a semi-distressed look at the sheer quantity of flavors to offer, honesty what even was rainbow vanilla. Was it rainbow or vanilla flavored? He knew that he would need to buy them in bulk so he needed to figure out what flavors would most likely be the widely acceptable one, vanilla? Custard - ? Was that even a yogurt flavor? (No. he was 92% sure the answer was no). He would have to be sure to keep a large stock of whatever snacks and foods teh kids like and to grab some bins and lids at some point to put in the backs of the cars to fill with snacks and drinks, knowing that one of these idiots will forget and will get a very cranky kid on their hands when it came to sack time.

Maybe he should get strawberry, mango, blueberry or raspberry- wait no, he faintly remember reading somewhere a few years ago when he babysit Bradley all those years ago for the first time that it was becoming increasingly common in the last 15 years for kids to be allergic to berries. Although that had been almost 23 years ago, who knows if the chances fluctuated, he refused to take that chance. It was safer to stay away from them until the allergy test was cleared. That and the fact he didn't want to sit in an emergency room for 6 hours with a distressed kid. Call him selfish. The percentage was low but not improbable. So he refused to take the risk until he was 100% that there would be no cross contamination - because everyone knows how messy and germ contagious toddlers were - and that no one was at risk. 

He needed to get their files ASAP, and he needed an updated allergen test to make sure there were no outgrown childhood allergies or recorded food aversions. Knowing his luck they would find a kid that was a fussier eater then Bradley. Highly unlikely but unfortunately the rates were 7 at the moment leaving them at an unfortunate 17% chance. 

He needed to get the others into some sort of cooking lessons because he was not having them feed these kids pre cooked nuggets from the freezer somewhere that looked lie it died to freezer burn five years ago or to allow their diet to become fully dependent on mac-N-cheese (because no matter how good Chipper claimed it was in the academy there was no way he was willingly committing the kids to that fate). 

He would make sure that all the kids had something they wanted to eat. Even if he had to learn how to make it himself because he'd be damned if any of them went without food. His throat clicked at the reminder of the blond boy wedged back in the corner behind his protective friend, collar bone sticking out, face hallowed, staring at them with his almost skeleton looking hands. Starved. The kid had been starved. 

Who does that to a kid? Was it due to the lack of money, the lack of caring? Was it neglect or something much more harmful? He could see the all too familiar image of a little blond curled up trembling in the dark staring at the locked door in dread as they wrapped their arms around their legs begging it to open while wishing it stayed shut. He could see little baby Jake laying on his side curling up as tightly as  he could to preserve heat as his little stomach rumbled in hunger. 

Wolf shifted behind him, footsteps exaggerated to keep from startling him as the man rested a hand on his shoulder tugging him back away from the shelf. Removing him from his post. Wolf hummed slightly, accepting the answer without protest as he gently led him away, nudging him to the side with his hip; placing his body between the self and him, leaving him stranded in the middle of the aisle watching as Wolf grabbed a few packets of each flavor, dumping them into his cart. “We can come back and get more Ice. Come on” he urges softly as he leads him out of the aisle, away from his own mind.

He could feel it building. The way his nails dug into his skin, picking at the skin around his nails and yet he couldn't feel the pain even when the skin ripped. How his skin almost vibrated with electricity as the lights above them made him squint a pulsing beginning to build behind his right eye leaving him irritated, each brush of his collars against his neck with each swayed step made him grit his teeth. 

He felt like his chest was tightening, squeezing his inside like a cobra. His hands shook slightly as he let Wolf talk to him, blabbering off about something. He wasn't retaining anything the man was saying, each word going through one ear to the other, he gritted his teeth trying to push past the building pressure hardly making it a few steps down the aisle when Wolf pulled them to a stop. He wasn't even sure what they were talking about, was he supposed to reply? The man turned to face him as he reached out purposely delaying his movements to give him the opportunity to avoid the embrace as he tugged him into his warm broad chest. The man's hand coming up to the nap of his neck thumb soothingly stroking the skin nails scratching lightly almost making him melt into him as he tugged him forward gently to lean his forehead on his shoulder. 

“God, what happened to you when we were gone, Ice?” Wolf sounded wounded, like he was mourning. Like he was in pain. Because of him. He was hurting Wolf, yet he couldn't force himself to let go, he could be greedy. Even if only for a moment, he could be greedy and steal what he could from the man. 

He buried his face into the man's chest to avoid looking at him, his hand trembled slightly as he his fingers wrapped into the fabric of his shirt gripping onto it tightly. His fingers turned white with urgency as he held on tightly, trying to tether himself to the moment. To save himself from his own mind that had run him rampant since his family left. 

The warmth of Wolf body heat washed over him, the sharp sandalwood was welcome when it hit his nose. The slight scent of ocean waves that he knew belonged to Wood lingered, silently he wondered what the hell was happening between the two men. 

“I’m here Tom,” Wolf muttered softly, “I'm here”. 

His breath shuttered in effort to keep his tears back, he had missed this, so much. He had missed all of them, the simple hugs that meant so much to him. The only affection he had received after his neglectful childhood. He had gone from nanny to nanny, he had not been allowed to ask for affection, not then. 

But his family, Wolf, Wood, Slider, Mav…Goose. They had all offered it up freely, hidden in rooms where they wouldn't be judged for the ‘unmanly action’. Where they let him just soak it in, to become lax in their arms and just hang on for dear life. He hadn't realized how touch deprived he had made himself in his fear, his attempt to save himself. 

Wolf pulled away slightly with a small smile, not a mocking one or a joking one like he normally did around them. But a sincere one. “Are you ok?” he asked, his hand pressed against his lower back in a stable connection, joining them. 

He swallowed heavily, his chest pounding as it slowly slowed his breathing, his silent panic forcing him to press his lips closed in an attempt to keep quiet. This was not the time nor place, he couldn't do this here. 

Wolf’s brows furrowed in concern, he looked older, weighed down. “Tom?”.

“Yeah” he choked out, his mouth dry as he blinked as his eyes stung, “Yeah Rick, I'm good. I'm good”.

Wolf didn't look convinced, his eyes pinched and he pulled away from Ice letting his arms fall uselessly. He stepped back to retrieve his trolley carefully staying in Ice’s vision, his hand reaching out to tap Ice’s hand as he leaned against the trolley in front of him, “Come on Ice, were almost done” he flashed him a smile, “We got through Layton, we lived through the 80’s with Maverick. We can do some baby shopping”. 

A huff of amusement left Ice lips as he gave him a small weak smile, “Yeah” he agreed, straightening up and clearing his throat. He took a deep breath. They could do this. 

“Where to next?” Wolf offered, providing him with a distraction, a way to temporarily throw this behind him. 

“Prams,” he replied, grateful for the distraction. His eyes scanned the banners hanging from the ceilings in an attempt to locate the area. His lips quivered into a half smile, gaze dropping down to Wolf who was casually keeping his muscles relaxed but walked beside him as they made their way to the end of the aisle, eyes scanning over their environment. 

“Hey” he attempted, his voice wavering slightly as a warm sensation bloomed in his chest soothing over old wounds as he gave the man a small smile. 

Wolf turned, raising an eyebrow with an easy smile as he walked backward tilting his head “Yeah Ice?”

His eyes traveled over the man, god it had been so long since he had seen any of them, he had missed so much, 

“Thanks”. 

“Hey.” Wolf's expressions softened, his hand coming up between them as he reached out clasping his hand tugging them to a stop, “That’s what friends are for”. The man's lips twitched “Beside, who's going to help me get Wood to admit that he has a massive man crush on Chipper?” 

He laughed, shaking his head, smiling widely as he relaxed, feeling safe. Warm and utterly safe for the first time in years he felt the weight on his chest lift and he took a deep breath. 

[deeptrashwitch]

Alright, I haven't wrote in a time but I have a brainrot about my boys. So...I want to introduce my Team for now, maybe later I'll introduce eachone (including some changes I've made in two of them)

Team Charlie/Specters

Captain Alicia "Origin" Marchant: Marine Raider Regiment, hand-to-hand combat specialist

Lieutenant Luke "Harlem" Michaelis: 75th Ranger Regiment, team's mechanic

Sergeant Jackson "Doc" Blackwell: Navy SEAL (Team 5), team's medic

Sergeant Edward "Eager" Jackson: 101st Airborne Division, pilot

Corporal Noah "Cobalto" García: Navy SEAL (Team 7), demolition expert

Corporal Elijah "Delta" Wilson: 75th Ranger Regiment, recon expert

Private Nicholas "Clover" Fowlett: 101st Airborne Division, tech specialist

Private Marcus "Poison" Lombardi: Marine Raider Regiment, infantry operator

Private Elliot "Pride" Stevens: 75th Ranger Regiment, combat engineer

Private Alexander "Hawk" Christensen: Marine Raider Regiment, main team's sniper

Francis "Viper" Scott: Navy SEAL (Team 2), military cartographer

They are known inside as 75th Regiment Specters, a team created by Cpt. Marchant years after her mission in Angola with some help. She picked them personally, since she knew some of the Drill Sergeants. Heard about every one through them and learnt about their missions, later recruited into the team.

Since the very beggining they were told about the only rule Marchant had, "No one's left behind", after that they molded their own code in combat. They are efficient, quick and deadly, and that's all that their allies care about.

Also they have a coordinator and the only thing the team know about them is their nickname "Wraith". Alicia know her tho, an old friend of hers.

For everyone outside of them, they are just a good team. But reality is that after so many years, they've become a little family. Alicia care deeply for them and treat them as their own. All the boys care for her as much as she does.

There was a time when she got really bad injured during a mission (almost didn't make it), and all of them were basically feral going after the enemies seeking vengance. And the last time someone tried to use one of the boys as hostage...well, it isn't hard to imagine, is it? Marchant is feared because of a reason.

Note: Sorry if i got something wrong about the occupation of each one or about something else, i'm absolutely not a military and english is not my first language, everything came from internet, google traductor and a family member.

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

Phrases (they never admit they said it)

Alicia: I'm too sober for this...why did i adopted these ten?

Luke: Back off Alexander, that's is mine! And I don't stink!

Jackson: Can you stop trying to get killed every single mission!? Damnnit!

Edward: Ya me enteré! Que hay otro acariciando tu piel!

Noah: Someone shut Eager up! I'm dying over here!

Elijah: Not in front of my salad, fucking animals

Nicholas: Get the heck outta here, i'm tired enough about your stupidity

Marcus: This bitch bite me! CAPTAIN! WHY ON GOOD GOD'S EARTH YOU RECRUITED A DAMN CANNIBAL?!

Pride: Not my fault lil' shit! You know exactly what happen when you take my things!

Hawk: Ha! I got Luke's hoodie! And God if it doesn't stink!

Viper: C'mon Clover, i don't know if i can take this anymore, i'm at the verge of a breakdown

[gendervapor14]

~ temptation, torment, and tangerines ~

♥ story sample and details below the cut ♥

Sora kept her jaw shut because she was positive no matter what she said, Bell-mère would find a way to use it against her. Instead, she reached into her pockets for her keys. Groped at a half-empty box of cigarettes and a lighter in the right pocket. A folded-up page of one of Rosinante’s stupid boardroom doodles in the other. 

But no keys. Because she wasn’t expecting to go to her office at midnight, and she probably left them on the fucking dresser.

“Don’t tell me.”

Sora lowered her head. Pinched her cigarette between her thumb and index finger. Ran her tongue over her molars. There were boardroom halls around, but she was positive they were all locked by now. Custodians had already swept by and cleaned them for the morning meetings. Tsuru’s office was up another floor, probably open. But that meant having this conversation in front of Tsuru. It’d be a power move if Bell-mère wouldn’t prattle off a list of Sora’s less-than-typical authority measures, and sink her career for good. 

“We have two options.” She decided, straightening her shoulders and meeting Bell-mère’s dubious eye. “We could call this off until tomorrow morning.”

“Or…?”

The cigarette rested between her teeth again. She needed a support system. A feeble attempt. “I think we should call it off until tomorrow morning.”

Bell-mère leaned in. “I’ve got drills tomorrow morning. Unless you’re telling me it’s okay to skip them…?”

Sora didn’t have the mental fortitude to recall Bell-mère’s schedule. Chances were, she was bluffing. She wanted that other option. Just talk. Just talk. Just talk. “Well, then my only other suggestion is taking this to my room, because this isn’t an appropriate conversation to hold in a hallway.”

Bell-mère lit up like a goddamn bonfire. “That so, Commodore? Gonna teach me another lesson…?” She cut the distance between them, tracing a finger under Sora’s jaw. Sora did her best to remain stone-cold and professional. “Filed my nails for ya.”

“You are, unbelievable.”

“Yeah, funny enough, you’re not the only one who’s said that.”

it's everyone's favorite former marine! uh. yeah, rosinante's in this story too, yes, fine. but bell-mere doesn't get nearly enough love!!

in my journey to bring her justice, i've started writing a myriad of stories about her. so first, i bring you this E-rated, bell-mere x fem OC, 4 chaptered little thing. focuses on bell-mere and her time in the navy, and takes place in the 01746 universe, but i think it can be read and enjoyed standalone! i've got some corabelle in the works as well, so keep your eyes peeled!

before i continue, i will reiterate: this piece is rated E, so minors, please do not interact.

title: temptation, torment, and tangerines rating: E category: F/F, F/M content warnings: none! status: complete!, 4 chapters, 23,522 words relationships: bell-mere/original character, rosinante/original character (only at the very tail end of chapter 4) rosinante & oc, bell-mere & rosinante characters: original character (sora), bell-mere, donquixote rosinante, tsuru additional tags: canon plausible, enemies to lovers, but uh it's more enemies to lovers to friends, sexual tension, angst and hurt/comfort, feminist themes, misandry, sora needs therapy, bell-mere does her best, okay here come the porn tags lmao, smut, shower sex, masturbation in shower, wow there's a tag for that, vaginal fingering, inappropriate use of devil fruit powers, rough sex, oral sex, vaginal fisting, gags, wow these two have fun huh, undertones of sorazon throughout the fic, but main pairing is bell-mere and sora, no infidelity this is pre-sorazon, exhibitionism, light masochism, some humor, conflict of interests, moral dilemmas, hate sex, arguing, size difference, referenced domestic abuse, referenced human trafficking summary: “I’m not, we’re not doing anything. I’ll let you go, for now, but you need to get serious. If I hear of any other misdemeanors after this conversation, I will report you.” Bell-mère sauntered towards the door with her hands out in an exaggerated shrug. “You owe me a tangerine, by the way.” Sora scoffed and folded her arms. “You’re supposed to salute your superiors upon entry and exiting.” “I’ll salute ya as soon as I respect ya, toots.”

~ takes place in the 01746 universe, but can be read standalone ~

special thanks to @gali-la for beta reading this demon!! <3

until next time o7

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

~Child Of The Storm~

Nikolai Lantsov x OC

Image by - @brokendreamtale2

Warnings- violence, ptsd

A/N- I'm very sorry for the delay in this chapter, had a hectic two weeks of mid terms. And I really got carried away with this chapter, I just thought to do all of the winter fete part in one chapter yk? Also I hope that some o the stuff I've wrote, isn't scientifically incorrect. That was very confusing to write

Taglist- @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @sirisuorionblack @nadeleine123n

Ch-12~Events and Associations~

Zoya spent the entire day sharing her "experience of the journey" with everyone. During lunch, she spoke of the state of the towns, something about woodcuts in the villages and everyone somehow enjoyed hearing all of it. On the training grounds, she hugged Botkin and he kissed both her cheeks. They chatted for a moment in Shu, as always, before starting off with the drills.

Anaya noticed Zoya and her friend Eimmere giggling while looking at Alina. It was part of their usual routine of course, yet they seemed to be only looking at the girl stumbling through the drills.

Anaya's attention hastily turned to Botkin when she heard him pair Alina with Zoya.

"This is worth my time" she mumbled to herself.

"Is star pupil will help little girl" Botkin spoke, grinning with pride

"Surely the Sun Summoner doesn't need my help" Zoya responded with her wicked smile.

She saw both of them getting in their fighting stances and Botkin gave them the signal to start.

Zoya threw her first towards Alina, but she managed to block it, but she couldn't stop the second one and in hit her right in the jaw, making her head jerk back. Anaya found herself thoroughly enjoying the scene playing out in front of her.

Zoya then sprung forward, aiming for the girl's ribs, but she managed to dodge it in time. Zoya flexed her shoulders and circled again and hit her directly in the gut. Alina gasped for breath as Zoya brought her elbow towards her but she somehow managed to avoid it. Zoya lunged forward, this time with much more fury, but the girl moved side wards. As Zoya moved closer, she hooked her leg around her ankle, making Zoya fall down hard.

Anaya resisted the urge to grin at the sight.

Everyone began to applaud but before the girl could embrace her victory, Zoya sat up with a raging expression on her face as her arm slashed through the air. Alina went flying backwards  and fell hard on a wall with a loud thump.

Botkin roared with anger, "Zoya! you do not use power. Not in these rooms. Never in these rooms!" He snatched Zoya's elbow and threw her out of the training rooms.

The next morning Anaya saw Zoya sitting in the dining hall in a similar state as she had been, all by herself in a corner. Anaya wanted to go up to her and mock her in the same way she had, but she instead just ignored her. The girl had been way too embarassed already.

Sveral months went by and the first sights of snow appeared in Os Alta . Anaya attempted to have a talk with the general on several occasions, but apparently he was too busy for her these days. Most of the people she'd been friends with, now spent most of their while with the Sun Summoner and she barely saw Genya anymore. Zoya's tauntings had reduced to a bare minimum but she continued to maintain her malicious behaviour.

Soon the talks of the preparations for the winter fete had begun. Anaya had thoroughly enjoyed performing during the Winter fete as a child, but it no longer felt so endearing to her as it did back then. Yet she still prepared for her demonstration along with the other Summoners.

The morning of the occasion, her Kefta arrived as she was practicing by herself. If she was to actually perform in front of all kinds of riches, she might as well be the best at it. The woolen kefta was navy blue colored and was heavily embroidered with shiny pale blue threads and had strands of fur on the edges of the collar. It looked much more beautiful than her other keftas had, and she quite liked how it looked on her.

Anaya pulled her hair in a bun and wrapped several braids around it with a few loose strands of hair falling in front. She cleaned her face and put on some makeup, and then took out the music sheets from her drawer and went outside.

The hallways were beautifully decorated and candles were lit in every corner. Upon entering the ballroom, Anaya saw some rich nobles with their wives, military officers and all other kinds of riches. The whole hall was sparkling with crystals and several chandeliers were hung across. Anaya firstly had to perform with the orchestra and then demonstrate her tidemaker abilities infront of thee guests.

She took her place by the violinist and began to play a soft tune on the piano infront of her. More people began to arrive as she continued to enter.

Several summoners began with their demonstrations. After a while, it was Anaya's turn so she gestured another pianist to take over as she went infront of everyone.

Anaya stepped on the platform with Rabeah and several squallers, inferni and tidemakers joined her as everyone's attention turned to them. She slowly made a wave of water rise. With a swift motion of her hands, the wave began to transform into a dolphin. One of the squallers sent a few gusts of wind that made it appear as long ballistic jumps. Along with the tidemakers, she summoned a gust of water and sent it to towards the crowd. Some of the squallers made the temperature of the water rise . In a spur, the squaller sent a wave of cold air towards the now hot water. Tiny droplets of water froze mid air all around the room, making the guests gasp.

The orchestra struck a dramatic chord as the inferni sent arcs of flame over the crowd and the squallers joined by sending spires of glitter across the room. The tidemakers then brought a massive wave crashing over the bacony with the squallers' help. The inferni then raised their arms, making the wave transform into a cloud of mist.

In a sudden, an unplanned wave of light went cascading through the mist, creating a shimmering rainbow that made the crowd cheer and applaud with excitement. Anaya, Rabeah and several others looked it with a confused yet surprised expression but they soon figured out that Alina had been the one to send it. Anaya noticed her standing in a corner, wearing a black Kefta. Just how much was the general favoring her?

The group of Summoners stepped down from the platform as it was now the turn for Alina's demonstration. Anaya went to a corner of the room and got herself a glass of champagne as she knew that the night was about to get much worse.

The Darkling himself accompanied the girl to the base of the steps of the platform. The crowd began to applaud the moment they stepped infront of everyone, the scene making Anaya roll her eyes far back.

The orchestra began to play an ominous tone in a high octave as they were introduced. Ivan went to the Darkling for a moment and muttered something in his ear and left as soon as he got a response.

The Darkling smiled and took Alina's arm and led her to the platform as the crowd began to applaud.

Without further delay, he slammed his hands together. Thunder boomed in the room as a cloud of darkness spread all around. Tension spread among the crowd as the darkness remained stagnant for a few moments. In a sudden, light burst from within the darkness, making the whole room gleam brightly.

The crowd gasped in awe and someone spoke loudly "It's true!"

Alina turned her hand and shot a beam of light from her palm. The light reflected back after her hitting the balcony, making a zig-zag pattern of light bouncing off from different corners of the ceiling. The dark ballroom was now lit up by numerous rays of light bouncing off from almost every angle.

So the Fabrikators really did make specialized mirrors for the girl.

The beam disappeared, then in a sudden, the light bloomed around Alina and the Darkling, wrapping them in a golden sphere. He sent black ribbons of darkness that climbed through the gleaming sphere. The waves of darkness danced around the sphere as it grew bigger and shone brighter.

The crowd began to applaud, once again.

Alina threw her arms wide and then slammed them together, the action make a loud rumble shake the whole room. A burst of light exploded in the room, blinding everyone's sights for the moment. All the people let out a collective "ah" sound and attempted to shield their eyes from the intense amount of light.

The light remained for a moments and then slowly faded. The crowd began to cheer and applaud jubilantly. The two bowed infront of everyone before the Darkling pulled Alina to a side and began to speak something to her.

Anaya attempted to "live in the moment" and got herself a few more glasses of champagne. She observed the guests, the expensive clothing, jewels and the poise they maintained. No matter what corner of the world you'd go to, the riches were the same everywhere, sugar coating every word they spoke only for their benefits even though they fully knew that they all despised each other.

She was too deeply indulged in her thoughts to notice Rabeah sneaking up on her from behind, or maybe the champagne had gotten the best of her.

Rabeah's sudden pat on her shoulder made her head jerk back. "What are you doing all by yourself?" She asked Anaya with a playful expression

"Because I prefer my company, and you're very much ruining that" She responded, pursing her lips

"Or maybe because all your friends abandoned you" Rabeah spoke with a wicked grin

"You know I can punch you in the face for that"

"I know, I know, but I also know that you won't" She smiled. "You have to admit I'm right"

Anaya sighed "Yeah, I guess. I don't really care anyways, whatever" she shrugged her shoulders

"Aw don't worry, you have me" Rabeah wrapped an arm around her shoulder but quickly dropped it as she got an angry glare from Anaya.

[beardedmrbean]

DUBAI, United Arab Emirates (AP) — The U.S. military is considering putting armed personnel on commercial ships traveling through the Strait of Hormuz, in what would be an unheard of action aimed at stopping Iran from seizing and harassing civilian vessels, four American officials told The Associated Press on Thursday.

America didn't even take the step during the so-called “Tanker War,” which culminated with the U.S. Navy and Iran fighting a one-day naval battle in 1988 that was the Navy's largest since World War II.

While officials offered few details of the plan, it comes as thousands of Marines and sailors on both the amphibious assault ship USS Bataan and the USS Carter Hall, a landing ship, are on their way to the Persian Gulf. Those Marines and sailors could provide the backbone for any armed guard mission in the strait, through which 20% of all the world’s crude oil passes.

Iran's mission to the United Nations did not immediately respond to a request for comment from the AP about the U.S. proposal.

Four U.S. officials, who spoke on condition of anonymity to discuss the proposal, acknowledged its broad details. The officials stressed no final decision had been made and that discussions continue between U.S. military officials and America's Gulf Arab allies in the region.

Officials said the Marines and Navy sailors would provide the security only at the request of the ships involved. The Bataan and Carter Hall left Norfolk, Virginia, on July 10 on a mission the Pentagon described as being “in response to recent attempts by Iran to threaten the free flow of commerce in the Strait of Hormuz and its surrounding waters.” The Bataan passed through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Sea last week on its way to the Mideast.Already, the U.S. has sent A-10 Thunderbolt II warplanes, F-16 and F-35 fighters, as well as the destroyer USS Thomas Hudner, to the region over Iran’s actions at sea. The deployment has captured Iran's attention, with its chief diplomat telling neighboring nations that the region doesn't need “foreigners” providing security. On Wednesday, Iran’s paramilitary Revolutionary Guard launched a surprise military drill on disputed islands in the Persian Gulf, with swarms of small fast boats, paratroopers and missile units taking part. The renewed hostilities come as Iran now enriches uranium closer than ever to weapons-grade levels after the collapse of its 2015 nuclear deal with world powers. The U.S. also has pursued ships across the world believed to be carrying sanctioned Iranian oil. Oil industry worries over another seizure by Iran likely has left a ship allegedly carrying Iranian oil stranded off Texas as no company has yet to unload it.

[ebony1442]

A friend of mine told me that he had a pair of identical twins in his division at US Navy Basic Training. They were naturally kept in different subunits, but his drill instructor would use them to prank newer divisions by calling one of them out while they were walking by (usually when the DI was lecturing to the newer recruits), dress him down for some tiny infraction (either faked by the twin or made up on the spot by the DI), and demand the recruit drop and do push-ups "until I say stop." The recruit (who was already 6 weeks or so into the training and already in good physical shape) would start the push-ups, and the DI would march off with the new recruits on drill or a PT run. After they were out of sight, the twins would swap places before the drilling recruits would swing back past the spot where they started, and swap back out with each successive pass. Leaving the new recruits under the impression that not only was their DI mean enough to make someone do something like 1000 push-ups for a minor infraction, but also that there were recruits who did them without complaint. Which would last, of course, until they realized that there were two Recruits Ramirez in the mess hall line that looked a lot alike.

Johnny Eck was a performer from the 1930s who was born without any legs:

He's primarily known for appearing in the 1932 cult classic Freaks directed by Tod Browning.

However what I'm mostly obsessed with is this account of a magic trick he did with his non-disabled twin brother (text under the cut)

Like this is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Can you imagine

Wikipedia screenshot:

"In 1937, Eck and Robert were recruited by the illusionist and hypnotist Rajah Raboid, for his "Miracles of 1937" show. In it they performed a magic feat that amazed audiences. Raboid performed the traditional sawing-a-man-in-half illusion, except with an unexpected twist. At first Robert would pretend to be a member of the audience and heckle the illusionist during his routine, resulting in Robert being called on stage to be sawed in half himself. During the illusion, Robert would then be switched with his twin brother Eck, who played the top half of his body, and a dwarf who played the bottom half, concealed in specially-built pant legs. After seeming to have been sawn off, the legs would suddenly get up and start running away, prompting Eck to jump off the table and start chasing them around the stage, screaming, "Come back!" "I want my legs back!" Sometimes he even chased the legs into the audience. The subsequent reaction was amazing – people would scream and sometimes even flee the theater in terror. As Eck described it, "The men were more frightened than the women – the women couldn't move because the men were walking across their laps, headed for the exit." The act provided the perfect jolt by frightening people at first but then caused just as much laughter and applause. The illusion would end with stage hands plucking up Eck and setting him atop "his" legs and then twirling him off-stage to be replaced by his twin Robert, who would then loudly threaten to sue Raboid and storm out of the theater. Their act was so popular that they played to packed audiences up and down the East Coast."

[ruelknudson]

Excerpt 2 from my upcoming book "Underway: One Family's Guide to Surviving Boot Camp"

For my second excerpt, I thought I'd share something a bit happier. Here are my impressions of the boot camp graduation ceremony,

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

The PIR ceremony is an impressive display of Navy pageantry. The bands play beautifully. Drill teams display an acrobatic exhibition of twirling, flipping, and tossing rifles. There are parades of impressive flags, marching, and award ceremonies, which should be expected in a military display. But there is more to the presentation: there’s an emotional connection to everything about it, which is a unique experience for each person watching their loved one take part.

I watched my sailor move among a sea of impressively professional graduates. I was overflowing with pride and love. These were the heavy emotions I expected to have; what was unexpected and surprisingly all-encompassing was a sense of awe. At the core of this was how impressed I was with my sailor’s accomplishment and her place in this living history. The institution of the United States Navy has existed since before the country won its independence. Before that stretches an even longer history of sailors and seamanship, dating back to the ancient world. This group of sailors represents the next iteration of that legacy. My child, my sailor, is now a part of this history.

Whenever I hear the words "navy" or "sailor" in any context, it now holds a different meaning. It isn’t an abstract institution of boats and warfare at sea. It isn’t an identity rooted in derivative ideas or understood through historical accounts or fictional representations. It now has an association for me that redefines what a sailor is and who they are. It has a connection to me that is real and informed through my relationship with a person who is now taking part in this tradition.

This was quite possibly an overblown sentiment from a generally romantic and imaginative mind with a nerd-like fascination for history. These unique impressions are mine because of my proclivities, and most people will bring their own biases and fascinations with them. Still, I think it is safe to say that the impression this event leaves on someone will be unique to each individual—but I don’t think it will be any less profound.

It was one of those times where I ignored the impulse to take pictures or videos. I didn't want to experience this event through the viewfinder of a camera or by watching a small screen. Besides, it seemed foolish to do so when the entire event was already being documented in pictures and videos by the Navy.

More importantly, this was a singular event. I wouldn't get to see her graduate from boot camp ever again. This was the one chance I had to witness this accomplishment in person. I saw and heard the entire thing, and I remember it vividly. I’m glad the only pictures I took were the ones from directly after the event. And although we purchased the DVD created by the Navy videographers, I have never watched it, and I can't think of a moment when I would. The event is captured forever in my memory, and I am glad I was an active witness to it.

And yet, I am ashamed to admit, as the event went on, a small part of me wished it would just end. After an hour, a seed of annoyance took root and began to grow. I was getting tired watching all the marching, saluting, flag-waving, horn-blowing, and general Navy-ing about. I watched people with impressive ribbons, medals, and ranks give speeches and receive justified honors. These were impressive people, whom I respected due entirely to their accomplishments, standing, and dedication to service to our country. I looked out into a hall filled with people who were committed to a higher ideal than I ever aspired to.

And I wished they would all just sit down, be quiet, and tell us we could go and hug our kids. Why did there have to be so much ceremony in this ceremony? My bottom was starting to hurt, and my mind began to wonder what we might be having for lunch after this.

As the event continued, I tried to imagine what the sailors standing statuesquely at attention were feeling. By that point, I could imagine the novelty of the occasion had worn off. I was sure the ten weeks or so of marching and standing during training had reduced the physical effort required to stand like this for so long. Yet they were moments away from being done with this part of their journey. Their families and loved ones, and some much-earned liberty, were very close, tantalizingly close. The only thing between them and a bit of their old life was a ceremony that seemed to want to drag on forever.

Regardless of how it might have felt at the time, the event wasn't excessively long. Not a moment of it was wasted on any kind of nonsense or filler. Every element honored or celebrated something important; there was no fat to trim. It was expertly organized and executed with rapid precision. There was just so much of it, and for the parents and loved ones who had been missing their sailor, it could easily feel like a roadblock between them and seeing this person they had been missing for months.

And then it was over. Abruptly, the entire event just ended, definitively. The solemnity was banished from the room in a flurry of sudden movement. Reverent silence was replaced by a cacophony of hollow thumping as shoes pounded down the bleachers. The waiting loved ones surged forward, dispensing with their restraint and self-control as though invisible leashes had been stretched until they snapped. Suddenly freed, they swarmed onto the floor toward the stoic line of sailors. The mass of uniformed men and women broke from their orderly ranks and moved like a tide toward the eager arms of loved ones as the two groups swirled together into crowds of hugs, kisses, and tears.

[georgemcginn]

DOD Featured Photos

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[michaelcosio]

Nov 20, 2018

Congratulations to the 33 Sailors selected for advancement to First, Second, and Third Class Petty Officer! Hard work pays off! Here is our list:

BM1 Beronio

SB1 Bollinger

OS1 Calderon

HT1 Church

AE1 Goldfarb

LS1 Knesek

CS1 Morris

BM1 Munoz

IS1 Wells

UT2 Bluetear

BM2 Froehler

BU2 Linden

BM2 Morelli

CM2 Perry

DC2 Rose

HM2 Sanchez

AD2 Tascon

BU2 Wilson

LS3 Zhao

GM3 Valle

UT3 Ramos

HM3 Pellascio

CM3 Osborne

IT3 Nora

GM3 Nguyen

HM3 Ndyanabo

CM3 Iniguez

HM3 Grualva

MM3 Fernandez

PS3 Boles

MN3 Billeci

HT3 Anda

Frocking cermony will be held during December DWE in front of friends, family and Shipmates in the Drill Hall!

(Source: Navy Reserve Center Sacramento)

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The Completely Unnecessary News Analysis

By Christopher Smart

September 19, 2023

“REAL HOUSEWIFE,” REAL ADULTERY — OMG!

Call it news you can use, Wilson. Monica Garcia, the new cast member on “Real Housewives of Salt Lake City,” had an adulterous affair with her brother-in-law. We would never lie about a thing like that. You can read all about it in The Salt Lake Tribune, where Smart Bomb's old pal Scott Pierce keeps a close eye on the Real Housewives. People have a thirst for this stuff, Wilson, because it's titillating and piques prurient interests without — here's the best part — any risk. And, of course, it's great click bait. But we digress, the reality TV show needed a new cast member after Real Housewife Jen Shah was sentenced to six and half years in the big house for conspiracy to commit wire fraud. You're right, Wilson, you have to wonder whether Jen Shah was a housewife or just a huckster in heels. And what does this say to little girls who see these women cheating and, well, cheating. What if Mattel created Real Housewife dolls? Look out, Barbie! NEWS FLASH — This just in: Jen Shah has bonded in federal prison with Elizabeth Holmes, the one-time Theranos CEO who got 11 years for duping investors in a billion dollar blood-testing hoax. It's like “Orange is the New Black,” only for real — life imitating art, imitating life, imitating weird B.S. on TV. Is this a great country, or what.

THE FEW, THE PROUD, THE “WOKE” MARINES

Alright now Wilson, this is serious. The U.S. Marines are “woke.” And that ain't all — the Navy is “woke” and the Army is “woke,” too. No word on the Air Force or Coast Guard yet but it's not looking good. Alabama Sen. Tommy Tuberville got wind that sailors were reading poetry on an aircraft carrier. Poetry, for god's sake. Next thing you know Marines will be reading Shakespeare — from the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Stratford-upon-avon. Holy Hamlet. No wonder Tuberville is holding up all those military promotions. “Biden is building a woke Army,” he hissed. Right now, they're probably making the basic training grounds on Paris Island into the Globe Theater. What's next, funny hats and shirts with puffy sleeves. OK, that might be a slight exaggeration, but the writing is one the wall. In a recent congressional hearing, Republican congressmen took issue with military brass and their efforts on inclusion and diversity and wondered aloud about “pronoun training,” for drill instructors to be sensitive to non-binary recruits: “Excuse me sergeant, but I demand you call me 'they.'” Actually, there is no “pronoun training” and the military is about as woke as John Wayne. The Republicans doth protest too much. It's much ado about nothing.

TOP 10 REASONS MITT ROMNEY IS LEAVING THE SENATE

10 – The Capital Cafeteria discontinued lime Jell-O.

9 – Mike Lee is a dick and says we're not a democracy.

8 – Brando wannabes, Sen. Josh Hawley and Sen. J.D. Vance, make him puke.

7 – Nebraska Sen. Chuck Grassley's breath. Is he dead or alive.

6 – That slut Ted Cruz, who thinks his beard makes him look like a cool cat.

5 – The Capital Cafeteria's pan-seared Atlantic Salmon tastes like cat food.

4 – Mitch McConnell couldn't vote for impeachment because he didn't have the cojones.

3 – The slime on the Senate men's room doorknobs where Lindsey Graham has been.

2 – He's tired of being the sucker who takes one for the team.

1 – And the top reason Mitt Romney is leaving the Senate: Republicans.

Post script — That's going to do it for another splendiferous week here at Smart Bomb where we keep track of impeachments so you don't have to. This is as good a time as any to impeach Hunter Biden, er, uh, oops, make that President Joe Biden because — according to a handful of right-wing Congress members — he deserves it. Payback is a bitch. Democrats should have thought about that when they impeached then-President Donald Trump in December 2019 for abuse of power and obstruction of Congress after he pushed Ukraine President Volodymyr Zelensky to dig up dirt on then-presidential rival Joe Biden in exchange for $400 million in military aid that had already been approved by Congress. He was acquitted in the Senate 53-47. Then those damned Democrats impeached Trump again on the ticky-tac charge of “incitement of insurrection” for the attack on the Capital. The Senate voted 53-47 to convict, falling short of the needed two-thirds majority. Now it's Joe's turn even though there is no evidence tying him to Hunter's business dealings in Ukraine. Hunter has been indicted on tax evasion and three gun charges. Impeach the bastard! And while we're at it we might as well impeach his father — on principle alone. Then, let's go after the First Lady.

Poor Jen Shah and Elizabeth Holmes — they're just rotting away in prison, Wilson. Luckily they've found each other and can exchange notes on how to — and how not to — rip people off. They've done the crime and now they've got to do the time. So wake up the band and let's crank one up for those ladies of the big house:

Breaking rocks in the hot sun I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won I needed money because I had none I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won I miss my baby and I feel so sad I guess my race is run Well, she's the best girl that I ever had I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won Robbing people with a six gun I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won I miss my baby and I miss my fun! I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won I miss my baby and I feel so sad I guess my race is run Well, she's the best girl that I ever had I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the I fought the law and the law won I fought the law and the law won

(I Fought the Law — Sonny Curtis, popularized by the Bobby Fuller Four)

[bookloversofbath]

Always Ready: The Drill Halls of Britain's Volunteer Forces :: Mike Osborne

Always Ready: The Drill Halls of Britain’s Volunteer Forces :: Mike Osborne

Always Ready: The Drill Halls of Britain’s Volunteer Forces :: Mike Osborne soon to be presented for sale on the excellent BookLovers of Bath web site! Leigh-on-Sea: Partizan Press, 2006, Hardback in dust wrapper. Includes: Floor plans; Black & white photographs; Colour photographs; List of abbreviations; References; 2-column text; Appendices (7); From the cover: This book explores the form,…