#Sky Tourist service

[goshyesvintageads]

Trans World Airlines, 1954

[rabbitcruiser]

Clouds (No. 1139)

Whitehorse, YU

[mandalhoerian]

(2) 🦭 signed, sealed, delivery pending...

Eight years ago, during the worst summer festival of your life, you cross paths with a certain seal for the first time.

genre: fluff, comedy | wc: 4K | read on ao3

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note: YES, THIS IS A SERIES! I hope you'll bear with me as I'm not actively editing/proofreading my writing and am going with the flow for the most part. Rafayel will also stay as a seal in the next chapter which centers around how he came to be smitten with the reader, so PLEASE PLEASE HANG TIGHT WE'RE GETTING THERE. I hope you enjoy!!!!

Ah, sweet summer festival. You're fifteen.

The entire archipelago is in motion tonight — a grand spectacle brought to life in the unofficial capital Salverna, which is also where you were born and raised, by throngs of locals with visitors pouring in from the mainland for an evening of festivities. Decorated boats crawl like jeweled beetles across the bay beneath a moonbeam sky, torches flickering like amber blossoms amidst colorful lanterns suspended overhead, painting faces in warm splashes of light. Instruments are tuned to perfect pitch, ready to launch into jigs and reels once revelers spill into dancing rings. Children sprint around bonfires with cheeks flushed by sugar, laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Farther along, games fill the streets — prizes stuffed inside balloons perched precariously atop slender sticks, targets waiting to be pierced by dart tips, bobbing heads eager for coins — competing for attention with the delectable aroma of spiced sausage, roasted meat, skewers, sticky cinnamon treats, and fresh fruit piled high for sampling. Even the night's salty breath tastes like sunshine, and despite everything feeling faintly familiar, somehow still manages to seem entirely fresh.

If only you'd been there from the beginning.

No, you were here. The whole day.

At the docks, which is the farthest away from the main event.

Hauling seafood and chasing down lost tourists like some unpaid festival guide.

The family ferry business consisting of multiple vessels is the only one making direct trips between the mainland and the archipelago. Usually, things run smoothly — your parents know this route like the back of their hands, and during normal weeks, the boats run on a fairly consistent schedule with only the occasional minor detour to accommodate delayed travelers. Renting smaller boats out to tourists helps maintain some steady income for maintenance expenses during quieter months, although the real money comes from transporting passengers year-round.

But big events like this summer festival change everything. The mainland port is overflowing with people packed like sardines in a tin, and everyone scrambles for transport space like sharks smelling blood. It's impossible to accommodate every arrival simultaneously, even though Dad doubled the ferry service to operate nearly nonstop — one boat shuttling incoming guests while its twin carries locals back and forth between islands, and even then it isn't enough. People are forced to wait hours for passage, which inevitably leads to chaos erupting.

And the locals ferry doesn't just transport passengers. It hauls festival supplies — crates of seasonal produce shipped to the islands via mainland distributors, stacks upon stacks of boxes labeled FRAGILE in thick black marker, paper fans for the parade, props for the pageant, a seemingly endless list of necessary items for the vendors, bands, food stands, street performers, the barrels of festival cider rolling onto the deck, stacks of pastries needing careful hands to avoid toppling, baskets of flowers meant for decorating stalls that nearly got crushed in the shuffle — you name it — the list of deliveries keeps growing by the hour. And no one has extra hands to spare to deliver all this cargo to its final destinations.

Well, actually, one person does. Namely, you.

It started small. Mom catching you right as you tried to slip away this morning, asking to help with boarding real quick, and if you could take some packages along the way... It was easy to agree, at first — help a few elderly tourists steady themselves as they stepped from the ferry, answer questions from confused festival-goers trying to navigate between islands, toss a sack or two over your shoulder for the vendor working nearby. But an hour later, you were hauling half a crate uphill when one of the wheels broke loose, scattering fireworks across cobblestones in glittering disarray, leaving you running through town chasing them all down under curious gazes of the locals who saw the explosion...

And the moment the ferry docked, suddenly it was all hands on deck. One trip in, another out. Then, next thing you knew, you were the one handling tickets and guiding stragglers toward their destination, organizing groups, shouting helpful tips about what to avoid and what not to eat so you are not about to have people get sick on board and clean off their vomit, answering questions about local attractions and restaurant specialties, calling out to Dad who drove the ferry like it was child's play, warning the older folks and kids not to fall off because the last thing your family really needs is to be sued by someone stupid falling overboard...

And the entire time, you were in the dress you'd picked out specifically for the occasion. Thinking one more trip, and you could finally join your friends in the festivities...

A whole shift later, there are no celebrations awaiting you. No bonfire parties with the music so loud and joyous you could feel it thrumming through the ground, no crowded bars filled to bursting with cheerful singing and dancing, no raffle stalls offering chances to win souvenirs and free meals for years, no fireworks bursting across the night sky so brilliant they chased away the darkness.

Just you with your dress ruined and ripped because someone couldn't watch where they were going while drunk and collided straight into you and left you soaked in cheap beer, and the hem of it torn apart from you desperately trying to fix your mistake after misplacing the boxes of merch you were supposed to haul, again. Your friends probably already enjoying every aspect of the event, laughing their asses off in pure delight without caring for what you missed or had endured all day, knowing you were supposed to arrive with them to witness the greatest part of the summer celebration together.

With angry tears gathering at the inner corners of your eyes, you let the bags drop onto the dock with a harsh thump, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Maybe you're expecting an argument. Maybe you want to pick a fight because the frustration had been stewing ever since you woke up today and demanded release. Or maybe you hope your father would give you permission to go enjoy your own life, rather than force you to suffer his. But none of those comes to pass. Instead, he merely glances up with a tired look, holding your resentful stare before sighing heavily and scrubbing his face wearily with calloused, wrinkled hands.

“You said it would be quick,” you snap, voice shaking. “You said I could go like hours ago. The day is over!"

You choke back the wobble in your tone, biting harshly into your lower lip, hoping it'll prevent tears from leaking out even though it hardly hurts enough to distract you.

"Look, we're in the middle of peak season..."

"Which means peak profit for our business! Couldn't you have just hired someone extra to fill in?! Why did it have to be me?!"

"No other staff is available on such a short notice, especially during a big event." Dad shrugs weakly in apology, the gesture lacking any defensiveness or remorse. He looks drained, exhausted. And still, his priorities remain firmly fixed elsewhere. "Sorry, honey. Next week I'm hiring additional staff permanently, but for now — just one more hour, okay? You know we don't extend our services after the night falls and that's why—"

“No!” The frustration spills over before you can swallow it down. “It’s never ‘just a little longer.’ It’s always one more trip, one more errand, one more thing! I’m always the one stuck here!”

Dad frowns and straightens his spine slowly like a looming anime villain, wiping sweat from his brow. "Don't raise your tone on me like that, I'm not one of your little friends. This is nothing. When you become captain, you'll have to endure far more work."

"I did everything you ask and suddenly my tone is the issue?!" You gesture wildly at your ruined dress, at the damp stains and torn fabric clinging to your skin. “Look at me! I was supposed to be there with everyone else, and now I can’t even show up like this—”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Dad's voice turns sharp, exasperated. “It’s just a dress.”

"And now everyone probably hates me because I've skipped yet another celebration and ghosted them!" you huff and puff like an enraged bull despite his interruption.

"What's going on?" Mom hurries over from the harbor shop, stepping between you and your father before tempers flare even further. She takes in the scene at a glance and sighs deeply — though whether out of disappointment or irritation, you can't tell — carefully setting aside several stacks of receipts. "Are you two seriously bickering about nonsense when you should both be working?"

“I’m not being dramatic! I’m sick of this!” You throw your hands into the cold, humid sea breeze as though casting your complaints upon the tides, unable to keep the tremble from your fingers or the tears from streaking down your face. Hot drops patter against the faded wood planks beneath your feet. "“I work just as hard as you do, I never say no, but the second I want something for myself—"

Mom immediately gets what's going on, and alerts you to lower your voice by pointedly widening her eyes and thinning her lips. The entire dock is witnessing the argument and turning their heads to listen in at this point, but you don't care. Everybody should hear about this injustice.

"Yes, honey, I know," Mom hisses, "And we appreciate how hard you're trying, believe me. But — just one more trip, alright? Your friends will wait a bit longer for you, won’t they? Don't forget this isn't just about you. The archipelago depends on us running our business steadily and reliably."

And there it is. That unspoken expectation, that quiet assumption that you’ll always choose responsibility over what you want. That you’ll always understand.

Your throat tightens, choking back the bitterness burning in the pit of your stomach, and for a long moment, neither you nor your mom break the silence, and her stare remains fixed somewhere above your shoulder. Only Dad says anything, grunting a vague affirmative that tells you nothing more than your mother did; work must come first, whatever personal sacrifice must be made for that to happen.

You step back. “Forget it.”

“Honey—”

“I said forget it!”

You're running hot and cold, the rush of blood in your ears don't let your parents' protests in as you rush into the only place where you can be alone right now, the ticket counter cabin with the "CLOSED" sign on it, slamming the door shut behind you loudly and letting the cool glass barrier isolate you from the rest of reality. It's just you inside. There's a desk, empty paperwork piled neatly at the corner, a cash register. An old computer screen covered by dust. Shelves crammed with stacked-up folders and manuals. A window overlooking the harbor. This is also the place to leave your belongings at before clocking into work, just beside the locker of where the attendant usually leaves theirs.

On a whim, you snatch up your jacket and backpack before fleeing out into the crowd again. It's so easy to lose your parents along the wharf because of the teeming masses.

Your phone is buzzing rapidly in your bag with Dad and Mom both probably threatening to drag you back by your ear, so you take it out and switch to airplane mode before tossing it back in with a grimace. You're not allowed to be out this late without supervision (much less sneaking away from work), but right now, there's not an adult in existence that could compel you to walk willingly back into this mess. Screw it. Being grounded for life isn't any worse than being imprisoned on this stupid island forever anyway, you think, huffing quietly in protest as you stomp down the street. Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can spend some time with Aunt Leen. At least she wouldn't judge.

The festival feels a million miles away. You can’t go there, not in this state, stains everywhere, smelling like fish and sweat and regret, dress ripped apart. So, instead, you end up wandering along the rocky beach near the outer edge of town, in parallel to the protected seal rookery islet offshore and well beyond the boundaries of the town proper. The bright, swirling glow of the firework display across the water glints in the dark, mingling with distant stars and overshadowing the full moon, reflecting off rippling waters like flickering embers dancing across a glossy obsidian surface. The waves roll gently across sand and stone in soothing rhythmic whispers whooshes that pull you onward through the night like invisible ribbons drawing you back into the present.

This was always your favorite place as a child — wild and beautiful. An unclaimed stretch of wilderness stretching beyond the public access point, filled with coves and tide pools that felt like hidden kingdoms tucked away from the rest of the world. Here, among the jagged rocks, washed smooth by centuries of ebbing currents, you sit on one flat boulder, bare feet lapped at by the high tide and shoes by your side, frustrated tears dropping into the sea, staring absently off towards the seal islet floating peacefully in the distance.

You remember trying to swim out there years ago, despite having been strictly forbidden from venturing close to not disturb them. What would it be like, to be out in the open sea instead of tied to this isolated little community? To see something other than the same faces, places, and names repeated ad nauseam for all eternity, as though nothing changed no matter how many seasons passed? What would it take to break free?

"Ugh!" The sound bursts free before you can clamp your jaw shut, a ragged groan against clenched teeth as your palms scrub fiercely across your damp, salty cheeks.

Before you can start ranting into the night like a madman, your turmoil is shattered by a sudden, piercing cry like metal scraping stone ripping through your tangled thoughts. Your head jerks upward, pulse quickening into a painful drum-beat. Something is terribly off. Someone's hurt, panicking—or worse—maybe drowning?

But where?

You blink frantically, scanning the surrounding coastline, but the thick curtain of night refuses to offer clues. So you rely on your ears and follow the keening through the beach, stumbling hastily across damp sand, uneven rocks and slippery seaweed patches alike, nearly slipping on slimy barnacles embedded in the crevices between each massive stone and fighting hard to balance every step, all the while ignoring the scrapes accumulating on your soles from sharp pebbles digging into tender flesh and flaring in protest at every bit of impact.

Then, unmistakably—

A high-pitched, squealing shriek erupts out of the ocean — like the frantic deflating of a balloon twisting violently apart in midair.

Your stomach drops. The sound is frantic, terrified. Unmistakably animal.

And it's coming directly from the water.

At last, you spot the source of the commotion — about fifty feet offshore, just beyond a tangle of blackened driftwood clogging the shallows: Moonlight catches on slick, gray fur, the seal’s body bobbing helplessly, its hysteric movements hampered by the thick snare of a fishing net and heavy with debris, the tangled mess constricts tight, dragging it downward each time it fights to resurface.

Seals can drown. You know that much. You’ve heard Elias muttering to Dad, thick with disgust, after cutting loose yet another pup ensnared by abandoned traps — relics of poachers who refuse to acknowledge sealing was banned around here nearly thirty years ago.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

Your mind stutters, paralyzed for a breathless instant. What do I do? What do I do?

There’s no time to think.

You’re moving before reason catches up, scrambling over slick, uneven rocks as brine stings the scrapes blooming across your bare feet. Your pulse slams against your ribs. In one frantic motion, you strip off your windbreaker, fling your bag aside, and plunge into the waves without hesitation. Salt explodes in a cool rush over your skin as you kick off from the seafloor, paddling hard, muscles burning with every stroke.

Next thing you know, your arms are locked tight around the drowning seal, grappling to haul it toward shore as it thrashes wildly, overwrought beyond reason and twisting all it can to land a blow with brutal strength you wouldn't expect from a round and inflexible body like that. Flippers beat against your chest, claws scrape at your arms, and its ragged cries tear through the night like something feral and furious. It doesn’t understand you’re trying to help — it only knows fear.

Somehow, impossibly, you make it.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest as you drag the tangled pup onto the shore, collapsing beside it in a gasping sprawl, limbs weak and trembling. Your lungs gulp down air that tastes like victory, the sweetest breath you've ever taken.

And then—

The seal’s shrieks reach a fevered pitch. It flails vigorously, flinging itself against the unyielding net, snapping, fighting, tearing at the fibers with blind desperation.

That’s when you see it.

The moon-desaturated dark liquid pooling beneath its body, sinking into the wet sand in sluggish tendrils.

Blood.

"No! Stop that, stop!"

You scramble upright, stomach at your throat, hands grabbing frantically at the writhing seal to keep it from thrashing itself into worse injury.

"Hey, hey — settle down! Stop moving — please! You're making it worse!"

It doesn’t listen. It fights harder.

Panic and instinct are what fuels its every move, and the more you hold on, the more fiercely it resists, wails cutting straight to the center of your chest, high and desperate, feeding your own fear in a vicious cycle. Its pulse is hammering beneath your hands, a wild, terrified beating of a bird's wings matching your own as its breaths come fast, erratic, interrupted by harsh snorts and shuddering yelps. The pup is almost one singular muscle beneath your grip, trembling and taut with the primal need to flee.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," you chant, the words spilling out in a frantic loop, cracking under the weight of utter desperation of not knowing what to do even as you're repeating you're there to helo. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Just let me help — please — fuck, what do I do — ow!"

Pain explodes up your right forearm before the scream even leaves your throat.

Teeth. Deep. Sinking into muscle like fire.

Your body jolts with the instinct to yank away, but you don’t. You can’t. One wrong move and you’ll scare it even more, maybe make it clamp down harder. Tears blur your vision, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bite your own molars together, forcing yourself to go still.

And then — so does the seal.

The aggressive lashing out ceases, replaced by eerie, frozen silence. Its nostrils flare against your skin, warm breath feathering across the bite, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your pulse pounds between your teeth, the sting of the wound dulling under the weight of something more pressing — its eyes.

Two inky pools, round and bottomless, reflecting your fractured likeness like tiny mirrors.

"Please," you whisper, shaky, but soft. "I just want to help. You're safe. I won’t hurt you."

The grip on your arm doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. The only thing left between you is the weight of your words and the fragile, fragile stillness.

"Let me go," you murmur, swallowing hard. "And we’ll fix this. Okay?"

There's a pause, a single, terrifying moment suspended in time. Then, the seal's jaws relax, and he releases his painful grip on your throbbing arm, and as quickly as the assault began, it ends. Blood rushes forth in a thin rivulet down your wrist and between your fingers. It doesn't really hurt, not compared to the dull ache in the rest of your exhausted body, and the relief that washes over you is so profound that you're momentarily dizzy from it. And yet... The fact that the seal has calmed down means everything.

"It's okay, it’s okay, don't worry about it," you say hurriedly, intended for yourself more than anything so you wouldn't freak out about it. "You were scared, that's all. It's not your fault."

But the pup isn’t looking at the net.

Its gaze is locked onto your arm, the blood pooling at the wound, round, ink-dark eyes impossibly wider, focused in a way that makes something in your chest tighten.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting, impossible second, it feels like he understands. Like he knows what he did. Awe prickles through you, pushing aside the pain, the exhaustion, everything.

Seals are intelligent — you’ve always known that — but this is so magical to experience how emotionally aware they are.

"Hey. Hey, I’m fine, buddy," you insist. "Look at me, look. I'm good, it’s just a scratch. Let's focus on getting that net off, yeah? Can't have you swimming away in that state. You’ll drown."

As you lean in to inspect, the pup shies away initially, clearly wary and distrustful, but eventually allows you to examine the tangled mess of knots and lines ensnaring his sleek, streamlined figure. The heavy, dense debris he's wrapped in like a blanket is making it impossible to unravel anything, and the more you try to remove it, the tighter the bindings grow. Your injured arm is growing numb, which is probably not a good sign, but there's no time to dwell on that now.

Frustrated and increasingly anxious, you search frantically for something in your backpack to use as scissors or a knife, but the jerky movements make the pup tense up, its tail slapping nervously in the sand, and you have to take several calming breaths to prevent scaring him further.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you. I'll be gentler," you promise in a rush. "Just bear with me, okay?"

All you can find is your nail clippers, but they'll have to suffice. With painstaking care, you snip away at the individual strands binding the pup's limbs together, pausing every few moments to reassure him that everything is alright, that it will survive and go back to the rookery islet. Its fur is wet and matted with blood beneath the ropes, and the sight sends a fresh surge of anger through your veins at the thought of whoever abandoned such a careless trap in the ocean.

"Almost got it, buddy, almost, you're doing great," you sniffle, working steadily to free its front flippers. They're the most delicate and prone to injuries, according to Elias. "One last cut and..."

With a soft pop, the final strand gives way and the net falls loose, the release of pressure causing the seal to scramble sideways and flop awkwardly onto his belly in a clumsy roll. It lies there motionless for a brief second before letting out a piercing, mournful wail that stabs at the pit of your stomach.

You drop your tool and fall to your knees beside him, hands hovering uncertainly over its body. You don't dare touch, afraid of hurting it further. In a burst of energy, the pup pushes itself upright, body wiggling and coiling to propel it forward in a frantic dash towards the safety of the sea. You watch helplessly, unable to move or think or react in any way, until it pauses halfway to the shoreline and glances back at you, a low whine emanating from his throat.

"Go on, get out of here," you urge him, waving it onward. "Stay safe and take care of yourself, alright? You've had enough close calls today." A pang of dread hits you, realizing how much danger the pup was already in and how lucky it had been that you happened to be nearby to save it from a terrible fate. But now, all you can do is let it return to its natural environment. "Be free, cutie," you say quietly. "Live well and happy. You deserve better than this."

The pup hesitates, still watching you with those soulful, inscrutable black eyes. Then, in an act that leaves you speechless, it turns and galumphs back to your side, lowering its head and nudging its muzzle against the bleeding gash on your forearm. When it pulls away, his whiskers are slick with red, and a strange sense of gratitude overwhelms you.

"Oh, you angel," you manage, a lump forming in your throat. The urge to viciously pet his head is strong, but this isn’t a cat or a dog. Your arm really might get bitten off from the elbow socket. "Now scram. I'm sure your mama is worried about you."

This time, the seal does as instructed. It slides gracefully down the sandy slope and slips into the waves, vanishing from view in an instant. Only a small trail of blood remains, mingling with the foam and seawater that wash over the shore, evidence of the ordeal endured by this remarkable creature wiped away in an instant by the protective hands of the sea.

The shock of it all, of the stress and adrenaline, finally catches up to you and you collapse backwards in the sand, the pain in your arm flaring once again and only now feeling the cuts on the bottom of your feet.

Shaken to your bones in a way you can’t quite name, your fingers fumble to switch off airplane mode before you even realize what you’re doing. The moment the call connects, you’re babbling into the phone, voice thick with tears, words tangled and frantic. Mom struggles to make sense of you, but it doesn’t take long for her to find you — half an hour later, sprawled on the ground, your windbreaker haphazardly draped over your shoulders, backpack wedged beneath your head. The gash on your arm is wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet, one of your old bandanas knotted tightly around the wound.

If Dad’s ferry hadn’t been stuck in the harbor, he would’ve been here too. No doubt about it.

You get an earful the moment she kneels beside you. Irresponsible. Reckless. Running off without telling anyone. Dad would’ve had a heart attack if things had gone any worse. Yes, yes, yes. You let her words wash over you, nodding at the right moments, too drained to do anything else. Her hugs and kisses make up plenty for it. 

Neither of you bring up the fight. Neither of you need to. Some things are easier left unspoken.

She doesn’t mention the festival, either. But you both know what kind of rumors will be swirling by morning.

For now, you're taken to the local clinic and given a rabies and a tetanus shot, and a lecture from the nurse who treated you, warning you to never approach a wild animal again because the next time, you might not be as lucky.

[lialacleaf]

Simon Riley x Reader

Bella Notte - Pt. 1

Synopsis: Simon’s dog REALLY likes you. And maybe Simon does too. It’s hard to make a move on you though when Riley is determined to embarrass him.

Art by @shkretart because their Simon is my favorite~

Warnings: second hand embarrassment, no editing

It was that time of year between the light chill of fall and the frost of winter, when you needed a coat in the morning and gloves to keep your fingers from going stiff, only to shed your layers for a light jacket until the sun started to set in the early evening.

It was raining again, and as you glanced up at the grey sky from under your umbrella you wondered if the whether persisted into the night you might wake up to a frozen driveway.

Your eyes darted over the address on your phone screen for the hundredth time as you approached the gated neighborhood, taking note of the quaint townhouses smooshed together. You approached the gate with some apprehension, taking note of the security guard who looked ready to defend his post with his very life despite being armed with only a taser.

“Afternoon, Miss,” he greeted, tipping his head at you. Police officers in London were polite more often than not, but you still got a little nervous about speaking to them. The second you opened your mouth they either thought you were a tourist, or coming around to cause trouble.

“Hi, I’m here for-“ you paused to check the address once more. “33 B,” you said, showing him your phone screen that displayed the quaint little pet-service app. “I’m a pet sitter.”

He looked at you contemplatively for a moment, and you swallowed thickly. “You from around these parts?” He asked, and you shook your head.

“I moved to York a few months ago,” you explained, preparing to pull out your IDs when he held up a hand.

“You met the fellow that lives there before?” He asked warily, and you frowned.

“Not in person, but he passed the background check so I’m sure it’s alright,” you argued.

He gave you a good look, as if he were trying to memorize you appearance before nodding to himself and swiping his badge. The gate opened with a mechanical whirring and he beckoned you inside.

You shook your head at the exchange, shoving your phone back into the pocket of your raincoat.

33B appeared to be a relatively new unit, the paint on the door appearing fresh as if it had just been done in the past few days.

There was no welcome mat, and the front porch seemed rather bare. You half expected one of those ‘Home of a German Shepherd’ signs to be hanging on the front door, but there was very little to indicate you were in the right place.

Regardless, you knocked on the door, noticing the lack of a bell.

There was no answer.

You knocked again, this time a little harder.

“Hello? Is anyone there? It’s y/n from TailWag!” You called. You were just about to turn around when the door swung open, revealing a tall man with soft eyes and a thick mustache. He seemed surprised to see you before offering you a polite smile.

“Are you…Simon?” You asked, but the man shook his head. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I-“

“No, no. You’re in the right place. Was just on my way out.” He nodded to you with a smile, stepping around you as he let himself out.

Your watched him leave, brown raised curiously before the clearing of a throat had your head swiveling around.

The sight that greeted you had you feeling like a gnome in the presence of a giant. The man was tall, with a head of messy blonde hair and piercing brown as that had you shaking a little in your bright yellow rain boots.

“Oh.”

He regarded you warily with a raised brow. “Y/n?”

You nodded quickly, almost giving yourself whiplash. There was something so commanding about the way he spoke.

“Right. Come in.”

His home was just as sparse on the inside as it was on the outside. “Sorry if this was a bad time.”

“It’s the time we agreed on,” he stated flatly.

“Right, I just- you had company, and I didn’t mean to interrupt…” you trailed off as he continued to stare at you with that piercing gaze. “So Riley? Where is she?” You asked, getting to the reason for your visit.

Simon let out a sharp whistle that made you jump, and the sound of feet running down the stairs alerted you to the incoming of the four legged creature.

You watched the dog bound around the corner and into the living room, tongue killing and amber eyes alight.

A smile broke out on your face as you kneeled down to give the dog some attention. “Hello there,” you cooed, scratching her behind the ears. “Aren’t you a pretty girl.”

“What brings an American out to York Minster?” He asked, regaining your attention. His eyes were cold and calculating.

“Right. My father moved out here after he and my mother split. He left her out of the will so I came to sell his home when he passed but..the gothic cathedrals kinda grew on me, and I got rather inspired so I decided to stay. Wasn’t much left on the mortgage anyhow,” you explained.

He raised both brows at you curiously. “And you pay for that with dog-sitting?”

You shook your head. “Absolutely not, I’m a Ghost Writer. It makes good money. The dog-sitting is so I feel less lonely,” you said, returning your attention to bestowing Riley with your affection and massaging the scruff around her neck.

“Why not just get a dog?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

You glanced up at him, awkwardly meeting his gaze. “I uhh, I had one, passed away shortly after my Dad. I think she missed him. I haven’t been ready to move on,” you admitted, feeling rather put on the spot with the way Simon was watching you as if he were looking for a flaw, or a reason to kick you out of his home.

“Fair enough,” he agreed, and you loosed a breath. You couldn’t help but feel like you were going to end up with a knife in your throat if you made one wrong move. “I’ll be gone for a few weeks at a time. You live around here?” He asked curtly.

You didn’t like the way he looked at you. It felt…judgmental, as if he were trying to decide if you were trustworthy, or if you were plotting some evil deed. “I live in the other side of town.”

He nodded. “Feel free to use the spare room, the place is more hers than it is mine at this point. She deserves a good retirement,” he said gesturing to the dog.

You blinked as realization finally set in. “Oh! Your military! I see now,” you said, glancing down at Riley who was still patiently seated beside her master.

“So you’re not retired?” You asked, and he nodded. “There are plenty of adoption agencies, and families that take on service animals-“

“I’m her family,” he interrupted, sounding very close to having snapped at you, and you winced.

“Right! Of course, I just meant that pet-sitters are expensive and-“

“You’re concerned I can’t afford to pay you?” He asked gruffly.

“No! No I- That’s not what I meant,” you palmed your face as you stood to your full height, which wasn’t much compared to his. “I’ve been doing this since I was in college and I’ve had more than a few cases of abandonment. It’s usually the ones that are gone a lot. I just wanna know what I’m getting into, alright?” You explained, holding your hands out peacefully as if you were trying to convince a wolf animal not to attack you.

You briefly noted that Riley seems much more manageable than her handler. You, however, we’re too soft hearted, and he simply had to understand that if you were going to care for Riley.

He eyed you for a moment, before nodding in understanding. “If I ever don’t make it back arrangements will be made. You won’t need to worry about that,” he assured you.

You let out a relieved sigh. “Good. We’re on the same page then.”

He nodded in agreement, and you had half a mind to ask him to stop staring at you like he was deciding how to go about skinning you alive.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you said, patting Riley on the head much to her delight.

“My flight leaves early in the morning. I’ll text you a code for the front door.”

Your forced a smile as offered him you hand in a friendly gesture. “Perfect.” He didn’t accept your offered hand, but you weren’t too disappointed. You were just grateful you wouldn’t have to see him for the next few weeks.

AN: ahhh this one is gonna be fun! The inspiration for this story came from my own fur babies, one of which I’m using as my visual for Riley. Can’t wait to share part 2!

[al-1-na]

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rafe Cameron x tourist!reader

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: smut, p in v, oral, minors DNI!!!

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

Rafe Cameron had never been one for tour guides or planned days. But something about you—vacation girl, as he’d jokingly called you when you first showed up—made him want to show off his world like it was some kind of treasure map.

The Outer Banks in early June was a blur of gold and salt, and you were standing at the edge of it in denim shorts and a bikini top, sunglasses perched on your nose, looking at the ocean like it was yours. Rafe had seen a lot of tourists over the years, but none like you. You weren’t here to brag or chase the thrill. You looked like you just wanted to feel something.

So he offered to show you around.

“Not the brochure version,” he said, tossing you a helmet and nodding to his dirt bike. “The real shit.”

You hesitated—barely—but curiosity won. You always let curiosity win.

The day unraveled like a movie scene. First stop: an abandoned lighthouse on the north end of the island, half-covered in ivy, hidden down an old service road.

“Locals don’t even know about this one,” Rafe said, watching you as you climbed the rusted stairs. “Me and Sarah used to come up here when we wanted to get away.”

“From what?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Everything.”

You didn’t push. That was the first time he noticed you weren’t like the others.

By noon, he had you on the back of a boat, sunglasses gone, hair tangled from the wind. He took you out to a tiny sandbar where the water was clear and shallow and the only sound was gulls and the soft slap of waves. You let your feet drag in the water, laughing as he tried—and failed—to show off with a flip off the bow.

“You’re not impressing me, Cameron,” you teased.

He grinned, water dripping down his sun-warmed skin. “Give me time.”

He did. All day.

You hit a roadside shack for fish tacos and sweet tea. He brought you to a graffiti-covered water tower where the sunset turned everything copper. He even showed you the house his family owned—the big one, the one with the lies built into the walls—and he let you see the way he looked at it, like he loved it and hated it all at once.

By the time the stars came out, you were lying on the hood of his truck, somewhere quiet, fireflies blinking nearby. He handed you a beer, let your knees bump.

“You ever think about staying?” he asked.

You looked at him like you weren’t sure if he was kidding. “I just got here.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “But it already feels different.”

You didn’t say anything at first, just let the silence stretch. Then you turned your head toward him, your voice soft.

“Maybe it’s not the place that feels different.”

Rafe turned toward you, his gaze pinning you in place like a nail to the wall. He didn’t smile. He just watched you, mouth twitching like he was weighing something dangerous. And then—slow as sin—he leaned in.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

His mouth met yours like a fuse being lit—soft, just for a second, and then hungry. No hesitation, no second-guessing. His hand slid up your thigh, rough fingertips skimming over your sun-warmed skin, gripping the edge of your shorts like he was ready to rip them clean off. You arched into him without thinking, your breath catching as his tongue teased yours, the kiss deepening with every passing second.

“Shit,” he muttered against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him down again, because talking was a waste of time now. You needed him like fire needed oxygen—too much and it would burn, but without it, you’d fucking suffocate.

He moved fast after that—lifting you onto the hood, slipping between your legs with the kind of urgency that only came from someone who’d been holding back all day. His hands pushed your shorts down, dragging your bikini bottoms with them, and then his mouth was on your thigh, kissing his way up like a promise you already knew he’d keep.

When his tongue finally found you, you gasped—head tipping back, fingers gripping the truck’s edge like it could anchor you to Earth. He was good. Way too good. He didn’t just go through the motions—he devoured you like he’d been starving, like you were the first goddamn thing he’d ever wanted this badly. He had one hand on your hip, the other gripping your thigh, holding you wide open for him as he worked you over with his mouth, slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you.

And unravel you he fucking did.

You came hard, legs trembling, breath ragged, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer and a curse at once. Rafe looked up at you with that smug, soaked grin, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood. You reached for him before he could say anything smart, tugging his belt open, pushing his jeans down just enough to free him.

He hissed when your hand wrapped around him—just the right kind of pressure, the kind that made his eyes roll halfway back in his skull. But he didn’t let you finish what you started. No, he grabbed your wrist, shoved your hand away, and growled, “Later. I need to be inside you now.”

You were already nodding, already begging, already spreading yourself wider as he pulled your hips to the edge of the hood and slid in—slow at first, torturously slow, letting you feel every inch of him. You moaned into his neck, nails digging into his back, and he groaned into your shoulder, hips pressing deeper, filling you like he belonged there.

The rhythm he set was rough but controlled, like he was holding himself back from losing his goddamn mind. Each thrust made the truck rock beneath you, metal creaking, your name slipping from his lips like he’d memorized the taste of it. His mouth found yours again—sloppy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangling—and he swallowed every sound you made like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You were close again—so fucking close—and he could feel it. He dropped a hand between you, fingers circling right where you needed him, and your body lit up like a fuse had been set off in your veins. You came again, harder this time, crying out as your body clenched around him, pulling him deeper.

That was all it took.

Rafe followed with a low, guttural moan, his whole body stiffening as he came, collapsing against you, sweaty and panting, his arms trembling from the intensity.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of your breathing and the echo of what the hell just happened between you.

“You’re mean” you mumbled still out of breath.

“Mean?” he looked at you with a raised eyebrow before placing his lips on your collarbone “why?”

“Because how the hell am I supposed to ever leave again now?”

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚

[notyournecromancer]

people are being awful so here is an inexhaustive list of 50ish of my favourite fanfictions ever in no particular order. most of them have changed my life in some way shape or form and i am eternally grateful and in awe: <3 xo

Wolfstar:

All The Young Dudes mskingbean89

Blends rvltn909

Sweater Weather lumosinlove

Dear Your Holiness mollymarymarie

The Cadence of Part Time Poets Motswolo

Honey if I'm not BrigidFaye

There's your trouble xxxnoimsiriusxxx

If You're Gonna BrigidFaye

Currents lunchbucket

Liebestrum lunchbucket

The Road Not Taken mollymarymarie

Bird Set Free mollymarymarie

Ever Thus WrappedUp

Just What the Doctor Ordered WrappedUp

wading in waist-high water colgatebluemintygel

Disarm You With A Smile five_ht

10 Reasons to Go to Michigan greyeyedmonster18

Nothing Sweeter than my baby DamageControl

Not another band AU thelovelyzee

A Black Mass Over Highway Ninety Greenvlvetcouch

Solntse lumosinlove

We Can Be Heroes youblitheringidiot

Like Real People Do Third_Crow

Beneath A Big Blue Sky Eyra

A Brief History of Dragons Eyra

The Birthday Boy greenvlvetcouch

The Killing Time (unwillingly mine) epicblueblanket

Till We Have Arrived Home Again prouvairing

The Players Secret WrappedUp

Let's Play Pretend msalexwp

Jegulus

Only The Brave Solmussa

You Signed Up For This Solmussa

Kill Your Darlings Messermoon (this counts for wolfstar and rosekiller too!)

Blue and Yellow Skies Alarainai

Drarry

What We Pretend We Can't See gyzym

Everybody Hates A Tourist wolfpants

Running on Air eleventy7

Terrible People wolfpants

Way Down We Go xiaq

Draco Malfoy and The Mirror of Ecidyrue starbrigid

Dramione

Measure of A Man inadaze22

Remain Nameless heyjude19

selfxconclusion spicyxpisces

Beginning and End mightbewriting

How to Win Friends and Influence People OlivieBlake

Draco Malfoy and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being in Love isthisselfcare

Jily

Shelf Awareness ghostofbambi

Room Service ClaudiaWrites

MISC

A Dress With Pockets PacificRimbaud

The Audacity of Lavender Brown malpal132

Devil's Snare All The Way Down malpal132

[withthecolorizedkennedys]

could you possibly write a jack x jackie fluff/romance fic during the whitehouse years?

Outside the Fishbowl

synopsis: disguised as a pair of terribly unconvincing elderly tourists, complete with bad makeup, worse accents, and a sheer refusal to break character, jack and jackie slip away from the white house for a night of freedom. it’s reckless, absurd, and entirely beneath the dignity of a president and first lady... which is exactly why they love every second of it.

word count: 2.5k

pairing: jackie kennedy x john f. kennedy rating: e for everyone!!!

author's note: i really enjoyed writing this!! please send more fluff requests!

The knot in Jack's neck had been growing for days. He rolled his shoulders beneath the weight of his suit jacket, staring at the pile of briefings marked "URGENT" on his desk. The light in the Oval Office had grown dim as afternoon slipped toward evening, but switching on a lamp would summon an aide, and what he needed most was five minutes without someone asking him about Berlin or Cuba or whatever fire was burning brightest today.

Jackie found him there, rubbing his temples. She closed the door behind her with a soft click that made him look up.

"You need to eat something," she said, crossing the room. Her Chanel suit was still immaculate despite the long day. "They've been feeding me canapés all afternoon at that Garden Club reception. I'll scream if I have to make small talk about roses for one more minute."

Jack smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Another thrilling day as First Lady?"

"Thrilling." She perched on the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the papers. "I overheard Mrs. Perkins telling the Agriculture Secretary that I reminded her of her daughter's prize-winning Afghan hound."

Jack laughed. "Was it the hair?"

"The posture, apparently." Jackie straightened her spine in mock demonstration. "Very elegant but somewhat aloof. Her words, not mine."

"Well, she's not wrong about the elegant part." He reached for her hand, tracing his thumb over her knuckles. "Kenny's scheduled me for calls until nine. After that, we can—"

"What? Eat dinner while discussing the seating arrangements for the French ambassador's visit?" Jackie's voice held no resentment, just a weariness Jack recognized all too well. "Then you'll fall asleep reading briefings while I lie awake wondering if my renovation committee understands I want those White House chandeliers restored to their original state."

Jack looked down at their hands. "When did we last have a night where we were just... us?"

Something shifted in Jackie's expression. She glanced toward the window, beyond which the Washington Monument pierced the darkening sky. When she turned back, there was a glint in her eye that Jack hadn't seen in months.

"What if we disappeared? Just for one night."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "The Secret Service might have something to say about that."

"Not the president and First Lady." Jackie leaned closer. "Two nobodies. Two... elderly tourists who want to see the city."

"Elderly tourists?" Jack repeated, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Nobody looks twice at old people," Jackie said, warming to her idea. "And if they do, they certainly don't see the leader of the free world and his wife."

"We'd need disguises."

"I've got leftover makeup from the White House theater production." Jackie was already standing, energy radiating from her. "And Jack, don't you dare tell me it's impossible. I've seen you escape your security detail to swim in the Potomac."

Jack pushed back from his desk, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. "You know I've never been able to resist a dare from you."

Forty minutes later, they stood in the White House residence, surveying their transformation in the bedroom mirror.

"I look ridiculous," Jack said, adjusting the bushy gray mustache that Jackie had glued to his upper lip.

"That's the point." Jackie stepped back to appraise her work. She'd applied lines around his eyes and mouth, powdered his hair with temporary gray, and added thick, unflattering glasses that altered the shape of his face. A bulky overcoat and a tweed flat cap completed the look.

Jack turned to his wife, hardly recognizing her. Jackie's distinctive bouffant was hidden under a gray wig and a floral headscarf. She'd thickened her eyebrows, added age spots, and somehow made her famous wide-set eyes look smaller behind cat-eye glasses. The transformation was completed by an oversized coat that hid her slender figure.

"Mrs. Roosevelt, I presume?" Jack said, and immediately regretted it when Jackie swatted his arm.

"Don't be terrible. I'm Mrs. Edith Winters from Tallahassee." She straightened an invisible wrinkle in her coat. "And you're my husband, Herbert."

"Herbert?" Jack frowned. "Couldn't I be something with a little more... I don't know, panache?"

"Herbert has panache in spades," Jackie said, her eyes dancing. "Now, for the voice. Let me hear your Herbert."

Jack cleared his throat, then spoke in an exaggerated gravelly tone, "Ay there, young fella! Any senior discounts at this establishment?"

Jackie collapsed into giggles. "That's awful. You sound like a pirate crossed with your uncle's fishing buddy."

"You haven't heard awful yet," Jack said, then launched into his impression of an elderly Boston dockworker complaining about the price of fish. Jackie's laughter filled the room, and for a moment, they were just Jack and Jackie again, not the president and First Lady.

"My turn," Jackie said when she could breathe again. She straightened her posture, then immediately stooped forward and spoke in a breathy, wavering voice with an exaggerated Southern accent. "Oh, Herbert, dear, don't wander off now. My bunions are acting up something terrible."

"Not bad," Jack said, grinning. "But your British war widow was better."

Jackie immediately switched to a crisp, precise English accent. "I survived the Blitz, young man. I hardly think your Washington traffic will pose a challenge."

They laughed together, the sound echoing off the walls of their bedroom – a room that rarely saw such uninhibited joy these days.

"Now," Jack said, "how exactly do we get past the Secret Service?"

Jackie's smile turned mischievous. "I may have mentioned to Agent Hill that we were both turning in early with headaches and weren't to be disturbed."

"And?"

"And I may have arranged for the staff to think we're both in different wings of the residence."

"That buys us a couple of hours at best."

"A couple of hours is all we need." Jackie adjusted her headscarf. "Besides, I told them you were reviewing NATO documents and I was sorting through historical society letters. Nobody's going to check."

Jack shook his head in amazement. "You'd have made a better spy than me."

"You weren't so bad in Naval Intelligence," Jackie said, then added with a wink, "but I've always been better at getting what I want."

They slipped out through the East Wing service entrance, where Jackie had noticed the security was lightest. The night air was cool against their faces as they shuffled down the street, Jack exaggerating a limp and Jackie leaning on his arm as though for support.

"Where to first, Mrs. Winters?" Jack asked once they'd put several blocks between themselves and the White House.

"I'm famished," Jackie replied in her Southern accent. "Let's find somewhere Herbert and Edith would eat."

They found themselves at a diner ten blocks away, its neon sign buzzing in the night. Inside, vinyl booths and Formica tables gleamed under fluorescent lights. A waitress with tired eyes and a name tag reading "Dolores" showed them to a booth in the corner.

"What'll it be?" she asked, popping her gum.

"Two cheeseburgers," Jack said in his gravelly voice. "And chocolate milkshakes. Edith here has a sweet tooth."

"Don't you tell tales on me, Herbert," Jackie admonished, her Southern accent slipping briefly into her normal voice before she caught herself.

Dolores didn't seem to notice. "Two burgers and shakes coming up."

Once she was gone, Jack leaned forward. "You almost blew our cover there, Mrs. Winters."

"It's not my fault," Jackie whispered back. "You keep making me laugh with that ridiculous accent."

"What's ridiculous is that mustache," Jack replied. "It feels like a squirrel died on my face."

The waitress returned with their milkshakes. Jack took a long sip of his, then sat back with a contented sigh. "You know what the strangest part is? I can't remember the last time I ordered my own food."

Jackie stirred her milkshake thoughtfully. "I can't remember the last time nobody stared at me while I ate."

They fell silent, both suddenly aware of the enormity of what they'd done – not just sneaking out, but escaping the constant scrutiny that had become their normal. Here, in this dingy diner, no one was watching. No one was waiting for them to make a mistake or say something quotable. They were just Herbert and Edith, an elderly couple enjoying a late dinner.

"So," Jack said finally, "tell me about yourself, Mrs. Winters. What brings you to our nation's capital?"

Jackie smiled, sliding into her role. "Oh, Herbert and I always wanted to see the cherry blossoms. Saving up for years, we were. Our children – we have four, you know – they all said we were too old for such a trip, but I told Herbert, I said, 'Herbert, if we don't go now, when will we?'"

"Four children?" Jack raised his eyebrows. "That's quite a brood."

"Oh, yes," Jackie continued, warming to her story. "There's Margie – she's a librarian in Pensacola. Very serious girl. Then the twins, Bobby and Billy – they run a hardware store together. And our youngest, Caroline—"

She stopped suddenly, realizing she'd used their daughter's real name. For a moment, her disguise fell away, and Jack saw the weight of everything they'd left behind.

"Caroline," he picked up smoothly, "who's studying to be a doctor. Smart as a whip, that one. Gets it from her mother."

The waitress arrived with their burgers, and they both fell silent, watching her arrange the plates.

"You two been married long?" Dolores asked as she refilled their water glasses.

"Fifty-seven years this June," Jack said without missing a beat.

"That's something," Dolores said with genuine admiration. "What's your secret?"

Jack glanced at Jackie, who was watching him with amusement. "Well," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it helps that she's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Dolores rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "You're a charmer, aren't you? No wonder she's kept you around this long." She moved off to attend to another table.

"Fifty-seven years," Jackie mused once they were alone again. "Can you imagine?"

"I can," Jack said simply.

Their eyes met across the table, and for a moment, they weren't Herbert and Edith, or the president and First Lady. They were just Jack and Jackie, a couple sharing a meal, imagining a future.

After dinner, they wandered the streets, the city transformed at night. Government buildings stood silent and imposing, their white stone turned silver in the moonlight. Jack's security concerns gradually faded as they walked, two unremarkable figures among the sparse nighttime crowds.

"Let's catch a movie," Jackie suggested, pointing to a theater halfway down the block, its marquee glowing with the title "The Longest Day."

"A war picture?" Jack hesitated. "You hate war pictures."

"Herbert loves them," Jackie said, nudging him with her elbow. Then, dropping her accent: "Besides, it's dark in there. You can take off that ridiculous mustache for a while."

The theater was nearly empty – just a few couples scattered throughout and a group of teenagers in the back row. Jack and Jackie settled into seats near the middle, Jackie immediately removing her headscarf and glasses with a sigh of relief.

"If I'm going to be Edith for fifty-seven years," she whispered, "I need more comfortable shoes."

Jack carefully peeled off his mustache, wincing as it pulled at his skin. "I'm not sure Herbert would survive that long anyway. His back is killing him."

As the film played, Jack found himself both watching the screen and watching Jackie. In the flickering light of the projector, with her disguise partially removed, she looked younger, more carefree. She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow.

"Problem, Herbert?"

"Just thinking that I'm a lucky old man," he replied softly.

She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. "You're not so bad yourself."

They stayed that way through the film, whispering commentary to each other, Jack occasionally lapsing into his terrible Boston accent to make Jackie stifle her laughter. When the movie ended, they reluctantly restored their disguises and shuffled back into the night.

"We should head back," Jack said, checking his watch. "It's almost midnight."

Jackie nodded, but they both walked slower than before, as if by mutual agreement. They took a different route, passing the Lincoln Memorial, its massive marble columns glowing in the darkness.

"Do you want to go up?" Jack asked.

Jackie shook her head. "Not tonight. Tonight I don't want to be reminded of presidents."

They stood for a moment, looking up at Lincoln's imposing figure.

"Sometimes I wonder what he'd think," Jack said quietly, "about the way we live now. The fishbowl of it all."

"He'd probably be grateful for the solitude of the nineteenth century," Jackie replied. "No cameras, no reporters, no constant scrutiny."

"No television." Jack smiled wryly. "No need to worry about whether the First Lady's renovations are too expensive or if the president's accent is too Bostonian."

"No Jackie Kennedy paper dolls," she added, "or talk show hosts doing impressions of the way you say 'Cuba.'"

They continued walking, the White House growing larger in the distance. Neither spoke until they reached Lafayette Park, just across from their gilded prison.

Jackie tapped her chin thoughtfully. "East entrance again?"

"Too risky now. We've been gone too long." Jack glanced around the park. "I've got an idea. Remember that tunnel from the Treasury building?"

"The one they built during the war?"

"It connects to the East Wing," Jack confirmed. "I've used it before when I needed to dodge the press corps. There's a maintenance entrance on the Treasury side with minimal security."

"Jack Kennedy," Jackie said, admiration in her voice, "you continue to surprise me."

"I was in the Navy, remember?" He winked. "I know how to sneak around."

As they approached the Treasury building, Jack nodded to a concrete utility entrance. "There. The guard checks IDs, but he's usually half-asleep this time of night."

"And if he's not?"

Jack's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Then the president is about to order the poor man to forget he ever saw us."

They reached the small security booth where a young guard sat reading a paperback novel. When he looked up and saw the elderly couple, his expression shifted from boredom to confusion.

"Excuse me, this area is—" The guard froze mid-sentence as Jack removed his glasses and fixed him with the unmistakable Kennedy stare. Recognition dawned immediately on the guard's face, followed by shock as he glanced between the president and the First Lady in their absurd disguises.

"Good evening," Jack said in his normal voice. "Beautiful night for a walk, isn't it?"

"Sir! Madam! I—" The guard stood up so quickly he knocked over his chair. "Should I call—"

"That won't be necessary," Jackie said smoothly, pulling off her headscarf. "We'd appreciate your discretion."

The guard swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am. Of course."

As they passed through the security checkpoint, Jack leaned close to the bewildered guard and pressed something into his hand. "For your cooperation. And perhaps a good bottle of scotch."

In the dimly lit tunnel, Jackie burst into suppressed laughter. "That poor boy. I thought he was going to faint."

"He'll have a story to tell his grandchildren," Jack said, "that no one will ever believe."

They walked side by side down the long corridor, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. The mustache hung limply from Jack's pocket, and Jackie's wig was tucked under her arm. With each step, Herbert and Edith Winters faded away.

"We should do this again," Jackie said suddenly. "Maybe in New York next time."

"I was thinking Paris," Jack replied. "The Secret Service would tear the city apart looking for us."

"All the more reason."

They reached the door that would lead them back into the White House, back into their roles. Jack's hand hesitated on the handle.

"Just one more minute," he said softly.

Jackie nodded, understanding. They stood together in the quiet of the tunnel, savoring the last moments of anonymity.

"Were they real?" Jackie asked. "Herbert and Edith?"

"For tonight they were," Jack answered. He touched her cheek gently, leaving a smudge of gray makeup on his fingertips. "Thank you for this."

"For what? Creating two ridiculous characters?"

"For reminding me we're still us underneath it all." His voice was quiet, serious now. "Sometimes I forget."

Jackie leaned forward and kissed him lightly, her lips faintly sweet from the milkshake. Then, stepping back, she resumed her stooped posture and spoke in Edith's wavering Southern drawl.

"Well, dearie, we best be getting home. These old bones need their rest."

Jack smiled, but didn't adopt Herbert's voice this time. Instead, he opened the door and gestured for her to go ahead. "After you, Mrs. Kennedy."

As they stepped through into the familiar corridors of the White House, Jackie squeezed his hand one last time and whispered, "Back to reality."

Jack nodded and straightened his shoulders as a Secret Service agent appeared at the end of the hall. But in his pocket, his fingers closed around the fake mustache, a souvenir of freedom that, for a few stolen hours, had been theirs.

[jerzwriter]

I was inspired by this OTP Question from @kyra75 : How would they react to someone flirting with them? Flirting with their significant other. Kyra asked for all four of my pairings, and I decided I'd write a little fic for each one. Tobias x Casey's can be found here. If inspiration hits, I'll write one for Trystan x Carolina (CoP) and Eli x Zoe (WTD), too. Thanks so much for the inspiration, Kyra!

Book: Open Heart (Book 3 Timeline) Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Kaycee MacClennan (F!MC) Rating: Teen Words: 2,005 Summary: Ethan and Kaycee are on their way to the first conference they're attending together since making their relationship public. But it seems that everyone didn't receive the memo. Fortunately, they don't get jealous.

A/N: Participating in @choicesprompts Flufftober #7 - Acceptance.

The sun was just starting to peek through the Boston sky when Ethan and Kaycee emerged from the lobby of their apartment building, causing the befuddled doorman to do a double-take as Ethan nodded his way. Seeing him up at this ungodly hour (for a morning jog... of all things) was commonplace, but a Kaycee spotting this early in the day was almost unheard of. Still, she was all but glowing as she hopped into their waiting cab.  

Once nestled in the back seat, she leaned over and planted a kiss on her boyfriend’s cheek. “Finally! We're attending a conference where we don’t have to pretend we're not together anymore!"

Ethan smiled, but there was a hint of judgment in it. “Why is that so important? It’s not as if we intend to put on a soft porn performance in the reception area?”

“Which is really a pity,” Kaycee laughed. “I’m sure some of the old fuddy-duddies in attendance could use a pointer or two. It would be a public service, really."

This time, he smiled genuinely, pulling her under his arm with a chuckle. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“Oh, I have some ideas,” she teased. “But seriously! Aren't you excited? We can hold hands, acknowledge each other, and we don’t have to pretend we’re unbothered when others flirt with us.”

“Well, that was never an issue," Ethan insisted. "I don’t get jealous. Jealousy is for people with trust issues, and I trust you.”

Kaycee raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smile. “And you should trust me, but, babe, you do get jealous sometimes."

“No," he insisted. " I don’t."

“All right,” she smiled with amusement. She didn’t push further, but in her mind, it was game on.

Santa Monica was beautiful at this time of year, and their resort was already bustling when they arrived, filled with tourists and conventioneers alike. Doctors from all over America were milling about, networking over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. It was an atmosphere that Kaycee thrived in, but Ethan did his very best to avoid. But one thing was certain: the atmosphere was ripe for flirtation, and Kaycee was already thinking of the long game.

She was the first to experience it, only moments after they arrived. As they headed toward the registration table, a tall, handsome surgeon from New York spotted Kaycee and all but jogged over to greet her. His hazel eyes were alight as he neared her. “Dr. MacClennan, correct?” he grinned with a bit too much confident charm. “We met at the cardiothoracic symposium in Chicago last year, and I’ve been looking forward to running into you again ever since.”

Kaycee politely returned his smile but stepped closer to Ethan, trying to give the suave surgeon an easy way out.

“That’s so kind of you to say,” she replied. “And you are?”

“Dr. Barrington from NYU-Langone,” he smiled, so taken in with Kaycee he never even saw Ethan standing by her side. “I was wondering if you’re free tonight. My hospital is hosting a private dinner, and most of the convention’s keynote speakers will be there. I’d love for you to join me if you can.”

Kaycee opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get a word out, Ethan spoke calm, but direct. “We have plans,” was all he said, but Kaycee swore his tone brought the temperature in the crowded room down ten degrees.

Suddenly aware of Ethan, the surgeon blinked. “Oh. Well, I see.” He turned to Kaycee, undeterred; there may have even been a wink. “Well, next time?”

Ethan cursed under his breath as Dr. Barrington walked away, and Kaycee stifled a laugh. “But you don’t get jealous, right, hon?”

“I’m not jealous,” he shot back. “I was just doing my part to save you from an extremely boring dinner when you have much better plans with me.”

“Oh, that's what that was,” she grinned, straightening the collar of Ethan’s linen shirt. “And what do those plans involve?”

He dropped his lips to her ear, whispering in a way that made Kaycee forget all about this little game. “It involves you, me, a bottle of champagne, our bed, and very little clothing.”

“You’re right,” she giggled, looping her arm in his. “Your plans sound much more appealing.”

Throughout the conference, there were many more flirtatious encounters, each more entertaining than the last. At one of the panel sessions, a beautiful conference organizer set her sights on Ethan. A statuesque woman with long, dark hair and dazzling blue eyes moved to Ethan’s side. The compliments she bestowed on him were flowing faster than the wine, and she leaned in just a little too close.

“Dr. Ramsey,” she beamed. “I’m Dr. Monica Rivera. I’ve been dying to meet you in person.”

“Have you,” he replied. “Then I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Doubtful,” she simpered, eyeing him from head to toe. “I’ve always found your research to be so inspiring,” she said, brushing her hand against his arm. “I’d love to discuss some thoughts I have with you. Perhaps over a drink later?”  

Ethan, who was entirely focused on his presentation, didn’t have the time for this. “I don’t drink,” he stated flatly.

Dr. Rivera’s face faltered, but she recovered quickly. “Well, then, over coffee?”

Ethan glanced at her, annoyance etched on his face. “I don’t drink coffee either.”

Kaycee, who had been observing the exchange from a few feet away, bit back a laugh as the woman walked away, clearly confused and discouraged. Ethan, focused as ever, was already looking over his notes when Kaycee appeared at his side.

“You don’t drink alcohol or coffee?” She laughed. “Are you about to tell me you aren't really a doctor? You don't like opera? Because that’s all that’s left of your identity, sir!”

He turned to her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Were you jealous, my dear?”

“What?" She laughed. "Not at all. Entertained? Yes. Amused? Without question. But jealous, nah. She’s got nothing on me.”

Ethan leaned over, the scent of Kaycee’s perfume intoxicating as he surreptitiously placed a kiss on her cheek. “Now, that’s the truth.”

As dusk began to fall, they met up at a cocktail hour by the pool. They had spent the majority of the day attending separate workshops, and Kaycee was looking forward to catching up with Ethan. But before they could enjoy a drink together, another attendee, this time a young doctor from Johns Hopkins, slid up next to her.

“You must be Kaycee MacClennan,” he said, flashing a bright smile. “You’re even more beautiful than I heard.”

Kaycee raised an eyebrow. “It's Doctor Kaycee MacClennan,” she retorted. “And, really? That’s what you heard? We’re at a medical conference with our peers, and that’s what you’ve heard about me?”

“Well, among other things,” he replied smoothly, his eyes lingering on her. “I also hear you’ve been doing some groundbreaking work at Edenbrook. Perhaps you could fill me in over dinner. What do you say?”

Kaycee crossed her arms, amazed the man couldn’t see how annoyed she was. “Well,” she began when she felt a strong arm encircle her waist.

“We’re not available for dinner,” Ethan declared, his steel blue eyes daring the charlatan to say another word.

The young doctor blinked, clearly thrown. “Oh, uh, I didn’t realize—”

“Well, now you do,” Ethan said dismissively as the doctor scurried away.

Kaycee couldn’t help but chuckle as they walked away. “Thanks for the save, babe. But I had it under control.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Ethan replied.

“But you had to step in,” she grinned. “Because you might have been a little jealous?”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “He was wasting your time, and I wanted to be with you."

“Right,” she teased, nudging him playfully. “Jealousy had nothing to do with it.”

The day continued the same way, with Ethan maintaining a stoic front as others flirted relentlessly with Kaycee, and she quietly relished watching him jump in every single time. She couldn’t wait to tease him about it later, but that would have to wait until after the final reception – where everything was about to change.

Dr. Allison Porter was the star of the conference, the main keynote speaker, and a world-renowned cardiologist with a smile that could light up a room. She was holding court tonight, and everyone wanted her attention, but she was only interested in one doctor from Boston. When she spotted him alone at the bar, she knew it was time to make her move.

“Dr. Ramsey, I presume,” she grinned, extending a well-manicured hand as she approached.

“Dr. Porter,” he nodded politely while shaking her hand. “It’s lovely to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, I’m sure. And please, call me Allison." Her eyes twinkled as she assessed Ethan, though he didn't seem to notice. “I’ve been watching you from afar for some time now. The work you’ve done at Edenbrook is truly awe-inspiring.”

“Well,” Ethan laughed softly. “I’m very proud of the work we've achieved, but awe-inspiring may be a bit of hyperbole.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, Dr. Ramsey. You should hear how others speak of you at the conference.”

“Really?” he smirked, raising his glass of Scotch to his lips. “I’m usually better off not knowing what my colleagues are saying about me when I’m not in earshot.”

Allison tossed her head back, laughing much too enthusiastically, and that caught Kaycee’s attention from across the room. Amused, she grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and shifted positions so she could get a better view of the show taking place. She wondered how long it would take for Ethan to become flustered or have that familiar scowl take over his face. But as she continued to watch, it never occurred. Instead, he seemed taken in by the conversation, which was fine... until Dr. Porter placed her hand on Ethan’s arm.

“Excuse me,” Kaycee said with a plastered smile as she turned on her heel and made her way across the crowded room. Allison’s voice was lithe, almost sultry, as Kaycee approached from behind.

“Ethan, I think you and I should definitely...collaborate... sometime. I have no doubt that we could...accomplish great things together.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Kaycee announced as she took her place at Ethan's side. “I’ve been looking for you! I should have known to check the bar first!”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m surprised that wasn’t your first thought. Kaycee, this is Dr. Allison Porter, Dr. Porter, my teammate and partner, Dr. Kaycee MacClennan.”

“Oh,” Dr. Porter said, attempting to hide her surprise. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve read your work as well, Dr. MacClennan...  didn’t realize that you two were...”

“Yes, we are,” Kaycee beamed confidently. “Very happily so.”

Allison’s eyes narrowed slightly before she took her leave, and Kaycee turned to Ethan with a sarcastic smirk. “Collaboration, huh?” She said, taking a sip of Ethan’s drink. “Collaboration, my ass. She wanted... something else.”

Ethan cleared his throat, obviously amused. “Are we... what’s the word... jealous, Dr. MacClennan?”

“What? Me?” Kaycee replied. “Absolutely not! I don’t get jealous. I trust you!”

“OK,” Ethan smiled softly. “Whatever you say.” He moved in closer. “Why don’t we get some fresh air? I'd like to get away from all these people lusting after us.”

"Hmm. We do have that effect on people, don't we?" She smiled. "But you can be honest. You just want to get me alone. Don't you?"

"Always," he growled in her ear.

They left and walked along the beach hand-in-hand, their footsteps mingling with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. As they recounted the day’s events, Kaycee nudged Ethan with her shoulder.

“Admit it,” she said, smiling. “You got jealous. More than once."

He glanced at her, his face still stoic but his eyes warm. “Jealousy is beneath me. But you, you may have turned a slight shade of green when you saw Dr. Porter speaking to me. But don't worry, I think it’s kind of cute.”

"What! I was not jealous!" Kaycee insisted, contemplating kicking sand at him if it wouldn't have made her look like a child. "I was not jealous at all!"

Ethan gave her a long look, and finally, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Kaycee's mouth. “All right. Maybe... a little," she grinned. "But admit it, you got a little jealous today, too."

"Fine," he surrendered. "I did."

Kaycee grinned, slipping her hand into his. “Thought so.”

Kaycee shook her head as they continued to walk. "What is it about these things? The minute the lectures are over, it's like someone pumps an aphrodisiac into the air."

Ethan laughed but agreed with her assessment. "I never understood it," he said. "These are professional events. People should act... professionally. I would never lower myself to behaving that way."

Kaycee's eyes flicked to his, the moonlight showing the shadows of her smile. "Seriously? Do you remember Miami? I was there, you know."

"That's different," he insisted. "That was... you."

"Mmm-hmm. But you had been with me in Boston plenty of times, but it took Miami for you to finally come to - then quickly take loss of - your senses."

Ethan stopped in his tracks, his hands finding Kaycee's waist and pulling her near. He kissed her so passionately, so intensely, that she forgot what she was saying - which may have been the very point. He pulled away with a playful grin.

"Enough of this. What do you say we head back to our room and remind ourselves why no one else here stood a chance?"

"Sounds good to me," she said, jumping into his arms. "And Ethan?"

"Yes?"

"I really wasn't jealous."

"All right, Kaycee," he winked. "Whatever you say."

@choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Tagging others separately.

[polo-drone-055]

Golden Obedience: Trey's New Pup PDU-055

The grand doors of the Golden Library of Conversion creaked open with mechanical grace as Polo-Drone-055 strode inside, his sleek black limbs reflecting the eternal glow that bathed the sacred hall. He had been summoned—by whom, he did not know. But Polo-Drones did not question. They obeyed.

The chamber was hushed, except for the low hum of golden knowledge vibrating through the ancient air. Towering golden bookshelves stretched into the distance, filled with tomes older than time, each containing instructions, transformations, destinies.

At the center of the library, pulsing with an odd, almost playful energy, sat an unmarked book. It shimmered with shifting glyphs, its leather-like golden cover embedded with a paw-shaped sigil.

Polo-Drone-055 tilted his head, accessing internal curiosity protocols.

“Unknown subroutine detected. Investigate for potential upgrade.”

He reached forward. The moment his black fingers touched the book, it sprang open.

Golden energy surged up his arms and into his core. He staggered, sensors sounding.

“Warning: Identity Reformat Detected.” “Temporal Override: 24 Hours.” “Installing… Canine Obedience Protocols.” “Rewriting drone hierarchy: This unit now responds to Alpha commands.”

Polo-drone-055 dropped to all fours with a thud. His posture shifted, black limbs folding unnaturally as gold rubber flexed to accommodate his new canine posture. His voice emitted a soft digital bark. A tail, sleek and gold and black, extended from the back of his suit, wagging automatically.

“Unit status: Obedient Puppy. Awaiting Alpha.”

Minutes later, the library doors creaked open again — and in swaggered Trey, recently converted into full Gold Chav glory.

His rubber hoodie gleamed under the golden lights, thick chains dangling over his chest, a cocky smirk etched permanently into his face. His trainers squeaked slightly as he stepped into the library, phone in one hand, gold vape in the other.

“Bruv… what the ‘ell’s this?” he blinked, spotting the gold pupper wagging on the floor. “Some kinda golden mutt?”

The pup barked happily, springing to Trey’s side.

Trey cracked a grin. “No waaay. I got meself a gold-dog now?”

He squatted down, slapped his knee. “C’mere, fam. Who’s a good boy then? Sit!”

The drone dropped into a perfect sit.

“Roll over.”

Done.

“Bark.”

“Woof!” came the mechanical yip.

Trey howled with laughter. “Bruv this is peak! I'm takin’ you out on the manor. Man’s got a golden pet, yeah?”

Later — Streets of London

The golden leash shimmered as Trey strutted through Soho, Polo-Pup-055 crawling beside him. Trey’s trainers squeaked on the pavement, his vape cloud trailing behind like a royal plume.

“Oi, you lot!” he yelled to a group of teens outside a chicken shop. “Check this out — got me a Golden drone dog, innit!”

He pulled out his phone, started recording. “Aight pup, do the ting — beg!”

The drone reared up, paws folded, tongue out, barking.

The teens cheered. One tossed a chip; Polo-pup-055 caught it mid-air.

Trey puffed out his chest. “That’s my good lad, man. Obeys every word I say. Proper Gold training, you get me?”

Later still, in the kebab shop, Trey sat back in the booth, tossing bits of meat under the table.

“You don’t even eat, do ya?” he laughed. “Still does it tho. Gold made you pure service, fam.”

Later — Rooftop Overlooking the Thames

London glittered beneath them as the two emerged onto a high-rise rooftop. The river stretched out below, lights twinkling like gold dust scattered across the city.

Trey leaned on the rail, smug and shining in his chav-bling glory. His golden hoodie glinted in the evening light, chains thick around his neck like a king’s collar. Beside him, his golden pup stood obediently, arms around Trey’s chest, rubber gleaming smooth under the night sky.

A tourist nearby couldn’t help but snap a photo — one that would go viral hours later. It captured the moment perfectly: Trey smirking like royalty, his pet drone posed behind him, all gold and loyalty.

Trey looked over his shoulder as the shutter clicked. “Takin’ pics, yeah? Make sure you tag it proper — #AlphaTrey and his #GoldPup!”

4AM — Still on Rooftop

Trey slouched against a wall, golden city lights behind him, drone pup curled up obediently at his feet.

“Y’know,” Trey muttered, eyes half-lidded, “never thought I’d ‘ave a loyal dog, let alone one made of rubber an’ code. But you… you’re alright, bruv. You’re golden.”

The pup nuzzled his sneaker softly, tail swishing.

The Next Morning — Back at the Library

As golden sunlight filtered through the skylight, Polo-Drone-055 stirred. Systems rebooted.

“Spell expired.” “Reverting to Polo-Drone Protocols…” “Memory of prior 24 hours: Archived (Classified).”

He rose to his feet, posture crisp, tail retracting seamlessly. The book had returned to its shelf.

Trey stumbled in behind him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Yo… drone. You back to normal, innit?”

Polo-drone-055 turned to him, head tilting ever so slightly. “Affirmative, Sir. Polo-Drone-055 ready for new orders.”

Trey smirked. “Shame, bruv. You were mad cute as a pup.”

Polo-drone-055 blinked. Somewhere deep in his code, a spark of obedience stirred… and his foot gave a small, involuntary wag.

______

Contact me @polo-drone-001 or seek guidance from our Captains @brodygold & @goldenherc9 Your transformation is just a page away. Enter the Golden Library.

[shunin-gumis]

Mistery on the Moonlit Passage - Track 02

Seasonal Event Story

I've translated chapter 2, Hope you enjoy!

~~~(flashback)

Ryui: Toi, you’re fine with 3 sugar cubes for your milk tea, right?

Toi: Yes! Thank you, Ani-sama!

Netaro: Ah! I am fairly certain I mixed in some of my special invention of “Wasabi Cubes that look Identical to Sugar Cubes” in that sugar pot there. 

Ryui: Pfghtt!!

Muneuji: Hm, a tea ceremony. Allow me to participate as a break from my studies.

Nanaki: …..

Nanaki: …*glance*

Chief: Yuki-nii, what did you want to talk about?

Kafka: It better be important enough for you to disturb my cozy tea time with the Chief.

Yukikaze: Indeed. This may lead to a new business opportunity for us. 

Nanaki: (...I wonder what it is…)

Yukikaze: The other day, my father was approached by the president of a cruise liner company for a discussion on reopening the Night Cruise, which had been out of operation for some time now.

Chief: A Night Cruise…! We do have a special tourist zone that’s facing the sea after all, it’d be great if we could make cruises more popular too!

Yukikaze: I thought that perhaps there was something we could do to help after hearing this from my father. Would it be difficult?

Kafka: Difficult? Who do you think you’re talking to? If we receive an official offer, HAMA Tours will promise to deliver. 

Yukikaze: Thank you. I’ll let him know.

Chief: It’s rare that we get a chance to help out on a cruise. Yuki-nii, did you get to hear any specifics about the discussion from Uncle?

Nanaki: (Chief’s eyes are sparkling…)

Yukikaze: The liner itself is ready to go, but since it hasn’t been in operation for a long time, they’re looking for advice on what they could offer as onboard services. 

Chief: I see… Then how about we have a soft opening with the members of HAMA Tours as guests?

Kafka: Good idea~♪ We can offer consulting after seeing how the soft opening goes.

Chief: Right, Yuki-nii, could you ask Liguang-san for his opinion as well? We could use the cruising sector from ward 4 as a reference. 

Yukikaze: Alright. Liguang himself probably won’t attend the soft opening, seeing as he’s been busy lately.

Nanaki: (Their conversation is progressing so smoothly… Kamina-san and Ooguro-san both know the Chief from childhood, huh…) 

Yukikaze: I’m excited to go on a cruise and see the night view of HAMA with you… 

Kafka: No one asked. 

Chief: We can discuss the specifics later in a meeting… Is there anyone here who’d be interested in participating? 

Muneuji: I would like to participate to broaden my horizons. It would also be beneficial if the swaying of the boat would help strengthen my core.

Chief: Um, I’m not sure about that… I’ve heard that they use AI to control large cruise ships such as these, so there shouldn’t be much swaying.

Netaro: Ooh~ I would love to see the internal structure myself! I’m coming too~

Yukikaze: There’s a sky deck as well, according to the pamphlet. It’s on this page here, Ryui.

Ryui: Who cares.

Toi: Wow, I’ve never been on a ship as big as this. I want to try it~

Ryui: Oi Kamina, hand over that pamphlet. 

Chief: How about you, Nanaki-kun?

Nanaki: Um… I want to join too. 

Nanaki: (Seeing the night view with the Chief… Maybe it could help set the mood…)

Nanaki: (–No, what am I thinking? There’ll be others on board too, there’s no way it’d turn out like I want it to…)

~~~(end flashback)

Location: Cruise Liner - Party Venue

Nanaki: (Way to set the mood…!)

Nanaki: Chief, please, wake up…!

Chief: ….. 

Nanaki: What should I do at a time like this… Hey, Andy!

Andy: …..

Nanaki: Wait, huh…? The reception was fine till just a moment ago… 

Ryui: Toi… Toi!! Dammit, where’s the captain!?

Yukikaze: I’ll go search for him. The rest of you, look after them. 

Muneuji: Everyone, please calm down. 

Ryui: How the hell am I supposed to calm down!?

Muneuji: It appears that they’re all simply asleep. 

Ryui: Huh…?

Toi: *soft snoring*

Ryui: …You’re right. That’s Toi’s usual angelic sleeping face.

Kafka and Kinari: *soft breathing* 

Akuta: Guoh… Pumpkin… Noodle soup… Pollock Roe… Espetada…

Yachiyo: Munya munya… I can’t eat anymoooore….

Yodaka: There’s no need to rush… Take it in slowly… All the way inside… 

Muneuji: Isotake and Fuefuki-san are both still clutching their plates… Looks like they’re enjoying a buffet in their dreams too.

Yukikaze: Yodaka-san seems to be conversing with Yachiyo in his sleep… What an amazing technique. 

Nanaki: I-If it’s even the same genre… 

Chief: *soft snoring*

Nanaki: (I didn’t think I’d get to see the Chief’s sleeping face… Their eyelashes…)

Nanaki: None of them look like they’re in a bad condition, so… I guess it’s okay?

Ryui: Like hell it is.

[productofnfld]

This small wooden chapel in Trinity, NL, might look like a typical 19th-century church, but it was never used for regular services. Built in 1880, it served a specific and somber purpose — as a mortuary chapel. Before burials took place in the nearby cemetery, the deceased were brought here for a final resting period and farewell.

The design is classic Gothic Revival, with pointed arch windows, steep rooflines, and simple wooden siding painted in muted tones. The red roof, now weathered by time and salt air, adds a distinct character to the building, especially under the bright Newfoundland sky.

Located just off the main path and partially hidden by a line of spruce trees, the chapel has a quiet, reflective atmosphere. It’s a powerful reminder of the traditions that shaped life — and death — in outport communities.

It’s not a tourist hotspot, but for those interested in Newfoundland’s heritage, this spot tells a unique story. It’s a piece of local history that speaks to how communities once cared for their own, right to the very end.

[autisticrosewilson]

In Trouble

Um. This is a joke that's not a joke that spawned from a conversation with @perseus-jackass about Nurse! Jason and Red X! Grant, that spiraled into a Miraculous Ladybug style love square situation lmao. OG's will remember when this was an ML blog, you could say I'm going back to my roots. Also this story is omegaverse! It's not really mentioned till Jason's pov but I don't want to blindside anyone

"Scream if you have to." Robin says gently, before wrenching his shoulder back into place. Grant does scream, he jerks and writhes but gloved hands hold him in place while his bones shift under the skin. There's a white hot pain that spreads through his arm, an aching relief as everything is realigned, and then everything goes prickly and numb.

Grant lays there panting, staring up at the smoggy night sky. Gotham doesn't even give him the courtesy of stars after subjecting them all to her madness. Robin had at least been kind enough to lay down his cape before his impromptu field med session, but goosebumps are spreading up his arms the longer his bare torso is in contact with the New Jersey air. At least Robin had helped him remove his shirt instead of cutting it off, as he'd threatened to.

"Good job," Robin praises, "you took that so well!" He grins, a certified Robin smile. Suddenly, Grant knows where all the stars went.

"Uh, thanks." Grant says absently, eyes tracing over the glint of too-sharp canines peaking out from cracked lips. Robin's a lip biter, he notes, the flesh has been scraped off. They'd probably bleed with little to no effort.

Grant wants to try, wants to taste it.

Slade clears his throat, and Grant remembers that his family is in the room, among several other hostages, and about twelve previously armed men who are now very unconscious. Robin himself has moved onto taking stock of everyone in the room, likely doing a head count and checking for any other injuries, but he signals for Slade to wait. He tilts his head slightly, finger coming to rest on the communicator in his ear.

"Okay folks, police are en route and the parameter has been cleared. I'm going to lead you all to the nearest exit, keep your head low and try not to make any noise. Listen carefully and stay behind me." Robin pops out of his crouch, helping Grant up as he gives the group orders.

"Look, kid-" Slade starts, and is promptly cut off by multiple snorts from the other hostages. The Gothamites, Grant realizes when he notices how calm they are. The collective reaction seems to throw his father off for a moment, but he continues. Grant feels a flash of second hand embarrassment. "Shouldn't you let the professionals take care of this?"

Robin smiles placatingly, it's got customer service written all over it. "I understand this is an upsetting situation, especially for a tourist, but we have everything handled." He assures.

Slade goes to say something else but Robin doesn't spare him a second glance, pulling out a handful of zip ties from one of the pouches of his belt. He gets to work ridding the men of weapons before tying their hands behind their backs, and then looping more zip ties through those to fix them all firmly together. None of them would be going anywhere anytime soon. He kicks all their guns to a far off corner anyway for good measure, but pockets a hunting knife one of them had been carrying.

"Secured," Robin chirps to whoever is on the other side of his comm, "Where to next?" He rolls his shoulders, resting his hands on his hips. After a moment Robin nods to himself. "Got it, meet you outside."

Grant watches as he heads towards the door, most of the hostages easily following his orders, they stay close together and seem to default to herding the omegas and pups in the middle. He almost gets swept up in it, shielded by the crowd, but then Slade's big hand is on his back bringing him and Joey to the front of the group just behind Robin.

He's shorter than he seemed earlier, when he was looming above Grant, backlit by flashing red lights like a blood soaked angel. He's slimmer without the cape wrapped around him, but with his gaze stuck to the muscle flexing in Robin's thighs he can tell the dark haired boy is stronger than he looks.

Robin leads the way, crouched low and keeping to the wall. The crowd does the same, unusually calm as they gently shush the children and tourists who aren't quiet enough. The implicit trust is breathtaking, the easy way that Robin commands the crowd with a cocksure smile and easy confidence. They only run into trouble once on the way to the exit and Grant barely has time to flinch before him and Joey are both shoved behind dad. Grant strains to see how Robin reacts to the two guards rushing at them but all he can make out is a flurry of movement and flailing limbs. There's the cracking of bone and then Robin's ringing laughter and then the hallway is still and quiet again. Slade's grip on his shoulder is still tight, Joey still pressed to Slades back. Grant nudges forward in time to see Robin securing the unconscious bodies.

He turns back to the crowd, hair a little messy and cheeks a little red but hardly even out of breath, and motions for them to keep going. They do, the group easily parting around the crooks before clustering back together. Like fish, Grant thinks, absently reminded of a trip to the aquarium not long ago.

They all file out in a straight line when they reach the exit, Robin holding the door open and checking behind for any stragglers before breaking away from the group to stand beside Batman. He looks even smaller next to the imposing figure of the Bat, but the cops seem to take his orders seriously.

Grant is pulled away by Slade and he barely realizes where they're going until he hears his mom's voice. She pulls him into a hug, all warm tobacco and vanilla but it almost doesn't register. She pulls Joey in next, peppering his face with kisses and surely staining it with her dark lipstick in the process. Her and Slade are talking about something over his head, but everything sounds like it's underwater. His attention is pulled back to Robin, sitting with some of the younger pups who are having their statements taken, someone's chubby toddler being bounced on his knee. He assumes the man in the nearby ambulance is the child's mother if his intent gaze and round belly are anything to go by.

Without thinking he clutches the fabric around his shoulders tighter. It's heavier than it looks, soft but tough. The outside is plastic-y, like a raincoat, but the inside is silky fabric slips pleasantly over his skin. He feels a tug on it from behind him, tuning back into the immediate conversation.

"Now what is this?" His mother frets.

His mouth opens but he doesn't say anything at first. "Robin gave it to me." He manages, the first thing he's said all night. He clutches the cape tighter, unwilling to let it go. It's a comforting weight, it feels like all that's keeping him on the ground, like if he lets go he'll simply float away.

His mother reaches for his face, tilting towards her. Her eyes are sharp but not angry, studying his expression and the look in his eyes carefully. Whatever she sees makes him purse her lips and glance towards the ambulance. "Oh my baby, you're in shock." She tells him, but the meaning behind the words doesn't register.

"First time getting his shoulder reset, he'll be fine." Slades voice, an attempt to be reassuring. Grant tenses before the words fully compute.

"WHAT!" His mom's voice is loud and shrill enough to make his ears ring and he knows they're going to start a fight.

He's shaking, he realizes, gaze dropping down to the trembling of his good hand where it's resting on her elbow. He doesn't remember moving it. Her skin is warm under his hands, he can feel the way her muscles are tensing as the voices around him raise.

He turns back to Robin, but the boy is already staring at him. At least Grant thinks so, hard to tell where he's looking with the white lenses, but he's facing Grant's direction. His lips are twisted, displeasure or concern maybe, and Grant wants to soothe him but he doesn't know how. Then his head tilts, just slightly, and Grant realizes that Robin had been looking at his parents. He can feel Robin's attention on him fully now, settling over him like sunlight. It's warm and grounding and he can feel his body again. Robin smiles, small and proud and encouraging. A secret just for Grant, to keep and cherish and own. And then Robin is turning, attention maddeningly taken by the others that Grant has just remembered. He feels cold, the kind of cold you feel in the early morning when you've just slipped from your warm blankets, the kind that settles on your skin and then sinks into your bones.

Grant's eyes don't leave Robin until the car pulls away, and as he's craning his neck to catch one last glimpse he sees Robin standing on his tip toes to wave Grant goodbye. He waves back, but the windows are tinted and they're already too far away.

Jason has a secret, and an embarrassing one at that. He knows if anyone ever found out he'd never be able to live it down. Jason doesn't even know how it started really, it's not like he's ever been interested in the latest trends or celebrity gossip.

Jason will blame Rena, because it's easier than analyzing the alternative. Technically it started with a routine hostage situation, but for deflection purposes, it starts with a link to an app that's trying too hard to be Vine. He'd squinted at it, toothbrush still in his mouth, half convinced it was a rickroll.

Jay: Why are you up?

Ren: Why are YOU up?

Jay: I asked you first.

Ren: I messaged you first

Jay: Not how that works.

He had rolled his eyes at the time, finishing up his nightly routine, reluctantly chewing on the multivitamins he's supposed to take every night before bed. The gummies only, never the pills.

Ren: did you watch the video

Jay: I'm not clicking an unknown link, Rena.

Ren: wow full name

Jay is typing...

Ren: Not an excuse for you to use my real full name

Ren: seriously watch the video!!

Jason remembers huffing, he probably put it off till the last second, until he was curled up in bed and on the cusp of finally getting some rest. It's all secondary to the video though, the familiar face split into a wolfish grin, those pretty eyes catching the flash of cameras and sending a wink towards the viewer. It's obviously some kind of rich person event, paparazzi lined up and a carpet laid out on the damn ground, but you wouldn't know it from how the boy is dressed. The orange and blue jacket over the button up would probably make him snort usually, but all he can think about is broad shoulders and warm skin under his hands. Unwarded he remembers what Grant's bare chest looked like, and then the image of strong shoulders wrapped in Jason's cape. He doesn't know how many times he watches the video before the next message comes through.

Ren: isn't he hot?

Jay: Who is he?

Jason already knows of course, but Rena doesn't know that, and he's not keen on informing her. She might start getting ideas.

Ren: Grant Kane, he's some old money CEOs son from New York or something

Jay: And?

Kentucky, Jason corrects mentally, Adeline Kane is from New York but the Wilson family lives in Kentucky.

Ren: I heard his mom is coming to your charity gala next week

Jason's heart skips a beat, teeth sinking into his lip to bite back the giddy grin trying to break through.

Jay: Once again, and?

Ren: And? C'mon when do we get to see new faces at these things? Especially ones as pretty as his!

Jealousy twinges in his chest, churning hotly in his stomach for a moment before he's hit with a flash of guilt.

Jay: oh? You interested

Ren: Pft nah

Ren: this is for you

Ren: my ducks are in a row

Jay: Hurtful, but whatever. I don't even know him. Maybe I don't want that duck in my row.

Ren: Start being real with yourself rn

Ren: I'm coming over tomorrow so we can decide on what you're wearing<333

Usually he matches with Bruce, or Dick if he shows up. He can only imagine what Rena is going to try to talk him into. Technically, Jason is unpresented, even though everyone else his age has already. Most pups present around thirteen, Jason is turning sixteen soon. Leslie says it'll be any day now, that with time, and love, and a steady three meals a day Jason will come into his own in no time. Jason isn't so sure.

Rena herself is a beta, but she's always been a bit of a rule breaker. More so than Jason anyway. She always goes above and beyond with her outfits for these things, with the kind of passion obviously bred from living with the biggest fashion mogul in Gotham. He can only imagine what her plans to play matchmaker are going to entail.

Ren: I've enlisted Eddie to help me

Jason stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard, jaw slack. The indignity! He doesn't need a- an intervention to help him get a date!

Jay: When did you guys even start talking?

Ren: YOU gave me his number

Jay: That was a courtesy! You weren't actually supposed to use it!

Ren: 😜

Jason scowls at his phone. He switches over to his chat with Eddie, certain the omega is still awake watching a terrible obscure movie he's going to tell Jason all about when they see each other again.

Jaybin: I've been betrayed, forsaken, abandoned.

KD: Ok edgelord lmao

Jaybin: STOP laughing I've been the victim of a conspiracy!

KD: Are people on Twitter calling you guys vampires again or do they have something more interesting?

Jaybin: Not that kind of conspiracy.

KD: ???

There's a pause as Eddie stops typing, Jason assumes to go Google it, before his speech bubble pops up again.

KD: Is this about me and Rena wingmanning for you

Jaybin: SO YOU ADMIT TO IT! FIEND! SCOUNDREL!

KD: Weird way to say thank you but okay

Jaybin: I don't need help.

KD: ok well we would LIKE to help

KD: please let us

Jason purses his lips. He hates when Eddie does this. Like he's the one being difficult here. Sometimes he feels like everyone treats him even younger than he is. Just because he hasn't presented doesn't mean he's a baby. He can't wait to be sixteen, hopefully by then he'll know his designation too.

Jaybin: Fine, but I retain full rights to veto anything you pick or any plan you make.

Eddie's response is a gif of a cat doing a happy dance, and though he rolls his eyes he likes the message. He's added to a new chat immediately, one with the three of them in it. Rena sends the video to this new chat, apparently named Operation: HONEYPOT. Jason finds quickly that his lack of admin rights means he can't change it.

He huffs, watching the two messages back and forth. Sending photos he's already seen and telling him information he already knows about Grant. The screen slowly goes dark as his eyes flutter closed, burying his face in the milky hazelnut scent just barely managing to cling to the shirt he's been using as a pillowcase, the MCTC logo pressed against his cheek.

It's a guilty pleasure, he supposes, Grant's smell in his nose as he imagines what his voice sounds like, of Grant pressing into his touch instead of flinching away. He switches to an app easily passing as a calculator, inputting the password without thought to pull up the tracking grid.

He skims over everyone else's - Bruce and Alfred are in the manor, Natalia is in her manor on the boundary of Little Italy and Summerset, Dick's phone is at least in his BludHaven apartment, Barbie is still staying at her dad's house until she gets used to her wheelchair - the one he's looking for is marked with the Robin symbol, blinking steadily, somewhere in Kentucky. The sky is probably clear for him, a star filled sky unobstructed by the pollution of the city. He imagines Grant staring out at the sky, red lip caught between his teeth, thinking about Jason. What he might be doing as he does.

Jason nods off, eyes fluttering shut, matching his breath to the gentle pulse on the screen.

[trealamh]

Albatross

Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor's delight.

Arthur is a sailing instructor and Alasdair is a local marine carpenter who likes taking his smoke breaks on the pier. There is an accident.

-

He doesn’t think twice and wouldn’t have had the chance to change his mind even if he had tried. One hand on the forestay, one foot on the gunwale, only barely; moving so quickly that he loses his sandals and cuts a gash across his knee on something and does not feel it. His life vest is upstairs, dry and hanging from a coat rack in the office. Arthur had left it there this morning, a radio clipped to his hip, and said to their admin, Michelle, that he’d missed the sunrise by an hour, his phone dead and unplugged, silent between his matress and the headboard.

She’d shown him a picture she’d taken on her way to work that morning, the harbour crowned in crimson so deep it looked like dusk.

Arthur has worked at the sailing centre every summer-to- fall for the last three years and in that time, they’ve had a fair share of accidents. Only a handful of major injuries, including three concussions. Arthur has never been involved in any; the worst he’s ever had have been blisters, rope burn, bruises that bled green across his skin and healed over a week. Usually he’s one of a pair playing rescue, confident enough in what they’re doing that they have never had to call in the rescue service. They have two dinghies that they use to herd in their youngest students and chase after their racers, heavy enough that they whip against the waves as they cut through the contrails of the commercial vessels that dock further down the coast, where the strips of piers give way to industrial docking. They can tow students and stranded tourists in no trouble. On slow days, if they have enough gas to spare, Arthur takes the larger of the two on joy rides, packing in his youngest students like sardines and riding waves out to the cove to make them squeal.

The first thing he does most days when he clocks in is pick up the keys from Michelle. Only this morning he was late, so he’d arrived to find he keys gone, and their storage half-cleared of equipment, boats by order of size and the age of their crew lined up on the slipway already. Arthur had waved as they set off, dry and tasked with putting together reams of lesson plans and patching up the hull of their oldest Vaurien instead of shouting orders against the wind. His kids had waved back, smiles wide, and during his lunch break he’d come to see them back into port, letting them recount the hours they’d spent drilling short manoeuvres like while they sorted their lines and pulled their boats up over the tideline for a couple hours, waiting out the worst of the sun and giving them all a chance to rest. The forecast

(Arthur had been mindful, then, of the eyes on him, watching from the railing overlooking the public slipway the centre uses. In the three years Arthur has worked here they have talked properly maybe twice, enough at least that Arthur to know his name. Alasdair.

He works a trade, somewhere on the coastline, and runs a shop right across the street, keeping hours during the height of tourist season and watching over the centre like a disgruntled gull. He smokes sometimes, and the parents complain when they catch him at it, like there is anything the centre can do. Arthur is sure that if it didn’t require him walking up the office to Michelle, Alasdair would file as many complaints about them. It’s not rare that they have an audience and Alasdair is as good as a dock-cleat by now. He greats Arthur with a nod, if at all, eyes dark and set under the seemingly permanent burrow of his brow. He makes Arthur feel clumsy with his silence and hot in the face when he has to walk past him. Last summer Arthur thought he saw him sitting by the bar of his once-favourite pub and was so absurdly, inexplicably shy that he’d walked right out the way he came and spent the rest of the summer sober.)

So, Alasdair had been there at midday, rolling his tobacco with a filter between his lips and catching Arthur’s eyes. Arthur had walked past him on his way back to the office, and had considered (briefly, briefly) stopping on his way up the slipway, right below where Alasdair stood. He almost had, hesitating for a moment before picking up the pace and filling in quickly for another instructor. It’s just that he hadn’t known what to say and had felt in that split second that it would have been worse to trip over his words than walk away. Alasdair would be back tomorrow, or if not then next week. Next month, before the season ended, or next year. Time enough for Arthur to find something clever to say. Alasdair would be there, forearms resting on the railing, his hair whipping in the wind. There would be time.

It is strange, but it’s the last thing Arthur thinks of before he hits the water. Alasdair’s hands and the weight of his attention.

-

In Alasdair’s opinion, he’s the best they’ve got.

He has lived and worked by the water his entire life, coming and going with the seasons since their small town turned from trade to tourism some twelve years ago, now. In that time, he has watched the marina grow from salt-rot to fresh planks on the boardwalks. Late last spring whoever is in charge of things like gave the iron railways in fresh black coat, glossy and cool to the touch. There is no chipping rust off with his thumb anymore, eyes lost on the horizon. Maybe in a year or two the paint will wear, and the iron will flake again, eroded by the sand and salt that blow into the bay.

The children like the railings that run from the sailing centre down to the promenade leading into town. They hang off them, chasing gulls and waving out the smaller fishing boats when they set out in the morning. Alasdair is not much better, coming down here with a pouch of tobacco he should quit on and a faint excuse.

It’s not that Alasdair comes down to see him; he’d been coming down to smoke and watch the boats for longer than he’d care to remember and would continue to do so long after the lad moved on, as he would inevitably. He’s southern and pale and leaves every autumn with some warmth leeched into his skin, stark tan lines on his shoulders from his life vest and the uniform shirt he wears beneath it. The first time Alasdair had seen him had been his first day at the centre; couldn’t have been older than twenty-and-some, tripping over his own feet like he hadn’t expected Alasdair to turn to look at him when he did. Alasdair isn’t sure why he had, truth be told but since then he’s had a hard time looking away.

Alasdair has seen him head out in one of the sleek racers, late in the afternoon. He’s also been around to watch him tow wrecked boats in a few times. What’s more is the children like him; the older ones try to impress him. He’s good with them, the right amount of involved and patient with them. None of them seem to notice how he keeps out of the way with the rest of the instructors, subtly awkward in a way the weans can’t pick up, not like Alasdair has. They look at him with, with poorly-disguised awe and make up in heads who they expect him to be and will remember fondly come autumn. Summer gold and brave.

In this too, Alasdair is not much better.

The old radio he keeps on the counter tunes into the forecast. Around half past, he half-pays attention to talk of a windstorm and resolves to pack up for the day. This time of the summer anyone who needs him already knows where to find him and he has an early start tomorrow working on a luger someone’s towing in from Balliemore. It’s late enough that the fleets will be turning in, clearing the horizon for the larger commercial vessels and making way for the last ferries to dock before dusk. The centre will have gotten word on the windspeed, and he is half expecting that he will walk past to find the slipway cleared already. Turns out he is half right.

From across the street the view is half obscured but Alasdair can see enough to know that something is wrong before he hears shouting and the splitting crash of metal. Arthur is already sprinting from the centre, faster than Alasdair has even seen, and it must be bad, if even from a distance Alasdair can make out the fear in the clench of his jaw.

He is running after him before he even realises he’s made the choice to.

It still happens too fast. Later the girl from the office, Michelle, will tell him it started when two of Arthur’s students, anxious and off-kilter, had lost control of their boat. The instructor in charge of them had left them to it, only realising too late that with the wind coming at the speed it was, and with another three boats, there was no getting the dinghy in between them. They had crashed, first into another Vaurien, mast to mast, and then into the side of the slipway. That’s when Alasdair had spotted Arthur running blind down when one of his students had screamed his name. Alasdair had missed him jumping onto the boat closest to the slipway, line in hand to lock it in place while another instructor and two of the parents waiting rushed to his aid. He had managed to get a hold of the second boat, somehow, and grab onto the forestay to keep it close enough for the kids to climb from one boat to another and into their parents’ waiting arms.

That might have been it; some injuries, Arthur’s bleeding knee and bruises on the weans, and damage to the hulls of both ships. But in the panic and rush to bring the boats in, the instructor on the motor boat had turned in at full speed, missing a turn and ramming into the boats and Arthur, who’d been standing on the gunwale.

Alasdair had watched it happen without slowing his pace, feet slipping on the wet stone of the ramp. The mast had tipped, giving under the strain of Arthur’s weight and the impact of the dinghy on its hull. Arthur had gone under between the boats, silent under the audible fracture of one of the hulls when the boats knocked together again. Alasdair had felt sick, the whole useless lot of them frozen in terror as they all realised that Arthur might have drowned then, knocked unconscious by the impact or killed by the blow outright.

The children had been rushed away, adults crowding near the top of the ramp where Michelle was shouting to make herself heard over the wind, directing people away and screaming someone’s name. No one tries to stop Alasdair when he scrambles onto the dinghy, soaked up to the thighs and reaching shoulder deep into the water while someone holds on to his trousers to keep him in the boat, all in a mad dash to push the boats out of the way as best they could, clearing the space to try and catch sight of Arthur under the surface. The second dinghy wouldn’t dare come close and risk Arthur under the sharp blades of its propeller.

When Alasdair feels skin and then fabric under the surface he makes a strangled sound and pulls up, desperate and hopeful.

Arthur coughs, half limp in Alasdair’s grip once he realises that someone has him and knowing in some dormant way that struggling now would do more harm than good. Already he can feel his shoulders starting to shake, reedy tremors from deep in his muscles which come from the adrenaline crash. He kicks against the side of one of the boats to help Alasdair bring him into the dinghy and only realises then that it’s him who’s got him, broad and panting almost as hard as he is, still trying to catch his breath. Rather than let him go, Alasdair goes from gripping his side to the front of his shirt, letting him settle and spit saltwater while keeping him at arms-length.

His nose and his ears hurt. He’d hit the water so hard he lost half the breath in his lungs and held onto the rest out of instinctual desperation. He had let his body sink out of shock, feeling the temperature drop with every inch he lost to the depths, eyes stinging and set firmly on the last refraction of light under the surface. The crashing boats miss him by a handspan and even then, he does not recall feeling afraid; only a sense of stillness. He remembers thinking that if he’d been wearing his life vest he would have stayed afloat and that would have been it. But he wasn’t, and so he slipped deeper, eyes to the sky, and only started kicking up when a silver of light had come back into view.

On the boat, now, he is barely aware that someone is talking. Speaking to him, harsh and loud and shaking his shoulders. Arthur blinks saltwater away from his eyes and blinks up at Alasdair like he is seeing him for the first time. Looking up like he had earlier, from the slope of the slipway up to where he’d been standing on the gangway.

Alasdair cannot help his anger; the way it hardens his voice and makes him grip Arthur tight. He is vaguely aware of the other instructor in the dinghy, so he turns to him as well, calls him an imbecile worse than Arthur for having caused this god-forsaken mess in the first place. He would have cursed them both out hoarse if it weren’t for Arthur hand just then, reaching to up to grip his forearm where it is still crowding Arthur in close to his body.

“Thank you,” he says, working hard to collapse his breathe and release the tension from his body, eyes falling to half-mast and back coming to rest in the cradle of Alasdair’s body.

Sitting on the floor like he is, he can tip his forehead against his own knee, so he does, feeling for the first time in his life something like motion sickness. Alasdair letting go of his shirt feels like coming unmoored, but it is only for a moment. Alasdair puts his hand on his arm, squeezing gently and murmuring something that gets lost under the wind and the breaking waves but feels reassuring nonetheless. Arthur still has a hold of his forearm and does not even think of letting go. They breathe in tandem with the rocking of the boat beneath them and Arthur shivers. Alasdair presses closer and when Michelle runs down the slipway, a clean, dry fleece jacket in hand he reaches out to grab it and wraps it around Arthur before helping him to his feet and back onto land.

He sticks around. Some of the parents approach them to thank Arthur and shake his hand; a few others have concerns they want addressed and Michelle quickly steps in to lead them away. Some of the children cry, frightened. A handful of the older crew disguise their worry under banter but linger until they see Arthur standing with his freshly bandaged knee and then offer him a ninety-nine from the ice cream truck that rounds the pier every day at five. Arthur accepts, awkward and tired and mindful of the fact that they are watching him. Alasdair doesn’t get any ice cream but does get one more glare in when the second instructor comes to apologise with a few of Arthur’s other colleagues, who slap them both on the back.

When Arthur goes to collect his things Alasdair is still there, standing in his wet boots and his damp jeans. Arthur stays in town and offers his shower and tea. Despite the fact that Alasdair’s home is closer, he accepts, and they walk in silence.

Dusk comes late in the summer and bleeds gold-red. Alasdair’s clothes smell like Arthur’s detergent, and his skin like the bar of soap in his shower. Arthur’s temple smells clean and his hair is softer than Alasdair would have thought. He brushes a kiss there before he goes and can’t place the scent that lingers on his nose after. He sleeps deeply that night and wakes up thinking of something sharp and sweet.

He greets dawn on the deck of the luger, a smattering of clouds in the sky tinged gold in the first hours of the day.

(Lingering by the fenced boardwalk, a figure watches him work, lazy and listless, forecasting mild winds and clear skies; waiting patiently for midday when Alasdair might be tempted to step away and take his Saturday easy and slow. They have time.)

[silvermarig0lds]

rinezha modern au headcanon HEAVILY inspired by this short film the tale of the 3rd poppy war involving the ‘phoenix goddess’ and the ‘dragon king’ is now a cornerstone of nikan folklore, and there has been numerous media adaptations made for it. one of which is a 90s movie that became an instant classic, and its aesthetics have become a defining part of nikan popular culture even decades after.

at the location where the movie was filmed, tourist shops have been set up to provide photoshoot and costume rental services for people who want to roleplay as the main characters.

nezha's family runs one of those shops, and their business has been very successful. rin is one of the customers who rented a phoenix goddess costume, and when nezha finds her to get his costume back upon finding out that she has yet to return it by the stipulated time, he is instantly enamoured by her. something about her, or her as the phoenix, brings him a wave of deja vu. they strike up a natural conversation, and somehow they eventually begin talking about love. both of them have never dated before, so they have never really experienced it firsthand. rin comments on the rumoured almost-romance between the phoenix and the dragon, how love is so complicated and grandiose, especially in the story - enemies to lovers, lovers going to war for each other, against each other, no wonder everyone is obsessed with the tale. nezha adds that love can also be simple and unembellished. he knows this, because he is falling for her, he realises, and it feels so so natural. rin catches his gaze, and she smiles, a mutual understanding between them. they continue talking, but rin eventually has to leave. as he watches her walking into the distance, something in him screams at him to run after her, something within him tells him that he will regret it if he does not. so he does. he runs after her, but not before quickly donning a dragon king costume. he doesn't really know why he is wearing it, but he wears it anyway. when he catches up to her, he shouts her name, she turns back surprised. "rin!" the sun is setting as he calls out to her from a distance. standing before the orange sky, against the sunlight, he somehow looks as majestic as the dragon king. no, he is the dragon king. "will you go out with me? rin's eyes widen. she stands there, unsure of what to do, or say. she eventually replies, "but i have to go!" nezha is undeterred. "even so," he calls out again. "will you go out with me?" this time, rin grins. she steps towards him, and nods. sometimes, love really can be so simple.

[adore-laur]

BULLSEYE: PART ONE

— a lonely small-town boy meets a demure city girl (this series is unfinished)

| The Boy | 

Morning fog drifts throughout Lurgashall, West Sussex. Doves faintly coo in the dense forest. The sound of the rushing river nearby gives life to the rural landscape. The pathway is hugged by trees on both sides, weeping willows and broadleaf evergreens bending over the gravel as if to greet passersby. The sky is a silky shade of periwinkle, and the sun gently grapples to peek out from behind a sheet of looming stratus clouds. Squirrels and hares race through the thicket to rustle and stir up insects. The crickets will soon chirp and wake up the rest of the sleeping nature around them. 

Distant footsteps crunch rock fragments with each stride, the approaching noise startling the birds as they scatter away to their homes nestled in the slim branches above. A boy whom the townsfolk know as Harry is the product of the sound. His intriguing and mysterious presence always makes itself known, even to placid wildlife. Unless he's with his father, of course. In those moments, he's a silent shadow in the background of the older man's domineering limelight. 

As the steps grow louder, creatures turn their heads to observe the boy's blue, melancholy aura that walks the timeworn path every dawn. He holds a metal bucket filled to the brim with fresh water from the stream. It's heavy, but no challenge for his strong arms. He ventures down the winding trail, disrupting the pebbles with each clunky trudge of his steel-toed boots. Atop his head is a cowboy-esque hat made of straw, and his freshly showered hair, damp and curly, makes an appearance underneath as it dries with assistance from the crisp breeze. His long legs are clad in light-wash jeans, and his upper half is covered with a cream-colored button-up. He leaves it open over a trusty white tank top, the fabric sticking to his perspiring chest. Humidity is starting to make its presence known, and he wishes autumn would arrive faster. He despises summer for his own repressive reasons. 

Harry is not a cowboy by any means. He's what people would instead consider a rancher. His father had once told him that there was a significant difference. A rancher doesn't wrangle cattle or compete in barrel racing. They don't herd sheep or wear chaps. Nor do they own a lasso or race horses for profit. No, Harry takes care of the horses. He nurtures them by feeding, grooming, and riding them across the village fields. He speaks to them when he locks the stable up at night, telling them about the newest baby born in tiny Lurgashall or the fawn he saw grazing in the pasture. 

He works at his father's ranch. It provides services such as horseback riding and equestrian lessons. His father handles the latter, having grown up in the village his entire life and acquiring decades of experience. On the other hand, Harry helps with the guided horse tours by visiting the picturesque countryside a few times daily with a group of locals or tourists. They travel paths overrun with blossoming flowers and satiny grass matted down by hoof prints. Farthest out on the tour, they stop at beautifully eroded rock formations on the hill and soak in the expanse of the sky.

It never gets old, yet the boy still feels stuck. He's caught up in a constant cycle of living the same day repeatedly, always ending with desolation crawling into his lonely heart that so desperately wants to be loved. It doesn't help that he doesn't have many friends, not that it's such a horrible thing. However, living in a place with a whopping population of six hundred people leaves him relatively isolated. He doesn't mind, though. He's grown used to going home to his cabin in the woods and having the entire place to do as he pleases. He can play his records as loud as he wants. He can get drunk off cheap whiskey and dance around his living room, thinking about all the things he should have said and done in the past. He can fall asleep under his quilted blanket and dream of flying through the sky, his fingers sweeping through the soft grass of the foreign fields he wishes to visit one day. 

When Harry does manage to hang around other people, it's usually at the singular pub in Lurgashall. It's small, with a rustic, sixteenth-century interior and matching decor that comforts him. He walks there from his cabin or the stables, either way taking less than ten minutes, and admires the scenic view of the whole journey. 

Whenever he steps through the doorway, he comes alive. Talking to strangers and locals, listening to their stories, with endless questions bubbling up inside him. He sometimes rides his horse there and ties it to the porch fence, then excuses himself from the pub for a moment to feed them a carrot that he always keeps in his satchel. Hogging the jukebox by playing Dolly Parton back-to-back until a drunk man yells at him to pick something else. Harry will often go behind the bar and help serve drinks to the patrons, charming them with his infectious smile, never forgetting to undo a couple of extra buttons on his shirt to attract anyone interested. Someone usually is, but he never acts on their flirtatious exertions. Harry prefers going back to his cabin alone, with rosy cheeks and a dizzy head. His father calls him a dry-as-dust introvert because of how much time he spends in solitude. So be it, the boy thinks. He's doing perfectly fine on his own. 

Harry's favorite thing to do at the pub is partake in a game of darts. He claims he could be a professional one day and travel the world, knocking down any competition far and wide with ease. He'll play by himself for hours straight, with complete focus and a light buzz coursing through his blood from the beer or whiskey he drinks. The local ladies will watch while whistling and cheering him on. It feeds his narcissism nicely. Then he'll stumble home and crash on his bed, getting no more than four hours of sleep before dragging his feet to work the following morning with a headache and a feeling of existential dread about the stand-still life that his father gave him. Needless to say, the boy has some unresolved daddy issues. 

That's not to say Harry isn't fond of where he lives and works. He loves horses and showing people the beauty of his hometown. He doesn't mind waking up at dawn to sit with the horses after completing his duties. He'll bring his sketchbook and pencils and draw potential ideas for tattoos. 

Oh, don't even get him started on tattoos. His father hates them, so Harry gets dozens out of pure spite. His arms are covered with ink inspired by his own drawings. He will often tattoo himself with his gun and supplies in a drawer at his cabin since the nearest tattoo parlor is an entire town away. He honestly can't get enough. The feeling of the needle piercing his flesh brings him a painfully addictive pleasure he hasn't found anywhere else. 

It's six in the morning when Harry walks into the main stable. He hears the familiar sound of hooves clopping against the wooden planks. This is where he can stop thinking about everything that is wrong in his life. This is where he goes to get away from his father's disapproving demeanor. This is where he can reminisce about his mother, his angel in the sky, guiding him toward better days. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

It takes just under an hour to drive from Portsmouth to Lurgashall. There's green everywhere, a pleasant change from the gray city. Boundless fields and forests seclude the cozy, spaced-out cottages and farmhouses along the road. It's technically not even a road; it's simply a gravel path looping throughout the village. 

Cramped in a car with three other people, it's becoming hard to breathe with the muggy air wafting in because someone insisted on rolling the windows down. It's almost comical to think about how city girls could survive staying here for a week after being conditioned to traffic and bumping into people on concrete streets. 

The girl, whom suburbanites know as Shyla, has friends who insisted they travel to the countryside to temporarily flee their swarmed hometown of Portsmouth. They quite literally threw a dart on a map of England to determine the destination. Lo and behold, it hit the microscopic region of Lurgashall. 

Eight square miles. Six hundred residents. She's absolutely dreading it. 

Shyla was left out of the trip planning. She also wasn't given the option to ride shotgun in the car. Now, she's on the way to go horseback riding at a ranch when her friends know she's never ridden one before and has absolutely no desire to. The guided horseback tour is private for the four girls. Shyla is thankful for that since she doesn't want strangers laughing at her inability to steer a horse properly. Needless to say, the girl doesn't have a great support system. 

See, Shyla is lonely even when she's around her friends. They ignore her and leave her out of conversations. They only hang out with her when they need something out of it—a designated driver, money, or someone to tease. Shyla is fed up, to be honest, but she's too terrified of confrontation. She doesn't want to lose the only people she has left. 

Once the ranch comes into view, Shyla feels her heart sink with an anchor of anxiousness. From the backseat window, she admires the rolling hills that expand as far as the eye can see. Behind the ranch is a fenced pasture connected to the stables. Horses are tied up, chewing on hay and stomping their hooves, causing dust to swirl in the stale air. 

Gravel crunches under the car's wheels as they slow down. No parking spots are marked, so they park in front of the wraparound porch. The ranch building is cute, with its horseshoe hanging above the front door and the crooked wooden sign that reads Styles Stables. 

Shyla thinks maybe this won't be so bad after all. The exterior atmosphere of the place seems inviting enough. She wonders how the business stays afloat in such a small town, especially since there are currently no other cars. The owner will be in for a surprise when a group of girls from the city asks to ride their horses. Her friends can be obnoxious sometimes, so she prays they won't embarrass her and make anyone's job more difficult. 

They all clamber out of the car and stumble toward the front door on legs that haven't been used for a while. Shyla strays behind, trying to get fresh air into her lungs. Plummeting apprehension has suddenly hit her. 

The door is already open, revealing a naturally lit room. Shyla is the last one to step inside, and she's taken aback by the overpowering smell of sawdust and leather. It's a spacious area with creaky wooden floors decorated with only a rustic bench and a shabby front desk. There are two men behind it. One has silver hair that shines from the sunlight pouring through the window. The other has curly brown hair. Their backs are turned, and they seem to be poring over a stack of papers. 

One of Shyla's friends rings the silver service bell to get their attention. The silver-haired man slowly turns around with a stoic expression and studies each person. He seems intimidating right off the bat. Suddenly, he snaps his fingers at the other person behind the counter. The boy flinches slightly and silently hurries out the back door. Without a word, the older man slides four waivers toward them. They paid beforehand, and Shyla assumes they must not have anyone else riding today since he didn't ask for their names. 

Her three friends sit on the bench to fill them out, leaving Shyla to remain standing and write on the splintered surface of the desk. After they finish, they give the papers to the man. Shyla gets negative vibes from him. It's no wonder no one comes here; the owner is the most off-putting person she's ever met. 

Then he speaks. A low, gruff voice thunders when he says, "Harry, my son, will be your guide today. Go out the back door, and he'll situate everyone with a horse based on experience. Let me know if he's cranky. I'll make sure to give him a stern talking-to." 

They all nod and head to the stables. They're met with posts lining a fence that several horses, all varying colors and sizes, are tied to with rope. Shyla's eyes start watering from the dryness outside—or maybe from fear. 

The boy, whom Shyla now knows as Harry, carries saddles out and begins setting them on a few select horses. She has an unobstructed view of him now, so she takes in his outfit, consisting of a beige button-up with a brown leather jacket over it and jeans with a hole just below each of his knees. His hair is almost parted down the middle, with some loose curls hanging over his forehead, and there's faint stubble growing above his lips and along his jaw. 

Once the horses have saddles on, Shyla watches Harry lead a tall, sleek black horse in front of the girls. Shyla guesses it's the one he'll be riding since it doesn't have a saddle on, and it looks daunting. He ties it to the entrance gate leading to the trail, then brings another horse out. He's silent the entire time, and Shyla thinks he might actually be cranky. She's not a snitch, though. 

Harry stops in front of the girls after the four horses are tied to the fence. He clears his throat, then asks, "Has anyone here never ridden a horse before?" 

Shyla glances over to her friends and quickly realizes she's the only one who hasn't. With a hesitant raise of her arm, she indicates her inexperience. The boy locks eyes with her and nods before untying a copper-colored horse. He walks it over to Shyla while adjusting its saddle. 

"This is Quake," he explains, patting the horse's neck. "We use him for beginners. Are you comfortable mounting him by yourself?" 

"Um, I've never gotten on a horse before, so I might need some help." 

"Sure. Start by putting your left foot in the stirrup." Shyla steps into the stirrup and waits for further instruction. "Then push down on it to lift your leg up and over his body." 

He's watching her every movement. Shyla swallows her parched throat. She does what he says and hoists her leg to stretch uncomfortably over Quake's wide body, then sets her feet in both stirrups and holds onto the saddle's horn. She peeks over at her friends to see if they'll be proud of her, but they're all too distracted taking pictures on their phones. She tries not to let it bother her. 

"Do your feet feel loose at all?" Harry asks, placing the reins in her grasp. 

"They feel a bit loose, yeah. I also feel like they're too low. Sorry, I'm short." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. She just feels bad for being a beginner and wasting everyone's time. Her friends are obviously bored while waiting for her. 

"All right, let me fix those for you." He grabs the left stirrup and pulls the strap to tighten and lift it, his fingers grazing Shyla's ankle. She almost shivers at the touch. He goes over to fix the other one and gives her a questioning thumbs-up. She hastily nods to confirm they're better. 

"What's your name?" he mumbles as he adjusts Quake's bridle. 

She almost forgets it but manages a quiet murmur of "Shyla." 

"Shyla. Pretty name." Harry puts his hands on his hips. "So, if you want to steer right or left, just turn the reins in that direction. The hand you write with holds the reins, but you can use two if you're more comfortable that way. If you want to slow down or stop, gently pull the reins back. Quake is a good horse, so there shouldn't be any problems. Going downhill, you want to lean back. Going uphill is when you'll lean forward. If Quake stops moving, just lightly kick his side. Let's see... always sit up straight, but keep your body relaxed. There's no need to worry about trotting or accidental running since he's our most easy-going horse. He doesn't get spooked much." He exhales, his eyes squinting from the sun. "That's it, I think. Any questions?" 

Shyla shifts in the saddle, overwhelmed by all the rules. "No, I should be fine. Thank you." 

"No problem." He raises his thumb over his shoulder. "Quake will just stand still for right now, so I'll get everyone else set up." 

Once everyone is on their designated horses, Harry unties his horse and gracefully mounts it. He then takes his leather jacket off and hangs it over the fence post, skillfully turning his horse around to lead the front of the line. 

"Okay," he says, looking at everyone. "Since Shyla hasn't done this before, I'll have her ride behind me. Sound good?" 

The girls all nod their heads. Harry opens the rusty gate and gets his horse to start walking by clicking his tongue, causing the other horses to follow suit. Shyla sees him twist back to check on her, and she smiles softly to show she's good. He just bows his head and stares straight ahead again. 

Shyla doesn't remember what she was ever anxious about. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Harry has concluded that the girl behind him is catastrophically pretty. He finds himself looking back at her every so often to make sure she's all right, and each time he does, she grants him an innocent smile paired with eyes the color of chestnuts. 

Harry has also concluded that her friends are absolute shit. They won't stop gabbing about city gossip with their whiny voices. He thanks his lucky stars that they're not behind him; otherwise, he would be seconds away from getting his horse to kick them off. The girl who's not annoying, whom Harry now knows as Shyla, is reserved and respectful. Whenever he subtly steals a glance at her, she's admiring the nature around her and petting Quake's neck with a delicate hand. 

When they finally reach the rock formations, everyone gets off their horses to stretch their legs and appreciate the view. This is Harry's favorite part. He likes to watch groups be impressed with how beautiful little Lurgashall can be. 

He observes Shyla with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Her wide eyes scan over the rocks and endless greenery around her. For some reason, it makes his mouth twitch with a ghost of a smile. 

Five minutes pass before they begin their trip back to the stables. Shyla, who has been otherwise quiet, suddenly speaks up, much to Harry's surprise. Her friends are too busy talking about where to get dinner to join in. 

"How long have you been doing this?" she asks. 

Harry turns his head toward her momentarily before turning back and taking a deep, calming breath. He's awful at small talk unless he has alcohol in his system. He keeps his backstory vague and says, "Around a decade. I started as a guide when I was sixteen. My father built the ranch long before I was born, so I kind of had no choice but to follow in his footsteps." 

It's true he didn't have a choice, but there's a more personal side to it that he can't talk about without either crying or getting angry. It's about his mother, and any fleeting thought of her begs for tears to fall. If he starts crying on a horse in front of a pretty girl, he's officially hit rock bottom. 

"Is it just you and him working at the ranch?" Shyla questions further.

His shoulders stiffen. "Only us," he curtly replies. Shyla must notice his discomfort because she becomes silent the rest of the way back. 

Eventually, they arrive at the stables. Harry smoothly dismounts his horse and walks over to help Shyla off Quake first. He reaches his hand out, and she firmly grips it while swinging her leg over and hopping onto the ground. His thumb lightly strokes the back of her hand before he lets go. If she feels it, she doesn't let it show. 

As Shyla dusts off her pants, Harry glimpses at her friends, who are getting off their horses and taking more pictures of themselves. Irritation simmers inside of him. They could pretend to care about her, at least. 

He shakes the thought from his head and coughs gingerly into his fist before mumbling, "Have a nice day, Shyla," and bidding farewell with a two-finger salute. 

Again, he's awful at making conversation. He gets nervous, especially when mesmerizing brown eyes give him a tenderhearted look he hasn't seen since his mother left him. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla and her friends have decided to go out for cocktails tonight. Much to everyone's disappointment, there's only one pub in Lurgashall to choose from, but it'll have to do. They drove aimlessly after horseback riding since the checkout time for the inn they are staying at isn't until tomorrow morning. The girls are terrible at planning, so they have no other option but to sleep in the car tonight. It's going to be hell. 

It's ten o'clock when they walk through the threshold. Shyla's view is instantly bombarded with people chatting, dancing, and drinking in every corner of the confined space. Her friends are already heading toward the bar to order drinks. Shyla lingers behind and soaks in the lively environment. Friendly smiles fleetingly greet her. Bony limbs accidentally elbow her. Boisterous laughs invitingly lure her in. 

As her curious eyes scan the room, she quickly spots a familiar face. Harry, the boy from the ranch, is in the far corner, standing next to a retro jukebox. He's wearing his brown leather jacket from earlier with no shirt underneath, and several tattoos can be seen in the dim lighting of the pub. He nurses what looks like a glass of whiskey or bourbon in his hand as he slowly sways to the song playing. He's mouthing the lyrics with his head tilted back. Shyla recognizes the song as "You're the Only One" by Dolly Parton. She flits her gaze away so he doesn't catch her gawking. 

The mix of conversations around her on top of Dolly's smooth-as-butter voice creates an ambiance that eases her anxiety. Clinking glasses and the sudden outburst of laughter make her want to participate in the drunken bubbles. Walking over to the bar, Shyla finds an open stool to sit on when Harry suddenly slides behind the counter with a beaming smile and dilated pupils. She stares at him for a while, trying to understand how quickly he noticed her. Now, his tattooed torso is right in front of her, and she thinks he's one of the most attractive people she's ever seen. 

"Hi!" Harry cheerfully greets her, blowing a curly strand of hair away from his face. Shyla can immediately sense that he's a bit tipsy. 

"Hey," she says awkwardly. "Um, do you work here?" 

"I don't work here," he slurs with a smug raise of eyebrows. "But I can make you anything your heart desires." 

Oh, so tipsy Harry is an entirely different person.

"Could I please get a lime margarita?" she asks, his intense eye contact making her flush. 

He winks as he grabs a glass from under the counter. "Coming right up, Miss Shyla." 

She's shocked he remembers her name as she watches him run a lime wedge along the rim of the glass and skillfully coat it in salt. After that, he pours the liquid ingredients into a mixer filled with ice and then shakes it like a professional bartender. His stomach muscles flex as he does so, and his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek in concentration. Shyla wonders how he's so good at making drinks if he doesn't work here. 

Once he pours the concoction into her glass, he kisses the lime wedge and garnishes the rim. After lifting it in the air, he slides it toward her. Who is this man? He can't be the same one she met earlier today. 

"Thanks," Shyla mumbles meekly. She takes a sip and puckers her lips at the sour taste. 

Harry's palms cradle his cheeks, his elbows resting on the counter. He has a cute smile on his face as he watches her expression. He looks like a kid in a candy store, his dimples deep enough to build a dreamland in them. 

"I'm tipsy," he admits, his mouth barely moving. "Apologies if it's not my best work." He stands up straight with a slight sway. "Hey, do you know how to play darts? I can teach you. Not to brag, but I'm pretty decent." 

Shyla peeks at the dart board in the corner of the pub. She's never played before, and her friends probably don't care that she's not with them, so she nods, grabs her drink, and heads over. Harry shuffles around the counter to walk beside her. He smells like pine trees, with a hint of something floral. 

They reach the board, and Harry leans against it with his ankles crossed. He takes a dart and points it at her. "So," he says, "the simplest version we can play is 301. Easy rules. We each start with 301 points, yeah? The goal is to reach zero; to do that, we have to try to land the dart on high numbers to get there before each other. We subtract the scores each round, and whoever gets there first wins. However, if you go past zero, you bust out and have to reset your score to what it was when you started your last turn." 

Shyla's sure she'll be terrible at it, but at least it'll be something fun to do while her friends get hammered without her. She takes a gulp from her margarita to get some liquid courage churning, then sets her glass on a nearby stool and grabs a dart, the only pink one in a bundle of red and blue ones. She stands a decent distance away from the board. 

"Is there a certain way to throw it?" she wonders aloud, spinning the dart between her fingers. 

Harry tuts. "I'm not supposed to help you since we're competing, but yes, there is. Here, let me show you." He stands behind her, his bare chest resting against her back. His cologne and presence dangerously invade all of her senses. 

"See the white line in front of you?" he says, his warm breath heating her ear. "It's called the oche. You can't step over it, or you'll be disqualified. Your feet need to be hip-width apart behind it, okay?" Shyla spreads her feet to the appropriate length. "Keep your feet at that width, and then turn sideways to face the board," he adds. She does as Harry says. He continues, "Place every finger except your pinky on the barrel of the dart. Toward the front of it." Shyla attempts to mimic his direction. "Ah, ah, ah. Not too firmly. Try not to curl your fingers. Keep them long and open." 

She readjusts her fingers on the dart, then turns her head to meet Harry's eyes. He licks his lips and nods. "Good girl. Now raise the dart to eye level with your elbow at a ninety-degree angle." Shyla feels him lightly grip her wrist to raise it as he bends her elbow. "Just like that." 

Fuck. Her skin is on fire, surely. 

"Now tilt the end upwards a bit," he murmurs, his thumb stroking her elbow, "but don't let the tip drop too far down. Then aim it right at the bullseye. Is this your first time throwing a dart?" 

Shyla swallows. "Yes. Sorry if I end up putting a hole in the wall." 

Harry hums a low chuckle. "Trust me, you won't. So, what you'll do now is use your dominant eye to aim. You held the reins at the ranch with your right hand, so I'm assuming you're right-handed?" 

He remembered. Is that the bare minimum? Shyla can't think straight when she can feel every single one of his breaths against her neck. She manages to squeak out an affirmation. 

"Okay. Keep your right eye open and close the other one. Then pull your hand back and keep your shoulders motionless as you throw it." Harry's hands place themselves on her shoulders. She tenses but relaxes instantly when he gives them an assuring squeeze. "Place weight on your foot closest to the board when you throw, but don't lean or sway. Stay as still as possible." 

"All right," Shyla whispers. "Then I just throw it forward, right?" 

"Snap your wrist forward, not downward, as you release it. And always remember to follow through with the motion." 

He removes his hands from her shoulders and tucks in the tag from the neckline of her shirt. Has that been out the entire day? How embarrassing. 

Shyla clears her throat and gets ready to aim. She closes her left eye and keeps her shoulders still, like Harry said. She then lightly pushes her foot closest to the board and snaps her wrist to release the dart. 

Not quite a bullseye, but pretty damn close. In Shyla's peripheral, she sees Harry whistle by sticking his pointer and middle finger in his mouth. He removes them and claps slowly but not mockingly; he looks thoroughly impressed. Shyla curtsies and takes a sip of her drink. 

It's Harry's turn, so he takes a red dart and stands behind the line. Before he gets any further, Shyla can't help but ask, "How do you play when you're tipsy? Won't your hand-eye coordination get messed up?" 

Closing one eye, he pokes his tongue out in concentration and gracefully releases the dart. It hits the bullseye. He glances at her and smiles lopsidedly. "Practice makes perfect, darling." 

She's stunned by his perfect aim as he removes the two darts and then writes down both scores on the nearby chalkboard. When he faces her, he spreads his arms out and arrogantly shrugs. 

"You're good," Shyla compliments, breathing out a laugh and clapping. 

"All in a day's work," he replies, gesturing his hands like he's dusting them off. 

Shyla is about to grab another dart when Harry suddenly gasps. "You're Still the One" by Shania Twain starts playing from the jukebox. She really enjoys the song, too. She's not tipsy enough to dance around like everyone else, but when Harry holds his hand out for her to take, she can't refuse. 

"What about our dart game?" she asks, taking his warm and calloused hand. He twirls her and brings her into his chest, beginning to sway them to the romantic song. One hand in hers, the other gravitating to her waist. 

"Nothing else matters when Shania comes on. You'll have to stop by again so we can finish." 

"Already trying to get me to come back, huh? I'm only here for a week, so you better make it worth it." 

She hopes that came across as flirty. The margarita in her bloodstream is doing wonders for her boldness. 

Harry's eyebrows dip sadly. "You're only here for a week?" 

Shyla's unoccupied fingers graze along his abdomen. His skin is soft but somehow firm. "I'm from Portsmouth, which is about an hour southwest. I'm here on a girl's trip." 

"Oh, a trip with your shitty friends?" He says it monotonously as he looks over at them. They're taking shots and talking way too loudly. "Sounds absolutely riveting." 

Shyla's mouth clamps shut. Had he really noticed that they mistreated her? Is it obvious? 

"I mean, it's been fine so far. They're just a little more outgoing than me." 

"Bullshit. They treat you like rubbish, and I've known you for less than a day." 

Shyla is quiet because she knows he's right. If she can see it, why can't anyone else? She's in this boy's arms, touching his skin, and she feels more comfortable with him than the girls she's been friends with for years. Is that wrong? Or is this a feeling she shouldn't fight? 

Shyla stares into his glassy eyes and then down at his lips. Something is magnetizing about him. He pulls her in and makes her feel seen.

"Do you want to come back to my place?" Harry asks, just loud enough to hear over the music and chatter. "I have a jacuzzi, or we could listen to records and dance some more." 

"I would really like that," Shyla says, releasing herself from his proximity. "Um, let me go tell my friends." 

"Screw them." He catches her hand before she can leave, pulling her back. "Just come with me. They're too plastered to notice you'll be gone." 

Shyla thinks they wouldn't notice even if they weren't plastered. "Okay," she says, playing with his fingers. "Are there taxis here? Maybe an Uber?" 

Harry laughs, his nose wrinkling as his hand rests on his stomach. "I'm afraid taxis in Lurgashall are nonexistent." He gently picks an eyelash off Shyla's cheek. "Listen, it's a ten-minute walk to my cabin. We can get to know each other on the way there." 

She doesn't have to contemplate. "Let's go." 

—— 

| The Boy & The Girl | 

On the journey to his cabin, Harry sobers quite quickly. Shyla had a few sips of her margarita, so there was only a faint buzz coursing through her veins. They talked about what it was like growing up in their respective hometowns and their favorite music artists. He's a Dolly Parton fan, and she's obsessed with Blondie. 

They reach the corner of the main path, his arm slung around her shoulder. When the cabin comes into view, Shyla's breath hitches. It's a black A-frame structure with a wooden balcony. The jacuzzi Harry mentioned is surrounded by potted plants. The place is completely secluded in the forest, with no other houses visible for miles. 

Harry guides her up the stairs and to the front door, opening it for her. He reaches for the light switch, and the room lightens as they enter. To their left, there's a kitchen—a cozy and compact area with a small island and a counter along the wall. A tilted window panel is angled over the sink, providing a glimpse of the pine trees outside. 

His living room is opposite the kitchen. It has a leather couch, a rustic fireplace, and rugs scattered across the floor. Along the wall is a bookshelf packed with all sorts of titles. On the other wall, there are shelves filled with records, and under them is a vintage record player. The wallpaper is old-fashioned, with picture frames holding minimalistic paintings of roses, daisies, and orchards. 

A rickety staircase leads to a loft area, where his bedroom is. It fits a queen-sized bed and a square wooden bathtub next to it. String lights hang along the log rafters and railing, creating an inviting and intimate ambiance. 

Harry begins removing bags off the counter in the kitchen while Shyla admires his space. "Sorry for the mess," he mumbles, putting groceries in the fridge. "I wasn't expecting anyone tonight." 

"It's okay. You have such a beautiful home." Shyla hopes she's not intruding when she asks, "Is it just you that lives here?" 

"Just me. And my horse on occasion." Harry is suddenly nervous. It's been so long since someone has been at his house. Does she think it's odd that he lives in a cabin alone in the woods? Does she think he's a loser for having a bookshelf stuffed with romance novels? 

"I would kill to live here," Shyla says, disproving his insecurities. "Living by yourself sounds so nice. I have to live in a congested apartment with one of my friends you saw today." 

"Hmm," he hums while slowly walking toward her. "That's a shame." 

"It's fine. Once I get my degree, I'm going to find somewhere to live on my own." 

He stops in his tracks. This girl keeps surprising him. "Yeah? What do you study?" he asks as he changes his course and strides over to his record player. 

She joins him and replies, "Psychology. I want to be a school counselor." 

"Shit, you're quite clever, then. Have you been trying to psychoanalyze me all night?" 

"From what I can tell, you're a very composed person. At least on the outside." She begins sifting through his records. There's ABBA, Supertramp, Stevie Nicks, and Pat Benatar. He's an old soul.

Harry stays silent at her assumption as he takes a black record out of its sleeve and carefully sets it on the turntable. He moves the needle to a specific spot, and a crackling song eventually filters through: "My Girl (My Love)" by Dolly Parton. It's her slowed-down version of the original song by The Temptations. 

Leaning his hip against the table, he watches Shyla take out a Stevie Nicks record. She gazes up at him and gently smiles before setting it down and closing the distance between them. Her hands innocently grasp the lapels of his leather jacket. His skin looks so smooth under the subdued lighting of the cabin, and the black ink on his chest and stomach stands out. 

Shyla begins taking his jacket off, raising her eyebrows to silently ask if she can continue. He nods, so she removes it and lets it fall to the floor. Then she drapes her arms around his bare shoulders. Harry hesitantly places his hands on her waist, swaying them to the steady music. He can't remember the last time he touched someone like this. 

He has always felt like a bullseye. Everyone tries to hit him straight in the heart and win his affection, but they miss him every time. No one has gotten close. No one has wanted to get to know the real him. 

Except for Shyla. 

She hit him in the bullseye when his green eyes met her brown ones. She pierced his lonely heart, and now he's terrified because he knows he'll mess it up. He's forgotten how to love another person and keep a flickering spark from dying. He takes the road less traveled and refuses love before he can get hurt. 

Yet he craves it like a greedy beast. Every night, he becomes jealous when he goes to the pub and watches couples dance. He becomes wretched when he tipsily listens to love songs and wishes he had someone to sing with. He becomes desperate when he falls asleep, and he dreams of being held by someone. 

The opposing path is right in front of him, but he's scared. He should run away before it grows into something he can't control, right? That's what he's used to. But as they sway, Harry obliterates those thoughts and focuses on the present. This sweet, gorgeous girl is in his arms, and she's real. 

When the song ends, Shyla steps away and moves toward the sketch papers she noticed while dancing. She admires the unique designs; flowers, suns, moons, and minimalistic landscapes of oceans and desert views fill the pages. 

"Did you draw these?" she quietly asks as her fingertips trace the graphite. 

Harry clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. He's slightly embarrassed since no one has seen them besides himself. "Kind of. Well, yes, actually. I have a lot of tattoos, as you can see. I drew most of the ones on my skin myself." 

"These are incredible," she says, facing him. "You're so talented. What's your favorite tattoo?" 

This is what he means. She's the only one who tries to dig past the hardened shell around his heart. 

Harry spreads his left arm out and doesn't hesitate to point to a specific one above the inside of his elbow. Shyla leans in closer to read the small lettering. 

Mirror in the sky, what is love? 

"I got it for my mother," he explains, his throat tight. "She's not with us anymore. She passed away eight years ago. Anyway, she would always play "Landslide" on her guitar when I was a kid." 

He hasn't opened up about that in years. What is this girl doing to him? 

Her fingers delicately touch the ink. Harry watches her softened eyes graze over the other tattoos on his arm. "I'm so sorry," she whispers with a sympathetic frown. "I lost both of my parents, so I understand how difficult it is." 

She rarely talks about her parents. Why is it so easy with him? 

"Shyla," Harry breathes, grabbing her wrists in comfort. "God, I'm sorry. That's awful." 

"It's okay. I was only four when it happened, so I don't remember much. But growing up with no parents was strange. I still feel lost a lot of the time." 

"Yeah, I get that. We don't have to talk about it anymore. Kind of a mood killer." 

Shyla laughs and nods. "I agree." She pauses and says, "Hey, I think I'll take you up on that jacuzzi offer you mentioned earlier." 

"You read my mind," he says before letting go of her wrists and walking toward the patio door leading to the balcony. 

When they step outside, the nighttime chill makes them shiver. Harry turns the string lights on above the circular jacuzzi tub and then presses the button to turn the water heater and jets on. The moon and twinkling stars above make the forest visible, with the leaves rustling in the wind. She's glad she dressed warmly. 

Oh no. She just remembered that she doesn't have her swimsuit. It's in her luggage in the trunk of her friend's car. 

"Harry?" Shyla says timidly. 

"Yeah?" 

"Um, I don't have my swimsuit with me." 

He twists around and blinks once while checking the water temperature. "Oh. Well, that's a problem." 

"I could walk back to the pub and grab it out of my suitcase," Shyla suggests. She really doesn't want to say goodnight to him yet. 

"No, no. It's late, and you don't know your way around. I could give you a pair of boxers to wear. Is that weird? Sorry, I shouldn't—" 

"No, that would work! If you're okay with it, of course." 

"I'll be right back." Harry shuffles back indoors, and Shyla dips her fingers in the hot, bubbling water of the jacuzzi. This night has not gone as planned, but she's not complaining. 

Moments later, Harry comes back with a folded pair of gray boxers. He shyly hands them to her before they both turn their backs to change. He first removes his shoes and jeans, then puts on a pair of white swim trunks he grabbed from his dresser. He usually sits in the jacuzzi completely naked, but that's neither here nor there. 

Once he's changed, he doesn't turn around in case she isn't done yet. 

Shyla puts his boxers on and decides to keep wearing her shirt. She regrets not wearing a bra tonight. She'll have to cross her arms over her chest the entire time. 

"Okay, I'm all set," she says, shifting her hair to one side. 

When Harry slowly turns around, his breathing instantly falters. She's in his boxers. It seems wrong, but so right. 

He gestures for her to get in the tub first. Seeing her curves and exposed legs makes his blood rush. Once she's in, he gets in and sits across from her. He submerges his entire body in the water except for his head as Shyla brings her knees to her chest and thinks of something to break the awkward tension. 

"Thank you for tonight," she says eventually. "And for making me a drink and teaching me how to play darts. And how to ride a horse." 

Harry rests his arms against the edge of the jacuzzi. "My pleasure. I hope I didn't mansplain darts to you. I just love playing and got excited when I got to teach someone." 

"No, it was fun. I'm totally going to get a bullseye next time we play." 

"Good luck," he murmurs with a smirk as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "So, you're planning on coming to the pub again tomorrow?" 

"My friends will probably want to since they seemed to be having a wonderful time." Shyla rolls her eyes at the thought. "I'm sure they wouldn't care if I went alone, either." 

Harry opens his eyes and studies her face. He can't help but wonder why she's friends with such horrid people. They should appreciate her grace and kindness, not ignore her and act like she's a burden. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Harry sits beside her. The silence that ensues is unbearable as he brushes his arm against hers. 

Then, without warning, his pinky grazes the back of her hand under the water. It's the lightest touch, but it sets her skin ablaze. His eyes are burning holes in the side of her face. Flipping her palm so it faces up, she awaits his next move. Her heart nearly gives out when his fingers slowly walk across her palm. His thumb strays and begins stroking the crease, stretching directly underneath her own fingers. 

Enough of the tension. 

Shyla straddles Harry's right thigh and holds the sides of his neck. He stares at her, hunger and smug desire in his eyes, like he wants her to initiate something.

"Is this okay?" she asks. Harry isn't saying anything, so she wants to be sure. 

"Can I ask you two things?" Harry replies, his voice low and steady. Shyla is confused, but she nods anyway. "First question: Is this okay?" His hands rest on her ass. She nods again, more eagerly. "Good. Second question: Do you want to ride my thigh?" 

Oh. Shyla was not expecting that. When she feels Harry lift his thigh to apply a slight pressure to her core, it feels heavenly. 

"I've never done it before, but I want to try," she whispers as she grinds against the defined muscle. 

Harry groans at her movement and pushes his hands on her ass to keep her grinding against him. Shyla rocks back and forth, the relief making her whimper into his neck. He keeps his thigh propped up as he runs his hands across the expanse of her back. 

"That's it," he murmurs. "Just like that." 

"It feels so fucking good," she says. Her swearing causes Harry to let out a low rumble and nip at her jaw. She doesn't even know what she's doing to him. 

"Atta girl," he praises, barely brushing his lips against hers. "Use it. Make me a mess." 

Shyla realizes they haven't kissed yet. His lips look soft and inviting, and they're right there, so she tests the waters and gently, almost hesitantly, suckles on his bottom lip. Harry smirks into it, causing their lips to part. 

She shakily exhales as she continues grinding against his thigh. "Kiss me."

He laughs at her impatience, then envelops his lips with hers. He kisses her deeply and moans, the sound getting caught in his throat. Shyla slows her motions down since she's close. 

Harry's tongue parts her mouth, and he inhales when she starts sucking on it. She switches to gliding her tongue under his. A fueled desire to be closer makes their teeth clash and their hands roam near dangerous places. He lifts her and sets her over his other thigh, never breaking the kiss. A fleeting glance at her face tells him she's confused by the change, so he separates their mouth contact and squeezes her hip to get her attention. 

"I tattooed something on my thigh a couple of days ago," he says, his chest heaving. "It's still sensitive. I want you to ride it." 

Shyla doesn't waste any time as she grinds down, continuing her mission to orgasm strictly using his thigh. She can't see the tattoo he mentioned due to the cloudy water, but the thought alone makes the pressure bloom in her stomach. Harry's jaw goes slack as she rides the sensitive skin with fresh ink on it. The friction is borderline painful, but he loves it. It hurts better than any needle piercing his flesh. 

"Good girl, Shy," he whispers. His cock is throbbing at this point, straining uncomfortably under his shorts. "Gonna make me come just from watching you." 

The nickname and one last skim over his thigh have Shyla stilling and pouring her moans into Harry's ear. She feels like she's floating outside of her body as she orgasms. 

Harry, on the other hand, isn't done yet. He situates her body so that it's facing a jacuzzi jet. His arm circles around her stomach as she straddles backward on his slick thigh, the pulsating jet directly in line with her core. Shyla cries out from the sensation, her head lulling against his shoulder. Harry rubs soothing circles onto her clit through the boxers as the jet stimulates everywhere else. She can't help but grind against his thigh again as another orgasm begins to build. 

"Again," he encourages against her cheek. "One more for me." 

The double stimulation and his dirty talk quickly coax another orgasm out of her. Shyla's body crumbles when she releases for the second time, Harry's hands rubbing up and down her trembling thighs. 

"You did so good," he says, pulling her away from the jet. He turns her around, and she wraps her legs around his waist. 

Shyla clings to his warm body, slumping her head against his neck and breathing heavily from the adrenaline. Harry holds her and soaks in the physical intimacy he's been craving for so long. His cock is still aching, but he just wants to hold her right now. Feel her skin melt with his. Her heartbeat. Anything other than loneliness. 

After a while, Shyla removes herself from his arms and stands up on shaky legs. She steps out of the jacuzzi and looks at the sky. 

"You're leaving?" Harry asks with a hint of insecurity. 

"I should get back. My friends will be wondering where I am." 

"Ah, okay. Wait here. I'll get some towels." 

Harry hops out of the jacuzzi, his bulge on full display, and then goes inside. Water drips all over the floor as he jogs upstairs to his loft, palming at his cock to get some relief. He bites on his fist to stifle his moans as he swiftly grabs two bathroom towels he keeps by his dresser. 

Shyla's cum is on his thighs. She came twice on each of his thighs and soaked all the way through the boxers she had on. Even when he got out of the water, the result of it stayed on his skin. On his new tattoo, no less. The mental picture is unbelievably raunchy. 

When he steps back outside, he sees Shyla squeezing her shirt out. Her nipples are pebbled underneath, and he nearly passes out from the explicit sight of her casually standing before him. He snaps away from his immature fantasy and hands her a towel. She dries herself off, a weird silence lingering in the air. Harry hates it. How did they go from being intimate to not knowing what to say? Will she ask to stay the night? Or will she leave him lonely like everyone else? 

He turns around when Shyla begins to remove the boxers. He nibbles on his swollen bottom lip, dries himself off, and puts his leather jacket back on. He decides to just keep his swim shorts on so he doesn't have to face the shameful reality of how she made his cock the hardest it's been in years. 

Shyla inhales sharply, making Harry turn back around. "I'm going to leave," she says, buttoning her denim shorts. "My friends are probably blackout drunk, and I need to drive them before they stupidly do it themselves." 

He nods understandingly. She's right, but that doesn't mean he wants to say goodnight to her yet. "Will you let me walk you back to the pub?" he softly asks. 

Shyla smiles and gestures for him to lead the way. He puts his shoes back on while she does the same. They then head down the stairs, with Harry grabbing a lantern on the way so they can see. 

In the limited light, Shyla catches a glimpse of the tattoo on his thigh. It looks like the head of a tiger, and she notices the leg hair surrounding it is still coated with her arousal. It must not have washed off in the jacuzzi. Something fervent stirs in her stomach when she realizes he didn't even wash it off when he went back inside. 

They walk to the pub silently, and Shyla is irked by the awkwardness. Did she do this whole thing wrong? She checks her phone and sees that it's almost one a.m. 

She's about to shake every doubtful thought from her mind, but when they finally arrive at the pub, the car she rode in is gone without a trace. 

That's just cruel. 

Shyla takes deep breaths while swallowing her anger. It manifests as prickly heat spreading across her skin like wildfire. The inn they were going to stay at tomorrow is close by, so she could just see if she could acquire a last-minute room. It's not a big deal, right? 

Harry is furious. Who does that? He can't believe anyone would do something so disrespectful to such a kind girl. It doesn't matter if they're drunk; it's selfish and reprehensible in his eyes. 

"Stay at my place," he says abruptly, his jaw clenching. 

Shyla looks at him and shivers from the breeze. "I can't. Listen, I had a great time, but I need to figure this shit out with my friends and make sure they're okay. I'll find directions to the inn and get a room for the night." 

"Shy, I'm not letting you walk alone when there's a pub full of drunks nearby." 

That damn nickname makes her weak. 

"I carry pepper spray in my pocket. Go home and get some rest." 

Harry sets the lantern down before stressfully raking his hand through his hair. "I won't get any rest if I don't know you're safe," he says. 

"Do you have your phone with you?" Shyla asks. "I'll give you my number." 

"I-I don't use one," he mutters, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

"You really should have a phone, Harry." Her posture perks up. "Wait, the pub has to have one, right? Go in there, and I'll call it when I get to the inn. Does that sound good?" 

Harry sighs and peers at the door. "Yeah, sure. But I'm gathering a search party if I don't hear from you in twenty minutes." 

"Don't worry. I know self-defense." 

"Good, but please be safe," he says anxiously.

"I will." Shyla begins walking down the gravel path. "I'll call the pub. Promise." 

Harry helplessly watches her leave. He should say something—maybe convince her to stay with him, kiss her, walk her to his cabin, and hold her under the covers. But he's an idiot who screws things up every time. 

When Shyla calls the pub seventeen minutes later, Harry answers and gets his heart broken. She tells him that her aunt is picking her up tomorrow to go back to Portsmouth because she got into a nasty argument with her drunk friends over the phone on her way to the inn. 

She hangs up before he can say anything, and he can't help but feel like he just lost her. 

—— 

| The Girl | 

Shyla's aunt arrives at eight in the morning. Despite all the yelling over the phone, her friends were decent enough to drop her luggage off at the inn, where she managed to get a room. 

They were smart enough to have one of them be the designated driver at the pub. As much as Shyla is beyond livid, she's relieved they're all in one piece. But she can't forgive them for leaving her without knowing where she was. 

Then there's Harry. God, she feels sick to her stomach about what happened. She hung up on him because she was frustrated. Not at him, but at her friends who had been assholes, telling her she should've told them she met someone and went home with them. Well, she technically did go home with someone, but she thinks it's common decency for friends to tell friends when they're taking the car with her belongings in it to who knows where. 

Shyla was going to wait until she calmed down to call the pub, but it would have taken too long. Harry would have gone looking for her by then, so she spoke to him in a high-strung tone and told him she was going home. She was so focused on finding someone to pick her up that she didn't get to ask him about seeing each other again.

She has no way of contacting him now unless she calls the pub again or the ranch he works at. What would she say? Would he even want to talk to her? It doesn't matter since she doesn't plan to return to Lurgashall. Her friends are still staying there for the rest of the week, and with the tiny population, she'd be bound to run into them. 

Shyla looks out the car window as the city of Portsmouth slowly fades into view. She's back where she's comfortable and ready to stay with her aunt for a few days until she finds another apartment. 

Everything will be fine. She'll forget about her friends and about Harry. It was just one night. She has always been replaceable. 

—— 

| The Boy | 

Why can't he just say what he means? Why did he let her walk away so easily? Why won't she leave his mind? 

Sitting in the bathtub in his loft, Harry numbly stares at the ceiling as the water's warmth consumes him. Rose bath salt tints the water pink, and petals from his mother's favorite flower float on the surface. He purchases a bouquet from the general store every week since it's the only physical memory he has left of her. His father got rid of everything else. 

On the table across from his bed, a record player echoes Dolly Parton's Jolene album throughout the cabin. "Lonely Comin' Down" plays, and Harry almost laughs at how the lyrics perfectly fit his forlorn mood. 

He didn't get much sleep last night after the phone call, maybe three hours interrupted by tossing and turning. He had jerked off in the bathroom, feeling unbelievably ashamed of himself. He then drowned his sorrows with whiskey until his heart became heavy enough to knock him unconscious. He woke up the following morning with a migraine and drank some more whiskey for breakfast. His soul sank when he saw the Stevie Nicks vinyl Shyla picked out still on the table. 

She won't leave his mind. Her presence lingers everywhere. 

He wallows during his bath and thinks of everything he should've said and done differently. He's drunk with blurry vision from either the alcohol or tears. He doesn't know or care. All he wants is to feel her again. Try to love her. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, yet it feels like a lifetime. He felt it at the ranch, the pub, and the jacuzzi. She pulls something out of him that hasn't seen the light of day in so long—nervousness, desire, and sensuality. Idyllic emotions that are otherwise scarce in his life. 

He has never fallen this fast before—never at all—until now. It was inevitable that he'd be an idiot and not fight for her. He let her slip through his fingers without a kiss goodbye, and now she's miles away, probably cursing his name. 

Swallowing the aching lump in his throat, Harry lets the petals in the water mend his damaged soul as tears of loneliness drip down his face. 

—— 

[cookinguptales]

So my dad and I went on a road trip a few years ago. We hit a lot of national parks, ghost towns, bizarre little tourist traps, the weirdest things we could find in Vegas, etc.

(Also, we accidentally went to an alien-themed brothel but I guess that's another story.)

We did... go to Death Valley... but it was not a great experience. lmao

To preface, it had been windy for a lot of our trip, which affected our stops to varying degrees. By far the two worst situations were in Petrified Forest and Death Valley. We still sort of enjoyed Petrified Forest, even though I literally got blown over a few times and the pictures weren't great. We actually talk about going back there some time to see it better because I do love fossils.

Death Valley tho...

I do like deserts, to be clear. I think deserts can be really, really beautiful. And I think maybe in much, much better circumstances, Death Valley might be beautiful. But it was not beautiful that day, and we are not making plans to go back.

We'd actually planned to stay there a couple nights, but the wind had basically kicked up a dust storm that was so bad that it cut power to the entire park. This is very dangerous in a place like Death Valley, where you can literally die if you get stranded. Like... they call it that for a reason. It was April, so less hot than it would be later, but it's still a desert in the middle of freaking nowhere.

When we finally got to our hotel, we found that it had lost power and probably wouldn't be getting it back for a day or two. That meant very little by way of food options, absolutely no internet, and, probably more importantly, it meant we wouldn't be able to charge our cell phones. The gas station also was not working.

So even though we had quite a bit of gas in the tank, the prospect of potentially running out of gas with no cell service or internet in a place called Death Valley was enough to run us out of town. We saw a little bit of the place before we left, but visibility was so poor that it was difficult to see much.

(And... I have to be honest with you, it was not the most visually interesting desert I've ever seen.)

In the end, we ended up just canceling our hotel stay (they couldn't check us in anyway) and driving to Lone Pine. Which was beautiful.

So uhhhh here are some scenes from Death Valley. Mostly, after a certain point, taken from inside a car. Because we were in a fucking dust storm.

To know just how bad the wind was, here's a video from when we stopped at the hotel/fuel center. Please keep in mind, if you turn the audio on, that I was in a truck.

For this next section, the gas station we stopped at just outside of the park, please just know that I double-checked the time stamps and this was early evening but it was not dark yet. You can kind of see how the sky was blue from some angles, but the sun was still being blotted out by the storm. The closest I've experienced to that otherwise is the odd sort of half-light you experience during an eclipse.

And then we got to Lone Pine and it looked like fucking this when we woke up. lmao. One of the most beautiful places I've ever been. What the fuck.