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dilatorywriting · 3 months ago

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Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails. All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that.

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before. Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily.

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

@marvelous-maxi, @ilikefanfics4, @jackalope08, @crocwork-clockodile, @cosmicobubisi, @buttplugs-stuff, @pomefleur, @decemebercircus, @ailynyan, @genzombie, @meliade-ot, @sunlightocean, @theofficialantitherapist, @hermiona18, @sailorenthusiast, @fantasy-dating-sim-trash, @thefiasco-onyourblock, @insideous-beez, @its-clockwork-princess

@novaloptr, @imlost-sendhelp, @matcha-berry @preciosayorgullosa @whoretaglia, @kookygirlwholikescookiesandcoke, @nanauedorian, @trixeraptops, @voxnipop, @starkling25, @thedum1, @horcrux-alchemist, @sleepykitty21, @apathicace, @instantregret101, @nekanecorvus, @looney-mori, @re-ducing, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @naughtybodypillow, @rendy-a, @carmen-404, @candy284, @thealiennamedterry, @their-name-is-fake, @huetolog, @glacticrose, @seraphinariddle, @rabioa, @sn00zl4x, @dreasimping, @jeidoreech, @ai-dev, @galaxyshine24-7, @fatally-incorrect, @juulranch, @camrastuff, @nocteetdie, @stargaryengirl, @warmsmilesandhugs, @01paige01

#twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Vil Schoenheit x Reader #Vil x Reader #vil schoenheit #Monster Mayhem #My Writing #vil shoenheit #Siren!Vil #Mermaid!Vil #Fantasy AU #Monster Mayhem Vil Part 5

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queenie-ofthe-void · 5 months ago

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Hear Me Out, Keep Me Guessing

Steddie || wc: 2.5k || rating: T || tags: alternate first meeting, pre-S4, Eddie is a rollercoaster of emotions, Steve is over it, fluff and flirting || ao3

Inspired by my own post

☆☆☆

“Okay, Munson. What’s your fucking problem?”

Eddie hops on top of the wooden picnic bench to gain a slight height advantage over whoever’s decided to fuck up his day, when he spots none other than Steve Harrington headed towards him through the trees, fighting his way through brush and bramble.

“Well, well, well. How the mighty have fallen. Crawling through the dirt just to visit his former court jester.” Eddie smirks, hears Harrington mutter something under his breath that sounds a lot like jesus christ before he finally makes his way over.

Harrington’s looking up at him, squinting into the sunlight, and Eddie’s slightly repelled by his sudden desire to run a hand through King Steve’s hair. It shines in the sunlight, matching the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

Eddie takes a step to the left, casting him back into shadow again where he’s just his normal, asshole self and not the angelic image Eddie conjured from his horny, queer little brain.

He can’t remember if it’s his turn to talk or Harrington’s, but it seems the King’s lost the plot as well. Completely zoned out, he’s just standing there staring up at Eddie, mouth dropped open and eyes wide in a way Eddie will certainly not be thinking about later tonight. Absolutely not.

Eddie coughs. Loud and obnoxious enough to break whatever trance they’ve found themselves in. Harrington awkwardly chuckles, running a hand through his hair. An image of Steve leaning against lockers, towering over a girl with heat in his eyes and a hand in his hair floods Eddie’s brain before he can shake it out like an Etch A Sketch. What the fuck is even happening to him?

“Yeah, Munson. Like, what the hell is your problem?” It lacks punch and drama the second time around, but it gets them back on track. Harrington props his hands on his hips, his lip juts out into a tiny pout, and Eddie wonders if he thinks standing like a disappointed mom is effective in getting what he wants, or if being adorable just comes naturally to the former King.

“You’ll have to be more specific, my liege.” He watches as Harrington brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration and he makes a mental note to develop a better, more refined taste in men.

“The kids, man. Why aren’t you friends with the kids?”

“Kids? What the hell– what kids?” He hops down from the table. If this is going to be a legitimate conversation and not a shake down, he figures it’ll be easier on even footing. Harrington takes the seat opposite him, his shoe accidentally knocking Eddie’s ankle.

Steve doesn’t move his foot. Neither does Eddie.

“My kids, man. They said they tried talking to you all week and you wouldn’t even hear them out!”

Eddie watches his fingers tap absently on the table top. He’s biting the inside of his cheek, and it’s shocking that Eddie is just now realizing that Steve’s actually anxious. Normally Eddie considers himself better at reading people, when he’s not distracted with puffy, pink lips and a confusing line of conversation.

He looks down, rewinding the past week. He’d made it through his first week of his third senior year without anyone getting in his face. Maybe he’s old enough now that even asshole seniors like Jason Carver have decided to leave him alone. Thankfully it seems the offer also extends to Gareth, Kenny, and Jeff, who’ve only reported minor name calling and a light shove.

That’s where he spots them, stops the tape midway through lunch on Wednesday when a group of three freshmen approached the table. He’d spotted the curly-haired kid earlier in the week, bravely decked out in a Weird Al shirt and a hat from some science camp. The kid was enough of a freak to earn free admission to Hellfire, but the other two required a bit more thought.

Eddie clocked Little Wheeler through the station wagon window Monday morning when he’d cut Nancy off in the parking lot. The kid seemed alright, but with a priss like Nancy as a sister, it was a tough call. The other kid seemed a bit too sporty, and a little too interested in basketball tryouts.

When the three amigos started talking DnD, the guys invited them with open arms. It was a relatively peaceful lunch. Exciting even, at the prospect of adding new members to their campaign. They’d mentioned trying to convince a few of their friends to play. A girl named Max Mayfield, who turns out lives a few trailers down from Eddie.

But when the curly-haired kid mentioned Steve Harrington, the Hellfire boys clammed up tighter than nun’s ass. His named dripped from their mouths like it was covered in gold, the hero-worship rotting them from the inside and Eddie wouldn’t stand for it. No true freaks would stand to be friends with an asshole bully like King Steve.

Of course the freshies tried to argue, saying he’d changed. It didn’t matter to the Hellfire boys. Clearly the freshmen were corrupted, and they couldn’t be trusted. So he’d sent them on their way, and the three of them posted up in the corner of the lunchroom every day since. Far away from jocks and freaks alike.

Now, Eddie looks across the table and sees false bravado slathered over the anxiety etched into the former King’s face. He doesn’t know how three freshmen freaks found themselves under the wing of Steve Harrington, but it seems the feeling is mutual. Steve cares about these kids.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, “I remember them. What’s it to you, Harrington? Aren’t they a little too old for a babysitter.” The joke falls flat when Steve sighs, heavy and exhausted, like somehow a rich boy from the Loch carries the entire world on his shoulders.

But he plays it off, trying to meet Eddie’s quip halfway. “Babysitters get paid, dude. I do it from the goodness of my heart or some shit.” Steve leans back, scrubs his hands over his face like he can erase whatever’s behind his eyes.

Eddie stares at him, hoping to catch a glimpse. The only consolation is Steve puts his other foot on the opposite side of Eddie’s, his ankle now fully cradled between Steve’s.

“They’re nerds, man.” Harrington states it like it’s a fact and not an insult he’s hurled at Eddie a hundred times over the years. “They’re freaks, you know– like you.”

Moment officially broken, Eddie scoffs, pushing away from the table wondering why he ever entertained talking with Harrington in the first place. As he grabs his lunchbox off the forest floor, he hears shuffling behind him.

“Wait,” Harrington shouts. “Just, fuck man, can you just let me finish?”

“Finish what, exactly?” Eddie snaps, whirling around to crowd into his space. He wears big and scary like how the King wears his crown and how assassins wield their blades. With enough power and confidence to scare off any enemy. “Finish listening to you shit on the little guy? Listen to you harp on the freaks of the world, or how you corrupted your little pions?”

“What?” Steve asks, lips pursed and eyebrows scrunched. Eddie’s not surprised his jock-rattled brain couldn’t find that word in its very limited dictionary, but what does surprise him is that Steve doesn’t back down. They’re practically nose to nose, so close Eddie can spot a small freckle on his lash-line, and Steve’s standing here like he doesn't have a care in the world while Eddie screams in his face.

It’s quiet again. He can hear the rustle of tall grass and birds overhead. He can feel Steve’s breath on his lips and Eddie can’t remember what they were talking about. Again.

Steve grabs his shoulders, and in his daze, Eddie lets himself be maneuvered back to sitting at the picnic table, while Steve stands in front of him.

“Are you always big and loud and obnoxious? Can you just cut the shit for like, five minutes so we can have a normal fucking conversation. Jesus christ, you’re practically perfect for them.” The last part is quieter, seems more like an unfiltered afterthought.

“Ok,” Eddie says. If Steve’s willing to take the crown off long enough to talk with Eddie, then maybe he can shed his own metaphorical battle vest. “Say what you have to say, then.”

Steve clears his throat, shuffles slightly as he gains his footing. He looks at Eddie with a determined set to his shoulders.

“Henderson, Sinclair, and even Wheeler– they’re my kids. I’ve spent the last nine months watching out for those little shits because all they’re good at is getting into the worst kinds of trouble.” Eddie tracks him as Steve paces the forest floor, rambling and raking a hand through his hair like it helps him think. “But I remembered you didn’t graduate, right? And you run that Dungeons and Dragons club–”

“Whoa, whoa,” Eddie interrupts. Steve stops, turns to face him, and shoots him the bitchiest glare Eddie’s ever seen, but before he can say anything, Eddie pushes on. “You, Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, leader of meatheads and bimbos alike, know what Dungeons and Dragons is?”

Steve sighs, hands back on his hips as he rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, Munson. Don’t worry it’s all against my will, okay? I’m not coming to steal your freaks and weirdos so I can lead them too.” He smirks, and it pulls a laugh out of Eddie, shocked that Steve’s willing to joke around with Eddie at all, let alone when it’s at his own expense.

“Now, quit interrupting me, you’re as bad as Henderson.”

Eddie mimes zipping his lips closed, only to open his mouth to swallow the imaginary key. Butterflies explode in his chest at the sound of Steve laughter, and Eddie wonders if bashing his head into a tree would be a decent excuse to explain the red flush erupting on his face.

“Anyways,” Steve chuckles. “They’re smart as shit but don’t know when to give something up just to get out of a fight. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten their asses handed to them already, and everyday I pick them up all I'm thinking about is which one of them I’m gonna have to stitch up. Sure, some of the guys in the grade below were alright, like Andy. But guys like Hargrove, like Carver.” Eddie can practically see the dark cloud form over Steve’s brow.

He remembers as well as anyone the fallout of Harrington v Hargrove, Fall 1985. There’d been endless rumors about what happened, each one more ridiculous than the last. Now he’s left wondering if it’s not really about Nancy, or drugs, or Billy fucking Steve’s mom, but about these kids. The timing checks out, nine months on babysitting duties lines up pretty well with when Steve showed up to school beaten and broken.

Maybe Steve isn’t all he seems to be.

“Guys like Carver won’t mess with you. They’re too scared you’re using DnD to worship the devil and get kids into sodomy and drugs and shit like that. I told them that you’d be cool. That you’re big and loud, that you play DnD like them. You're smart and you read the same nerdy books. I told them they’d be safe with you, man.” Steve rubs his face again, until his hands fall to the sides and he tilts his head up towards the sky. “I just need to know someone’s looking out for them. Please, Eddie, just–”

“Okay.”

Steve’s attention snaps back to him, relief written plain as day in the wide set of his smile. “You’re serious?”

Eddie can’t help but smile back. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Steve smile so unguarded, and never aimed his way. The sheer brightness of it fills him with warmth he wants to wrap himself up in.

All on top of the fact Eddie's never gotten this many compliments from anyone before, let alone from a guy as gorgeous as Steve Harrington. His ears are practically on fire.

“Yeah, Harrington. I’ll share custody of your little nuggets.” Before he knows what’s coming, Steve sweeps him up into a hug, lifts him fully off the ground and can feel the tinkling of his laughter on the shell of his ear.

“Thanks, Munson. Damn, you have no idea how freaked out I’ve–”

“What about the other stuff?” Eddie can’t stop himself from asking. He has to know, deep in his bones, that Steve is thinking this through. That Steve won’t change his mind in a few days or months and decide it’s time for Eddie Munson to eat dirt.

He lets Eddie go, but holds his shoulders at arms length to look him in the eye. Any lingering mirth has been replaced with intent curiosity. “What stuff, Munson?”

He can tell by Steve’s tone they’re both talking about the same thing. Rumors that’ve haunted Eddie since eighth grade after Davey Richardson beat him up under the bleachers. It didn’t matter that Davey kissed him first, all that mattered was he was popular and Eddie was weird.

He’d grown numb to the slurs over the years, but how could he forget hearing the reason why Byers beat the shit out of King Steve. The only surprise from that fight was it sounded like he never even tried to fight back.

“Harrington, if I don’t get to act loud and obnoxious, then you don’t get to play dumb.” The intensity of Steve’s stare reminds him of the few conversations he’d had with Chief Hopper before he’d died. The man could tear Eddie down to the bones with one glare, and he’s sure it’s the only reason the Chief brought him back to the trailer instead of a jail cell.

“Eddie,” Steve says, tone firm, “I’m not that guy anymore. I don’t care about the shit people say, especially self-righteous assholes like Carver. The only thing I give a shit about is you watching over the little gremlins and not selling them drugs, so I can breathe easier when I don't have eyes on them.”

Steve shakes him lightly, like it’ll sift this world-changing view into his brain, then pats his shoulder as he passes by him.

“Wait,” Eddie shouts, always a glutton for punishment. He spins around to catch Steve walking backwards away from him, hands in his pockets, effortlessly cool. The sun’s catching his hair again and there’s a smirk on his lips. “You really don’t care?”

Steve laughs, taking a step back. He chews on his bottom lip, and he smiles when he catches Eddie looking. Because he knows. Steve knows now, before Jeff or Wayne or anyone else.

“Eddie, whoever you decide to love or fuck– or not– is none of my business.” He turns to leave, and as Eddie relaxes he hears Steve call out, “unless you want it to be.”

Steve’s light laughter follows him out of the woods, and Eddie plops himself down in the same spot on the same wooden bench in the exact same forest as he always does every Friday after school. Except a twenty minute conversation with Steve Harrington leaves Eddie feeling like his world's been turned upside down.

Maybe ‘86 will be his year, after all.

#and then eddie follows him to the bimmer and they bang it out #steve's bad with words except when he's flirting with a pretty boy #good babysitter steve harrington #eddie munson has a crush on steve harrington #even though he kind of hates himself for it #alternate meeting #excessive flirting #pre season four #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #stranger things au #steddie #steddie ficlet #queeniewritesstories #stranger things

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dellalyra · 1 year ago

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ʀᴏꜱʏ ᴘɪɴᴋ - ɢᴏᴊᴏ ꜱᴀᴛᴏʀᴜ

pixie says: another request from my wife @soraya-daydreams coming thru with an absolute banger. family formations or can be standalone <3

“Y/N!” Came a scream from down the hall.

You were almost asleep, bed so comfortable and sheets so soft until your door flung open and three bodies stood in the entrance before barging in.

“Shoko stop bullying Satoru.” You reflexively reply.

“Y/N! Thank god you’re here! A voice of reason! These two,” Satoru says, pointing to Geto and Shoko beside him “are trying to get me to dye my hair!”

You just look between the three of them. Geto is on your desk chair, fiddling with your pencils. Shoko is perched on the desk beside him and Satoru has flung himself face down on the foot of your bed.

“Okay, and… you don’t want to?” You ask.

“Why? Do you think I should?” Satoru asks, and you wonder why Geto and Shoko snicker.

“It’s your hair, Satoru! If you wanted to you could do a temporary dye in like - a really fun colour. Like the pink in the ends of my hair!” You wave your strands at him.

“See! I told you she would like the idea! C’mon Gojo, let us dye your hair.” Shoko pleads.

“You won’t even need’ta bleach it or anything, man.” Geto chimes in.

“But guys! My white hair is like - my thing!” Gojo is flailing his arms.

“I thought your eyes were your thing?” Geto questions.

“I have many things!” The muffled voice replies.

“Y/N, what do you think?” Geto prompts.

“Why am I the deciding factor?”

“Because Satoru would jump into a burning building if you asked him to.” Shoko adds, blunt as ever.

You blush and hear a weak attempt at a protest from the end of your bed.

You’ve no idea where your friends got this idea that Satoru is interested in you the way your are him but they seemingly won’t let it go.

“I think it would be fun - but Satoru chooses the colour. Is that okay, Satoru?” You poke him.

“Okay.” He says, lifting his head from your comforter.

“Cool! Shoes on then. Let’s go.” You say, swinging your legs out of bed.

“Where on earth can we get hair dye at 10pm?”

So that’s how you ended up at a 24 hour store checkout at 10.30pm with your three best friends. After much deliberation, a temporary box dye was found that would last about 6 washes and wouldn’t stain. Satoru was being uncharacteristically sheepish about the colour he chose, keeping the box close to his chest, until he dropped it and you picked it up to see the top of the box was a soft, rosy pink.

Your favourite colour.

You handed it to him, blushing as he looks straight at you.

“It’s gonna look really nice on you, ‘toru.” You say, smiling softly.

The two behind you gag at the sweet exchange.

At 11pm, Satoru was sitting on your desk chair - towel on his shoulders as you and Geto worked the pink through his white hair - Shoko (the instigator) sitting on your bed.

“Okay! Koko, set a timer for 10 minutes.” You say, pulling the gloves off your hands.

“What happens in 10 minutes?” Satoru asks.

“We wash your hair!”

“Wait?! You need to shower with me?! At least buy a guy a drink first, Princess.” He smirks at you and you roll your eyes.

“No, you incorrigible man. Just your hair. Plus, you don’t drink.”

Finding a way to wash his hair was a logistical nightmare since everyone insisted on being in the room but Satoru’s long limbs were difficult to contain - but eventually, the shower head was rinsing pink streams down the drain and his head was free of dye. You wrapped a towel over his head and told him to go style it how he normally would.

He proceeds to shake his head and say “I just let it dry?”.

Which sickens you.

He’s just that perfect, that beautiful - naturally?

What an asshole.

He turns to take the towel off and looks at you three and you melt inside.

His blue eyes shine in excitement as your face turns the colour of his now rosy pink hair.

Seeing him decked out in your favourite colour? Did all kinds of things to you - though it would never compare to his natural, snowflake coloured hair that visits your dreams each night. That will always be your favourite, because it’s a sign of your ‘Toru.

“Look at this marshmallow man!” Shoko says, jumping to try and ruffle his hair.

“Marshmallow?!” Satoru says, spinning to the mirror.

“Bro - that actually looks really good. I like it. Turned out real nice. What do you think, lil’ lady?” Suguru says, turning to you.

“I love it.” You say, hands clasped under your chin.

You didn’t just mean the hair.

#jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #anime #family formations extras #dad!gojo

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corroded-hellfire · 6 months ago

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Prompt Day 17: "This One's For You."

Word Count: 1k

Rating: G

Pairing: Eddie x Reader

CW: None

Summary: Snowed in during a blizzard, Eddie’s daughter Eliza proves just how like him she is.

@corrodedcoffinfest

[As You Wish masterlist]

Eddie hasn’t taken many classes in his life, let alone any philosophy ones, but he couldn’t help but ponder one philosophical question these last three days: how long can someone be locked in the same house as two teenage boys and a four-year-old girl before they go absolutely insane?

The blizzard outside had sealed the five of you in the house together for the third straight day now and it’s becoming maddening. There are only so many activities one can do with a four-year-old that will, one, hold their attention, and two, not make you want to tear your hair out after an hour.

Some of the things you’ve done as a family have been very entertaining, like when you all played Pretty Pretty Princess and somehow Eddie kept winning and Ryan and Luke were having a great time adorning him with the pink plastic jewelry. The pictures you took of that will forever be cherished—as long as you can keep them out of your husband’s hands.

Having Luke and Ryan try to teach you how to play some of their favorite video games was amusing as well. The boys more so than the game, though. It quickly became apparent to you that your sons do not possess the patience to teach anything to anyone—let alone a first-person shooter game where they expect you to master the use of a dozen buttons on a controller that you’ve never held before.

“I don’t think this Hollow game is for me,” you say after “Master Chief,” as your kids called him, gets killed for the fourth time.

“It’s Halo!” both boys shout, one on each side of you so you get it in stereo.

It takes all your willpower not to laugh as you press your lips tightly together to suppress a smile. You remembered the name of the game the second time they told you, now you’re just messing with them.

An afternoon of you and Eliza looking through an old photo album springs to life an idea in her little mind.

“That Daddy?” she asks, pointing to a picture of Eddie in action up on stage. He’s in the middle of headbanging, so his curls are flying wildly around his head.

“That’s Daddy,” you tell her. “Being a rockstar, showing off in front of everyone.” You smile down at your daughter before playfully poking her in the belly. “Reminds me of you.”

Eliza’s eyes light up at the comment and you can’t help but wonder what sparked in that head of hers.

“Be back!” she shouts as she hops off the couch. Her tiny feet make thunderous booms as she runs down the hallway, calling out for her brothers. “Ryan! Luuuuuke!”

After dinner, the four-year-old instructs you and Eddie to sit on the couch and to stay still and wait for her. Keeping quiet, you and your husband trade amused looks until the door to the pink princess room opens, and Eliza re-emerges, decked out in her Tinker Bell costume from Halloween. On each of her small legs is a black sock that clearly belongs to Ryan. They are also clearly meant to be knee socks, yet they go up the small girl’s thighs. Finishing up her ensemble is her pink Piglet sunglasses.

Gripped in her tiny fist is the music player with a microphone that she was gifted as a toddler. The way she enters the room with all the gravitas and confidence of a model walking the runway almost makes you think you’re the one who’s dressed unconventionally.

Behind her, Ryan has a toy guitar that has been passed down through all three children tucked under his arm and Luke carries the gray garbage pail from the bathroom in one hand and a CD in the other.

While Eliza takes her place front and center before you and Eddie, Ryan positions himself behind her, yielding the spotlight.

Luke steps over to the stereo and pops in the CD he was holding before following his big brother’s lead and assuming the position behind the star of the show. Ryan tugs an ottoman over to sit on, the toy guitar resting on his knee while Luke sits on the floor and flips the garbage pail over so he can use it as a drum.

“Are you ready?” Eliza asks, mouth right up against the yellow plastic of her microphone.

“Yeah!” you exclaim.

“Woo!” Eddie cheers.

“Hit it!” Luke says.

The music begins, notes floating over from the stereo to this impromptu performance space. It takes a moment, but you recognize the song before Eliza starts singing Part of Your World.

The CD turns out to be a compilation of different Disney songs covered by Disney Channel stars, and Eddie makes a mental note to ask you why the hell you bought that for her.

Ryan and Luke are surprisingly into it, having fun performing while their little sister hams it up. They’re like their own little version of Hanson.

The instrumentals of the next song drift through the air and Eliza tosses her pink sunglasses aside and points at Eddie.

“This one’s for you!” she shouts, which is very mismatched with the slow, melodic tune that’s playing.

You rest your head on your husband’s shoulder as your little girl starts to serenade him with her rendition of Go the Distance from Hercules.

Once she sings the last note (and you hide your wince as best as possible), Eliza lets the yellow microphone fall from her hand. She bends at the waist, bowing so far down that her curls flip over her head and brush the navy carpet.

It’s your cue, so you and Eddie both clap, cheering for the adorable performance.

Luke stands and takes a bow next, and Ryan figures he might as well follow his lead.

Eddie whistles and a rare blush tinges Eliza’s cheeks.

“Thank you!” she calls, arms raised over her head, addressing her crowd.

The true daughter of a rock star.

“Goodnight!”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #corrodedcoffinfest #older!eddie #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #AYW #AYWS #CCF

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ritsugaminge · 5 months ago

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❥ Four players ❥

Pairing : F Reader x roommate Heeseung x class partner Sunghoon x best friend's older brother Jake

Synopsis : Welcome to college, where the latest craze is this app that lets you make out with the three hottest guys on campus : You get one good and steamy fuck with each of them, no second chances. Are you up for making a reservation?

Warnings : smut with a story, foursome, voyeurism, kissing, a bit of dirty talk, blowjob (f and m receiving), protected sex, masturbation (m)

Word count : 3.5 k

While you were busy unpacking inside your dorm room, the buzz of excitement from the other girls was hard to ignore. Still, you tried to focus on sorting your stuff until your door suddenly swung open and out of nowhere, a girl flung a newspaper at you.

“Uh thanks? I guess..” you said, grabbing it from the floor.

The headline said 'New School Year, New News'. You opened it and a glaring pink page with 'PLAYERS' caught your eye.

“The tradition’s back and hotter than ever! Our college’s finest are on deck and eager to meet you. Make sure to snag your reservation ASAP!”

/!/ Just a heads-up—each guy is a one-time-only deal! Download ‘PLAYERS’ to lock in your date!

You stared at the words in front of you, your brain refusing to process.

This couldn’t be serious… could it?

A nervous laugh escaped as you tossed the newspaper onto your bed, but your eyes were drawn back to it—back to the three impossibly gorgeous guys in the pictures, especially the one with dark hair and those lips…

Oh. No. Wait.

You snatched the paper up again, heart racing. Was that… Jake? Your best friend’s older brother?

The guy you used to have the biggest crush on?

"What the heck is he even doing here?" you nearly choked, your eyes scanning his ridiculously gorgeous photo from top to bottom.

"Well, that’s my room," a deep, amused voice replied.

You turned, startled, to find a tall, stylish brunette guy standing here, and… hold on… didn’t he look just like one of those guys in the pictures?

He glanced at the newspaper. “Oh, it’s out already?” he said, tossing his bag onto the bed right next to yours.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a girl’s room?” you asked, absolutely stunned, as he casually unpacked his underwear and slid it into a drawer like it was the most natural thing ever.

“It’s not the first time the administration messed up, and trust me, they won’t bother fixing it,” he said, now plugging in his gaming console like it was just another day.

“I’m Heeseung, by the way, in case you didn’t know. What about you?”

You stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the whole situation before finally managing to stammer, “I’m, uh, Y/N…”

He then left as quickly as he arrived, leaving you by yourself.

“I think I need to get some fresh air.” You thought, putting your jacket on and finally leaving the room.

You plopped down at a small table after ordering your iced tea, letting out a dramatic sigh as you dropped your head onto the table.

Seriously, how is it that the first time you see your childhood crush again is in a newspaper article about sex?

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sudden sound of squealing girls. You opened your eyes and lifted your head to see a group of them swarming around a guy with impossibly fair skin and a jawline so sharp it could probably slice through steel.

“Damn, he could cut someone with that…” you whispered to yourself, half in awe, half in disbelief. It only took a glance to realize this was the third guy from the newspaper—Sunghoon.

After a moment of hesitation, curiosity won out. You couldn’t resist, so you downloaded the ‘PLAYERS’ app. What harm could it do to see what the fuss was all about ?

The app opened up with three separate calendars, each dedicated to one of the boys. You noticed that this year’s lineup featured Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung, but last year, it had been different guys.

Their schedules were already packed, a clear sign of just how insanely popular they were.

“This is a bit much,” you thought, unable to wrap your head around the idea of girls actually booking them. “Ridiculous.”

After finishing your tea, you headed back to your room. With Heeseung nowhere in sight, you took a quick shower and went straight to bed, dreaming about the app and those handsome guys.

“Pair up with the person who has the same number as you!” the professor announced, and you glanced down at your paper, seeing the number two.

Just then, a warm breath tickled your ear as a voice whispered, “Looks like we’re together.”

You turned around to find Sunghoon standing there, his own paper showing the same number two, a shy smile playing on his lips.

You had a big essay to write for your first-semester final grade, and while you weren't sure if being paired up with this guy was a blessing or a curse, his cute smile made you forget all your doubts.

You both decided to continue working on the project in your dorm room.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst a sea of books and a laptop, you were deep into your research when he broke the silence.

"You really read this newspaper?" he asked, grabbing the paper from your cupboard and raising an eyebrow.

"Well, a girl literally threw it at me, so I figured I had to read it," you answered, a little embarrassed.

You both locked eyes for a moment, the silence stretching between you. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, "So, are you planning to book a date with one of the guys?"

His sudden question caught you off guard. "Aren’t you one of the guys?" you shot back. "I mean, I’m technically on a date with you right now."

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your response, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Trust me, it’s REALLY not the same."

Your ears turned a deep shade of red at his boldness.

“What do you mean, ‘not the same’?” you asked, your voice more curious than confused, even though you already knew the answer.

“Well, on those dates, we do something more like this…” he murmured, leaning closer.

Your breath caught in your throat as his face moved closer to yours, the space between you shrinking by the second.

Your eyes locked on his lips, unable to look away, drawn in by the anticipation hanging thick in the air.

You could feel your heartbeat quicken,

but before you could even form a thought, the door to your dorm burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

You both turned to see Heeseung standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised, a silent question etched across his face.

“Come on, not in my room, Sunghoon!” he said, exasperation dripping from his tone as he kicked his shoes off and flung himself onto his bed.

Sunghoon let out a long breath, leaning back and creating a bit of space between the two of you.

“Relax, Heeseung. It’s not what it looks like,” he explained, his voice calm but a bit defensive.

“We’re not on a date,” he added, shifting his focus back to his laptop, as if that would make the whole situation disappear.

For the next 20 minutes, the room was quiet except for the occasional sound of Heeseung tapping away on his phone.

You and Sunghoon continued to work, your concentration only broken when Sunghoon suddenly stood up.

"Alright, I'm heading to my room," he said, offering a quick wave.

You watched him leave, glancing at the clock to see it was already late afternoon.

A shower sounded like a good idea before you had to meet your best friend for dinner.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror, taking a deep breath before slipping out of your clothes and stepping into the shower.

The warm water cascaded over your skin as you pulled the curtain closed, letting the heat relax your tense muscles.

As you began to rinse out your shampoo, the creaking sound of the bathroom door swinging open made you freeze.

“Heeseung! Come on, didn’t you hear I was in here?!” you yelled out as you peered cautiously from behind the curtain, pressing yourself against the wall.

“I have to go to the bathroom—it’ll be quick,” he called out as his footsteps drew closer.

You cringed when you heard the toilet seat lift, and you stood still, counting the seconds until he would leave.

But then, your gaze drifted to the mirror, and from behind the curtain, you could see him reflected in it.

The fuck is wrong with me? you thought, trying to tear your eyes away but finding it impossible to look anywhere else.

Your gaze lingered on his dick. Yes.

It was thick and veiny even in its relaxed state. The deep tan gradually faded into a lighter, pink shade near the tip.

You swallowed, feeling your cheeks grow warmer, a blush creeping in as you struggled to tear your eyes away.

You were so fixated on it that you didn’t even notice him approaching the shower. Suddenly, the curtain was yanked open, and you let out a startled shriek as your naked body was exposed to his gaze.

“I saw you spying on me,” he said with a smug smirk.

Words failed you, your mind scrambling for a response.

Should you apologize, admit you’d been caught staring? Or act like it was all just a misunderstanding?

But you didn’t have time to decide—Heeseung stepped into the shower, water immediately soaking him through. His clothes clung to his toned body, revealing every contour beneath the wet fabric.

“Enjoyed the view? You know, you could’ve asked—I might have had let you see more,” he murmured.

His eyes roamed shamelessly over your wet body, watching the way water glistened on your skin,

how droplets slid down between your boobs and then thighs.

You raised your chin, a mix of defiance and embarrassment coursing through you as you crossed your arms over your chest.

“Well, do you like what you’re seeing?” you countered, trying to sound confident even as your heart pounded.

“Hell yes, I do,” he breathed,

Pressing his lips to your neck, his kisses light but electrifying.

You shivered with surprise as he let his hands rest possessively on your bare hips, and felt the heat of his tongue as it traced a line up to your collarbone.

His lips hovered just in front of yours, leaving your lower body tingling with anticipation.

When you inched closer, desperate for contact, he merely smirked and glanced down at you.

“You’ll have to schedule a date if you want more,” he said, stepping out of the shower and leaving you alone, speechless and flustered.

“Excuse me, what the fuck?!” Mia exclaimed loudly in the restaurant, causing several heads to turn in your direction.

“Please, keep it down,” you pleaded, mortified.

You’d just filled her in on everything—the PLAYERS app, Heeseung as your new roommate, Sunghoon as your essay partner, her own brother’s involvement as one of the players, and of course, the incident in your room.

Mia’s eyes reflected her inner turmoil. “I’m stuck deciding whether to tell my mom about my brother’s college antics, use this to blackmail him into buying me makeup, or just forget it all.”

She shook her head, then refocused. “But, are you going to make that reservation or not?”

"Mia," you called, barely louder than a breath. "I don't know... should I?" You frowned, totally confused.

"You definitely should," she insisted. "I mean, when else are you gonna make out with guys that hot?"

You nodded, eyes lighting up.

"You're right! I'll book all of them at once!" you said, already reaching for your phone.

"Wait, what?" Mia nearly choked. "Even my brother?!"

You paused. The one you wanted most was her brother. But—

"No, no! Just the other two," you lied, eyes fixed anywhere but hers.

She hesitated, “Mhh, okay, I trust you. But can you really book the two of them at the same time?”

A grin spread across your face.

"Well, they won’t know until they see each other, right? It’s worth a shot.”

Without hesitation, you selected a date for each of them, ready to see how it all plays out.

A few days later, you found yourself sitting in the old gymnasium, resting on a worn-out mat. You'd picked this strange spot on purpose—no one would ever guess what was going on here.

Your heart raced as you checked the time every few seconds, fidgeting with anticipation.

Finally, the heavy gym door creaked open slightly.

Heeseung’s face appeared, his eyes scanning the empty gym before they landed on you sitting on the mat.

Surprise flickered across his features—it made sense, since the app didn’t reveal anything about the girls until the meet. But the shock faded fast, and he walked up to you with a confident grin.

"I knew I'd be seeing you soon. You couldn't resist after seeing my dick.”

You stared at him in silence for a few moments, unsure of what to say.

"It’ll definitely be better if we don’t talk, that’s for sure," you thought to yourself.

Without a word, you gave him a small hand gesture, signaling for him to sit next to you.

Then, your hand slowly reached up, fingers gently wrapping around his chin, guiding his face closer to yours.

Your heart raced as you leaned in, and without a second thought, you pressed your lips against his in a deep, passionate kiss.

Both of you closed your eyes, sinking into the moment, letting everything else fade away.

His hands found their way to your neck, holding you firmly, while your arms slid around his, pulling him even closer.

The old gym fell into a still silence, the only sound breaking through was the soft, rhythmic noise of your lips meeting, filling the empty space around you.

Then, you slipped off your shirt, and he forcibly laid you down on the old gym mat.

As he turned you onto your stomach, his tongue began a slow, teasing journey down your back, tracing every curve with warm, sensual strokes.

He then made his way up to your shoulders, his breath hot against your skin.

Pressing himself against your ass, he let out a slight smirk, his ears turning a deep red from arousal.

“Fuck, you’re hot.”

His fingers fumbled with the clasp of your bra,

But just as he began to undo it, the door creaked open once more.

You both turned in surprise, only to find Sunghoon standing there, his face in disbelief as he took in the unexpected scene.

"Come here, Sunghoon,” you breathed out softly, the words slipping out in a hushed, desperate tone.

He approached you, eyes full of a mix of desire and uncertainty.

Without a word, both of them began to explore your body, leaving heated marks as you laid exposed on the mat.

Sunghoon dipped his head, his face brushing against your thighs he kissed softly, breathing deeply of your scent before slowly and carefully sliding your panties off.

He began to eat your pussy out with a raw, angry passion, as if he demanded even more of you, making you a moaning mess beneath him. Each touch and stroke drove you wild. The pleasure was almost overwhelming, leaving you gasping for air.

At the same time, Heeseung focused on your boobs, his hands eagerly molding and caressing them. His tongue traced over your sensitive nipples, circling and flicking with a mixture of teasing playfulness and intense desire, each flick and swirl sending shivers down your spine.

"‘Ugh Sunghoon, I’m going to…” You tried to gasp out,

But the intense pleasure left you unable to form coherent words. Your body trembled uncontrollably as waves of ecstasy overtook you, coating his mouth with your juices.

Sunghoon’s smile grew as he savored every last bit, his tongue sweeping across his lips, licking them clean.

‘‘You taste sweet, Y/n,” he murmured, his voice filled with pleasure.

Trying to steady your breathing after the intense orgasm, you crawled over to him, hands shaking slightly as you worked to undo his pants. You reached inside his boxers, your fingers wrapping around his long, throbbing cock, drawing it out with a gentle grip.

“Let me return the favor,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the tip in a lingering kiss. A deep, pleased “hmph-”’ escaped him as he savored the touch.

“Don’t forget about me, Y/n” Heeseung put a condom on his shaft and started to thrust into you, while you tried desperately to hold onto Sunghoon’s.

But then, you looked at the gym entrance and froze.

Jake, your childhood crush, was staring at you, his expression unreadable.

“Jake…?” you breathed.

His eyes stayed locked on you, full of unspoken emotions.

“Y/n, I never thought…” he began, his words trailing off into silence.

You paused, and with a provocative glint in your eye, you slowly met his gaze and said, “Come join us…” Your voice was smooth and enticing as you continued to pump Sunghoon’s dick, his panting breath echoing in the room.

Jake inched closer, his eyes locked on the steamy scene before him.

Heeseung’s dick was deep inside your pussy, while your mouth was taking Sunghoon’s all the way.

The sight stirred a flush of excitement within him :

Actually, it made him completely horny.

Without thinking, he started to palm himself through his pants, feeling the stickiness of it pressing against him. When he finally pulled it out, a stream of precum dribbled onto the floor. He was so aroused that it looked like he pissed himself.

To him, you were always more than just his sister’s best friend;

You were the girl who effortlessly captivated his heart.

Even as you both grew older, there were nights when the thought of you kept him awake, moaning your name as he reached his high,

and yet, he kept his feelings buried, respecting the bond you shared with his sister.

But now, seeing you standing there, so pretty, it's as if a switch flipped inside him : all his suppressed desires came rushing to the surface and ignited a fire he could no longer ignore.

His eyes were fixated on you, unable to tear themselves away, as if you were the only thing in the room.

His cheeks reddened with a heat that spread through his body, his breath hitching as he bit his lip, trying to stifle the words bubbling up inside him, but they slipped out anyway.

“Y/n, show me more. Be pretty for me,” he whispered, the words tinged with an aching desire.

You shifted closer to him, offering him an unobstructed view of your sweat-slicked, flushed body.

You angled yourself just right, allowing him to take in the full, tantalizing view.

You could feel his gaze drinking in every inch of you, exactly as you intended.

You removed Sunghoon's dick from your mouth as his semen sprayed onto your cheek.

His eyes fluttered shut, a gasp slipping from his lips as pleasure coursed through him.

“Ahh..” His voice broke into a low, desperate groan as you continued, drawing out every drop left.

But just as you thought you were in control, Heeseung’s hand found its way to your clit, his touch a jolt of pleasure that made you gasp, the sensation only intensifying as he kept thrusting, deep and unrelenting, inside you.

As you and Heeseung were both on the brink of cumming, the sudden, harsh bang on the gymnasium door startled you, followed by a stern voice shouting

“No dates in the gymnasium! Some students reported hearing strange noises, so I know people are inside ! Get out before I go get you !”

The four of you exchanged silent, wide-eyed glances before quickly scrambling out of the compromising positions, hurriedly pulling on your clothes and attempting to smooth out your disheveled appearances.

Walking out of the gymnasium, you caught the janitor’s astonished stare, clearly stunned that all three 'players' had been inside.

“Sorry for the mess, sir,” Heeseung stammered out, trying to pull off a look of innocence.

The four of you managed a few steps before the embarrassment took over, and with a burst of laughter, you all started running, fleeing the scene together.

Well, that clearly didn’t turn out the way you imagined.

But still, you did it. You played with the three players.

The group of you stopped behind some bushes, gasping for air.

“Well, it was a bit short, but I guess it was fun,” you said, smiling between breaths.

“Nah, we didn’t go all the way, so it doesn’t count,” Sunghoon interrupted with a smirk.

“Exactly,” Heeseung added with a grin, “looks like another date will be necessary.”

You found yourself trying to meet Jake’s gaze, but his eyes were already deeply entrenched in yours.

“That’s right,” he said, his killer smile—a smile you had always adored—lighting up his face. “But I want to have one alone with you this time.”

You were startled by his statement, a wave of hope washing over you as you wondered if your long-time crush was finally being reciprocated.

"And not through the app. I’ll be in touch soon,” he said, leaving the three of you standing there.

You watched him go, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“Damn,” Heeseung said, breaking the silence with a smirk.

“Jakey’s got a crush on you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a thrill of anticipation as you realized your college life was just beginning.

END

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heckyeahponyscans · 1 year ago

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Lauren Faust originally imagined all her G1 childhood faves in a My Little Pony reboot. So why was Applejack the only one who made it in? We don't know for sure, but here is my theory.

IMO Hasbro went into the MLP reboot wanting each main character to be a different color of the rainbow, similar to TMNT or Power Rangers. (Which is a big improvement over Core 7 G3 when THREE out of seven characters were pink.)

So let's look at the initial G1 crew:

Sparkler - blue Twilight - pink Surprise - white Firefly - pink Applejack - orange Posey - yellow

Already we can see some pink is doubled up. But just wait.

Pinkie Pie was THE face of G3 My Little Pony and Rainbow Dash was nearly as popular. Hasbro made big versions of these ponies, they made small versions of them, they made plush baby versions, and they were immortalized on birthday cards, balloons, ornaments, and other merch. I was so disappointed when I heard Pinkie Pie would be in G4 because I was tired of seeing her, ha ha.

But Hasbro was not tired of selling merchandise of their most popular ponies, so I'm sure one of their first notes was "We absolutely need Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash in the new lineup."

Their personality changes wouldn't matter to Hasbro. What mattered was their marketability as toys / designs.

So Firefly, Twilight, and Sparkler were now out of the lineup, due to also being pink and blue.

Now we have:

Rainbow Dash - blue Pinkie Pie - pink Surprise - white ??? Applejack - orange Posey - yellow

But, uh oh! Pinkie Pie and Surprise both have balloon symbols. So Surprise also must die leave.

IMO the names being trademarked / easily defendable was important to Hasbro, and they already had hundreds of G3 names / designs at their disposal. And also they needed a purple pony for this lineup.

So Twilight Twinkle (later renamed Twilight Sparkle) joined the crew and became a unicorn.

Rainbow Dash - blue Pinkie Pie - pink ??? Twilight Twinkle / Sparkle - purple Applejack - orange Posey - yellow

G1 Glory's colors (white with purple hair) then replaced blue Sparkler. But wait!! Both Glory and Twilight Sparkle-Twinkle have stars on their rumps! So Rarity retained Sparkler's symbol of diamonds.

I don't know why they didn't use one of the G1 names, except perhaps that "Rarity the Unicorn" was already a Hasbro trademark, having been a G3 character.

Rainbow Dash - blue Pinkie Pie - pink Rarity - white Twilight Sparkle - purple Applejack - orange Posey - yellow

So why was Posey changed to Fluttershy? In my opinion she was switched up quite late because the original plot of Dragonshy had her as an earth pony, which is why she was struggling to get up the mountain. (That's why they had to add the bit about Fluttershy's wings locking up from fear.)

In addition to wanting a variety of colors, I think Hasbro wanted two of each main pony species. Originally Pinkie Pie was slated to be a pegasus, but then she was switched to an earth pony. So Yellow Pony was shunted into a pegasus slot instead.

Basically, I think Posey got replaced with Fluttershy because it was thought that butterfly symbols were more befitting for a pegasus. Plus girls love animals and if they needed plots revolving around growing plants, they already had Applejack on deck.

So in the end Applejack was the only G1 pony who remained in G4, not because Hasbro had any special hold on her, but because she had a pretty unique name and she wasn't a repeated color.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk

#Hasbro #my little pony #MLP FIM #G4 #G1 #obviously I don't have any proof of this #but this is my theory

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heartsofminds · 2 years ago

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and at every table, i’ll save you a seat - part i

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” or you invite Bradley to a wedding but your big fat crush on him won’t let you actually. . .invite him.

“and at every table, i’ll save you a seat” - tunes of the gossipy Hard Deck patrons and liking someone so much you feel like you can’t breathe

A/N: hey guys!!! so in the midst of writing this, i realized how long it actually is and how many dividers i had on my google doc? anyway, i thought it would probably work out so much better if it was released in parts rather than just one, big, fat, HUGEEEE piece that would probs crash on mobile. listen along to the playlist (that will be updated with each writing update) and relish in overly flirtatious bradley with me! which btw, he’s the lover album personified with a dash of red and a hint of fearless!

“I’m not asking him.”

Phoenix rolls her eyes before she takes a sip from her Ultra. The thought of it tasting revolting because of its lukewarmness crosses her mind despite her head pounding unceremoniously. She almost speaks up to answer you, but closes her mouth.

She softly places the bottle back down on the counter instead.

She can’t quite tell if the pain in her temples is from the sound of excited chatter all around her, the sound of Mickey, Javy, and Bob shittily singing Go Your Own Way on the karaoke machine in the corner, or the sound of your blue glitter gel pen scratching away at the scrap paper you have by the register; frantically carrying decimals for tip calculation and pathetically adding and subtracting since Penny’s “older than dirt” cash register bit the dust an hour prior.

She almost concludes that the pounding ache working its way to the forefront of her brain is because of your absolute and utter refusal to do the simple and the obvious. But wait.

I haven’t eaten at all today. Yeah, that’s it.

A deep breath fills her lungs before she exhales. Her elbows find themselves on the lip of the bar top and her forearms come up to rest her head on her hands. She notices that the scribbling stops from what she assumes is you looking at her.

An uncomfortable beat passes which is unusual for you two. There’s always some sly remark made or interminable giggling filling the gaps of silence.

You pop your hip on the corner of the table. Your magenta tank top was far too bright of a pink to be welcome in the warm-hued bar. Your bracelet screams “graduation gift” and you can feel the oil on your face contorting your makeup as your time in the muggy air passes.

Out of place is always in your thoughts but doesn’t become an insecurity until you’re left alone with them. The absence of Phoenix’s voice makes this fact more obvious to you.

“You good? Not gonna hurl all over the place?” you cautiously ask, “Because it’s fine if you gotta puke, but I’ll murder you if you make me clean it up.”

Natasha lets out something short of a laugh but too informal to be considered a huff. “I’m fine,” she says, leaning her head into her hand and adjusting herself in her seat.

You nod, returning to your scribbling when the man sitting next to her hands his card to you. “You know, if you write any harder, you might permanently etch,” she pauses, leaning over to get a peek at what you had just written, “ten dollars and eighty-three cents into the counter.”

“Maybe it’ll convince Penny that a new cash register is a need and not a luxury.”

Natasha scoffs. “Could say the same about your plus one, but hey, if you don’t want my advice, then certainly don’t take it.”

You hand the gentleman back his card with a smile and a small “thank you” before returning your attention back to Natasha. She digs her teeth subtly into the plush of her bottom lip.

“I already told you. I’m not asking him.”

She groans, pushing herself to stand up from her seat. Even dressed in civilian clothes, she looks like she belongs. Her aura demands respect; even in a lacy wine-colored top that Hangman had tried to tease her about earlier when the brood of rowdy pilots had first arrived.

“Well, you said no to Jake.”

“You say it like he would be willing to say yes.”

“You said no to Rueben.”

“He’s in a situationship with that girl from my spin class. Going with me to a wedding and her seeing the pics on Instagram would just make shit weird,” you start scrubbing at the permanent water stain near the beer taps anxiously, “Especially when I set them up.”

Natasha rolls her eyes again. She swears that by the end of the night, she’ll know exactly what the inside of her eyelids look like.

“Whatever,” she huffs, “You said no to Javy and Bob.”

“Javy would rub the fact that I asked in Jake’s face and they’ll start a pissing contest on how to woo me…and Bob,” you look around to make sure no one who knows you all is within earshot, “He’s sweet. Like, sooo sweet.”

Natasha tries not to crack a smile before you get your words out, but she certainly knows where the tail end of your sentence is going. “But it’s definitely not believable that we would be together and my aunt is one hell of an FBI agent and I’m sure he’d crack and rat us out and I’d have to sit there and eat my weight in tiramisu to drown my embarrassment.”

Business is painfully slow for a Thursday evening despite the upcoming weekend. Your eyes dart around the room to look for anyone to come and rescue you from this conversation (and even volunteer to be your date to your bitchy cousin’s wedding next weekend without you asking, but you know to only hope for one miracle at a time). And when your eyes turn up empty for an ample opportunity, your shoulders droop while Natasha snickers at you.

“Cut your losses and just ask him. I know he won’t say no,” she says, coy smirk at home on her face.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“What is so wrong with him that you don’t wanna do it? Huh?”

You ponder on her statement before shaking your head. You’d rather be shot in the foot with a nail gun eight times than expose your silly little schoolgirl crush in the middle of the Hard Deck in front of his best friend turned your best friend since moving to the area five months ago.

“Why not Neil or Brigham? Or hell, even Mickey? I know he’s like, engaged, but Mariella is so freakin’ sweet and I know she’d understand so like-”

“Mmm-mmm. No, no, and hell no.” Your frown plasters itself on your lips faster than you can comprehend at her words. “Rooster or bust.”

Your spine straightens as you begin to engage in protest before you’re cut off by the man himself.

“Rooster or bust, what?” he asks, lips coming out to lick the dryness of the San Diego sun away. Your knees start to buckle and you can hear Natasha stifle a laugh as you try to conceal your lack of balance.

He stands in front of you, hand on his hips and sunglasses tucked on the tight, white tank top underneath his button-down shirt. Today’s print was red with cream-colored hibiscus flowers and you wonder how he could pull them off so well. If it were anyone else, you would have had to try your hardest to keep it together with Natasha in front of you; the jokes about touristy dads and low-budget porn actors in the works.

You realize he’s waiting for an answer as you see Natasha getting called away to sing karaoke with Javy and the gang out of the corner of your eye.

Great. Just fucking great.

“Taking bets on who the best pilot is or?” Bradley speaks, trying to get to the bottom of the small fragment of the conversation he had walked into.

“I-,” you stammer.

Fuck. Can someone just come to the bar and order so I can avoid this?

“You?” he looks at you through his eyebrows comically. Everything he does makes you nervous.

“I-,” the lines in his forehead raise with the infliction of your voice, “I need a favor. Like a big one.”

“Okay,” he laughs, “How big are we talking?”

“Umm-”

“Like ‘giving you my other kidney’ big or letting you borrow my car big?” he interrupts.

“Well-”

“Or do you need me to house sit? Dogsit? Babysit?”

You inhale as you place your hands on the countertop. Your eyes find his honeyed-colored ones and you almost drown in them before your pride kicks in.

I cannot embarrass myself in front of him.

“I need you to come to a wedding,” you speak gently. You can see the wheels turning in his head without him having to say anything. Bradley’s face always gave his thoughts away.

“If you don’t have plans, of course.”

The realization of what you had just said starts to kick you upside the head the longer you look at him. He doesn’t say anything. His face doesn’t move at all. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked yet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“And if you’re comfortable! Obviously!” you start to ramble before you can convince yourself to shut the hell up, “It’s next Saturday in Long Beach near the seaside. You don’t have to say yes or anything but I just thought I’d ask because I had a plus one when I had a boyfriend eight months ago and now-”

“I’ll go.”

“-we’re not together anymore and my bitchy cousin is the one getting married who, by the way, makes everything a competition but that’s beside the point. But I know my mom is gonna be pissed if I don’t bring someone because my aunt is her sister and she’ll bitch about how they wasted money and how my mom is running out of time to become a grandma because I’m not married yet and that’s totally not true because I’m not even thirty so my biological clock hasn’t even started ticking yet but -”

“Hey!” he raises his voice slightly, amusement hidden in his tone, “I said I’d go with ya, kid.” He steps forward to put his hands on your bare shoulders. You try not to melt into his touch.

“S’all good. I love weddings and the beach. Promise it’s not a hassle.”

You’re dumbfounded by his response and how collected he is about your word vomit, not to mention being invited to a wedding where he’ll meet not only your parents, but your entire extended family in a little over a week. You know for certain you wouldn’t have handled the situation as calmly as he had.

“You - you’ll…go?” The sound of Britney Spears’s “Toxic” and Jake absolutely murdering the high notes in the back of the bar is the only thing keeping you from spiraling into another dimension.

“Well, I’m not a liar,” he sits down on the seat Phoenix was previously occupying, “I don’t just say things I don’t mean.”

Your head nods solemnly in silent understanding, your hands grabbing a glass to pour him a whiskey on the rocks. He raises his eyebrows in suspicion at you knowing what his usual drink is, but throws away the thought to comment on it before it can even develop all the way. The subtle pang in his chest of you taking that much notice of him makes itself known. He would be lying if he was to say he didn’t hold a brightly lit candle for you.

You’re a regular, Bradshaw. Get your head out of your ass.

“To be honest,” you start, placing the chilled glass in front of him, “that sounds a lot like something a liar would say.”

He gives you a soft smile as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet. “Well good thing that I’m not one then, right?”

Your heart flutters in nervousness and with about as much grace as a stampede of elephants. You’re positive that Bradley can see the outline of it beating out of your chest.

“No, no, no. Your drink is on the house.”

He shakes his head, forcing the twenty dollar bill that lays in between his fingers next to the scrap paper you have laying near the register. “No, I insist.”

“No, I insist. It’s on me, Bradley.”

He cracks a soft smile as he forces the money into your hand. His fingers wrap yours around the beat-up bill that has definitely seen better days. “That just won’t do ma’am.”

“I”m awaiting Bar results, not living in a shoebox on I-405. I assure you that two dollars and sixty cents won’t break the bank.”

The loud scrapping of a bar stool against the hardwood floor (which will probably leave a noticeable scratch in the hardwood flooring that Penny will pretend not be upset about) interrupts the cocoon of the world that existed with just you and him. Just you and Bradley…and Jake Seresin’s loud ass mouth yelling, “Bradshaw! What the hell, man? Get your ass over here and sing some Journey with me!” across the bar.

He shakes his head in disbelief and if you didn’t know any better (didn’t feed into your delusions, is more like it) you would almost think that he was…disappointed? That he didn’t want to leave you and that he was almost as desperate as you to give each other attention; eyes fully and ears solely attuned to the other.

Hoots and hollers and the sound of his call sign being screamed from his rowdy group of friends make the delusion hard to manage, and the reality finally kicks in that he’s not here for you. He’s here for them.

You wish you weren’t so good at hurting your own feelings sometimes.

“Your spotlight awaits you,” you sigh, trying not to show how dejected you felt to him.

A beat of silence passes before he slides his palms on the front of his jeans.

“Here.” He snatches your blue glitter gel pen off the table, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he begins to write. “Text me the details?”

He offers a slight smile that makes your words catch in your throat; the butterflies dinging around in your stomach begging you to reach out and touch him. To lean forward. To say something. To do something. Anything.

But before you can he’s zipped across the bar and the sound of Call Me by Blondie inflates the room. You look down at the cerulean ink with specks of shimmer in it.

xxx-xxx-xxxx Call me, kid! Bradley B

You’re definitely not gonna call him anytime soon…

“Sweetheart, I love you, but if you dry those glasses one more time I think I’ll have a brain aneurysm.”

Penny snatches the dish towel from your hands as your mouth gapes in silent protest. She throws it lazily on the countertop and snags the crate of beer glasses that you were going to town on away from you. The clinging sound of the dishes makes your head droop with disappointment.

“I wasn’t done yet! They still feel slippery! ”you complain and she just teasingly shakes her head.

“So?”

She winks at you and you have to find it in your heart not to be a little annoyed at her for cutting your task off mid-attempt.

Perfectionism fuels your life and she knows this. She knows that you’re using the glasses to stress clean. She knows that your cousin’s wedding weekend starts on Friday and you’re fighting the urge to tear your hair out. She also knows that you have Bradley’s phone number on a slip of paper that’s burning a hole through your nightstand because you still haven’t called him.

“So?” you ask, lightly mimicking Penny’s statement, “Someone’s gonna drop the glass because they’ve never learned how to hold it the right way and then there’s gonna be glass shards everywhere and they’ll get hurt and-”

“You are such a worry wart, my dear. Reeelaaax,” she interrupts, placing her warm, nimble fingers on your shoulders.

The subtle sunburn you had gotten this past weekend is slowly starting to calm down, but the initial sting still startles you. She can see the small happenings of a frown starting to form on your lips and she decides to frown along with you. She spins you to face her and holds your forearms in her hands, offering them a gentle squeeze of encouragement.

It’s not a secret that Penny Benjamin takes pride in knowing her staff well and loving them even better. In the five months she’s gotten to know you, she’s taken you in as one of her own without making her love for you about her. That was kind of her thing; knowing all without having to be told and giving so selflessly without having to ask if you were in need.

Penny just got it, and it’s hard to find people like that nowadays; people who love you genuinely and truly expecting nothing in return.

The thought of her warmness makes you sniffle, and you’re sure that if the jukebox wasn’t turned on and playing some Beach Boys tune, the tears would’ve made their way down your face at a speed that Formula One drivers would envy.

“I know what it feels like to have your every movement judged and not being able to say anything to defend yourself,” she starts, “But you’re smart. You’re kind. You’re so important. And you’re nothing less than amazing, so don’t let anyone treat you like you aren’t.”

You can’t muster up the words to keep the conversation alive. You’re sure that all that would come out of your mouth is a blubbering mess you don’t feel like trying to force out in between choked sobs. Besides, the car doors closing in the parking lot alert you both to the Wednesday night crowd making their way in.

You settle for a small “thank you” before she cracks another smile at you; lips quirked up in amusement. She saunters off to the back to grab the bucket of prepped lime wedges.

“You never have to thank me for the words you deserve, sweetheart. Those are on the house.”

You snort before wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Only she could manage to subdue the mini meltdown brewing in the depths of your chest. But Penny was just like that.

Always calm, cool, and collected.

The night moves slowly in a frame-by-frame manner (one that emulates the night you asked Bradley to be your date, but you shake the thought whenever it tries to enter your head because you think you may actually puke). It’s nothing too out of the ordinary for a Wednesday night.

Mickey and Mariella pop in for mango margaritas after their weekly date night. Mickey gives you a small “hello” before flashing you a knowing smirk. You try to ignore Mariella swatting at his chest, but the imagery eats you up inside. You know that he knows and that she knows, and not taking the steps to actually ask Bradley to a wedding you invited him to makes you feel guilty.

He picks up on your guilt when his eyes catch you twisting your ring around your pointer finger. His eyes soften and he almost considers apologizing to you before he thinks about it. Bringing more attention to it would embarrass you more, he figures. The apology sitting on his tongue is swallowed down with a sip of his drink and Mariella’s kick to his shin.

“Well, we’re about to head out. We’ll see you Friday?” Mickey declares as Mariella narrows her dark eyes at him.

Your heart stops and your fingers feel numb.

Fuck. He wants to bring up Bradley. What do I say? Fuck. Shit. Wait. How does he even know? Has Bradley brought me up? Fuck, wait. He wouldn’t do that. Why would he even be talking about me? He probably told them that I’m obsessed with him and he was cornered and couldn’t say no and-

“Uh? Are you good?” Mickey looks at you with soft eyes and waves his hand in front of your face.

Mariella slaps it down from in front of you. “Don’t do that. She’s not a fucking dog, Mick.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Duh. I know that. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t having a seizure or anything like that.”

“A seizure?”

“They’re called absence seizures. Went down a whole YouTube rabbit hole about them a couple of nights ago.”

You chuckle at their antics and can’t wait for the day they finally have their wedding. At least when the time comes you know you won’t have to forge a story about having a boyfriend. And it’ll be a wedding filled with people you actually like; ones that don’t make you order water out of feeling insecure about how many calories you’re consuming or ones that gossip about the shade of blush you wore making you look too “flushed” behind your back.

“I go down rabbit holes all the time,” you chide, “I watched this documentary about the Pentagon Papers and the atomic bomb from World War II the other day, and now I’m confident I could get my Ph.D. in like, Historical American Screw-Ups.”

Mickey and Mariella let out chortles at your statement before starting to head toward the exit.

“Well, we’ll see you later then. Tell us about that wedding on Monday?”

Your mouth hangs open as they stride out the front doors of Hard Deck. The shock of what just happened makes your heart beat erratically.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He told.

Mike Metcalf sits at the corner of the bar top on his regular stool with his sweating glass housing a whiskey neat. He sends you a teasing smirk as you move near him to wipe the countertop down.

“Still haven’t texted him?” he asks.

The shock continues to run through your body. You have to place your hands on the edge of the table to keep yourself from stumbling over.

Why does everyone in this bar know what’s going on?

Admiral Metcalf was friendly with you - one of those regulars who offer you engaging conversation, tidbits of grandfatherly affection, and generous tips.

You would tell him not to tip you so much for a single drink, but he would always insist; quoting something along the lines of you reminding him of his granddaughter and that you treated everyone with such kindness and respect that you deserved it back tenfold.

You take a deep breath, arms pushing you up slowly to stand upright. “I’m scared to ask how you know.”

He chuckles, a real belly laugh, and you struggle to find out why you can’t piece together a logical explanation for how he would know.

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” He shrugs before taking a long drink from his glass. “Thought it sounded like you. I meant to ask about it the other night, but once you turn eighty you forget things at the drop of a hat.”

“Smart and sweet?” you want to ask, but you know that it would confirm rather than get you the answers that you want. You shake your head to dislodge the thought before furrowing your eyebrows.

“. . . Baby Goose?”

The older man plays with the paper coaster underneath his drink. A soft smile blooms on his lips. “We’re talking about Bradley Bradshaw. Correct?”

You start to drum your fingers against the lip of the bar top. The thought of lying briefly crosses your mind until the sound of James Brown’s shriek at the beginning of “I Got You (I Feel Good)” startles you.

“Uhh, hello? You still there, kiddo?”

I have got to get better at answering quicker.

You straighten your spine and pop your hand on your hip. “Wouldn’t the correct terminology be ‘gosling’?”

He raises his brows, “Rooster. Baby Goose. Bradshaw. Gosling,” he rattles off, counting the phrases on his fingers, “Does any of this ring a bell?”

You chew on your lip. The toe of your sneaker slides underneath the sole of your other one. The fidgeting tells Admiral Metcalf all he needs to know.

“Maybe,” you say under your breath.

“Maybe?” he questions. He leans forward to investigate your expression with his eyes.

Another sigh exits your lips. “Okay, well, maybe a little.”

You sound defeated, he thinks. He decides to investigate even though he can hear his wife’s voice in his head telling him not to. If he turns his head just a little bit to the right, his hearing aid catches the sound of the jukebox. He can’t focus on you talking and his wife’s voice if he also hears the jukebox.

Sorry, Carrie.

His chair swivels a little bit and he wipes his hands on his jeans. “It’s certainly more than a little, kiddo. Especially if you asked him to a wedding.”

You scoff, annoyance painting the inside of your brain. Nosiness is one thing you absolutely cannot stand, and it’s the reason why you insisted on not moving back in with your mom after law school. Working yourself to the bone to study for the Bar during the day while mixing drinks and popping caps off of beer bottles at night seemed worlds better than having your privacy invaded constantly. Tired or private. From where you stand currently, it’s safe to say you picked the latter.

Or so you thought.

“So is this just a thing?” You can feel your heart rate speed up as you start to become defensive. “Like, a trend where all you Hard Deck patrons like to gossip and spread rumors?”

“It’s not a rumor if it’s true.”

You almost roll your eyes but the politeness you were raised with paired with your people-pleasing won’t let you.

“Yeah, but it’s technically gossip if you didn’t hear it from me,” you state directly, “How do you even talk to all these people on the base? Aren’t you retired?”

Admiral Metcalf chuckles. “I may be in bed by 8 every night but it doesn’t mean I’m not social, my dear.”

“Okay, but why would your connections be talking to you about Gosling?” You lean on your forearms and glance at the cash register to make sure someone isn’t waiting to be served. Your eyes glance back to the older gentleman sat in front of you. “Aren’t you guys like. . .fifteen generations removed from each other?”

He gently pats your arm with his calloused palm. “You’re a funny girl.”

“You’re dodging my question,” you frown, sitting up straight and grabbing him his usual glass of water he drinks before he decides to go home.

He mouths a quick “thank you” before taking a sip. “Did it ever occur to you that I was a pilot?”

The wheels in your brain start turning to decipher why he would say that and how it would mean that he and Bradley know each other.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“And a Top Gun instructor.”

“Okay. . .?” You’re starting to get the hint now, but it still just seems like a lot of abstract events put together.

“I taught Maverick and Goose.”

Penny’s “boyfriend, not-boyfriend” who comes in to pick her up or hang out on days when the crowd is as dead as a cemetery. Maverick.

But who’s -

“Goose?” you ask, finishing your question out loud.

“Bradley’s father.”

And shit. Oh shit. Fucking shit!

“I- You- Wait-” you stammer. He simply sips on his water, amusement painted on his features at the signs of your internal panic.

“So that’s how I know. I keep in touch with Maverick and he just happened to mention the absolute mess Rooster’s been the past couple days about this wedding,” he declares, “Which, by the way, is kind of rude to invite someone and then not go into detail about it. Don’t you think?”

Your mouth opens and closes in shock, the magnitude of your recent revelation being endorsed by the silence coming from you.

Your brain can’t even begin to wrap around all the degrees of separation and acquaintances and friendships Bradley has from the bombshell of information that was just dropped on you. This place is just littered with people who probably knew him before he was Rooster; all puppy fat and awkward haircuts. You bet there’s probably a series of his prom and high school graduation photos that circulated from eye to eye.

But this also means that if you go through with it, that if you actually bring him with you to Long Beach this weekend, you’ll become part of that essence of knowing - everyone knowing what Bradley told them and your entire weekend spent with him being a topic of discussion.

You try to get over the dehumanizing feeling that will come with being called “Hard Deck Girl” after this weekend when he inevitably tells Maverick about his weekend who will then tell Iceman who will probably tell Admiral Metcalf. You can’t bear to think about all the snickers and teasing that will come from Bradley’s group of friends.

Hangman loves to tease you already. You don’t think you’ll survive more “pigtail pulling” if word gets out about Bradley having to hold your hand and awkwardly slow dance with you on Saturday.

Admiral Metcalf lets out an impressive-sounding whistle that catches your attention and brings you back to Earth.

“That’s one gorgeous Bronco,” he comments, head turned to look outside the windows of the bar. “Used to have one just like it years ago.”

Your eyes follow his gaze to see the cobalt blue vehicle parked in one of the empty spaces of the parking lot. The headlights fade as the owner steps out of the vehicle and -

Fuck!

He has a soft bounce in his strut. His Raybans are tucked into the collar of his white t-shirt. The light-wash denim of his jeans hugs his legs just the right way. His slightly rosy cheeks and tanned forearms bulging from his shirt make him unmistakable.

Bradley Bradshaw is about to walk into the bar. On a Wednesday night. While the crowd is drier than the Mojave.

And there’s nowhere for you to run.

He has a slightly faster pace set to his walk than he usually does. . . Not like you spend your time watching him walk (even though you do, and you’d rather roll over and die than admit that to anyone).

“Good luck getting him back on that perch,” Admiral Metcalf speaks up. He opens his worn leather wallet and fishes out a fifty-dollar bill. “He won’t fly back up there once he gets off.”

You follow him to the cash register to ring him up. The drawer is opened and the bills counted for his change before he stops you.

“Keep it. Part of your tip,” he says, “Least I can do for all the trouble I’ve caused you tonight.”

You begin to thank him before the saloon-style doors open and Bradley stands dead in the center, hands on his hips and eyes grazing the surroundings.

“Good luck, kiddo. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it,” Admiral Metcalf says before turning on his heel. He claps Bradley on the shoulder as a brief greeting and continues his stride outside to the parking lot.

Your heart starts beating in your chest erratically; a tell-tale sign of white hot panic that makes your knees buckle and heat grow on your scalp.

And you’re. . . starting to sweat?

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Bradley spots you while you stand paralyzed at the cash register. Your fingers are shaky and a lump in your throat starts to form. You feel like a deer in headlights when he begins to stalk forward to approach you.

“I’ve gotta bone to pick with you, missy,” his voice booms, his steps coming to a halt.

His hands spread and turn as he leans on the table; eyes locked on your face.

Your adrenaline kicks in and your feet start to move faster than your brain. A harsh swallow plagues your throat before you book it to the kitchen; french braid slinging heavy on your back and the bucket of lime wedges on your mind.

Bradley zips around the oval-shaped bar top and grabs your waist before you make it out of the opening. His hands squeeze your sides softly. If you were in your right frame of mind, your cheeks would have flushed.

“Uh-uh,” he says, whipping you around to face him. His grip falls to your forearms; holding you firmly but not enough to hurt. “What’s your deal, kid?”

His breaths are exasperated. When he left work today, he had no idea that he would be chasing you around the bar like a goddamn dog who had gotten off its leash. Despite being in good shape (which he takes pride in, given the number of shirtless runs he does in his neighborhood) he still finds himself a little winded.

Your eyes are almost bulging out of your head. His touch feels electric and you feign the ability to even think about opening your mouth to respond. Bradley Bradshaw is here, right in front of you, and almost holding you hostage.

Hostage is dramatic, you think. But so is chasing me.

“I-” you start. Another harsh swallow forces its way down your throat. At this point, you think that swallowing your spit is the only way you can remind your body to breathe.

Bradley’s eyes soften at your frazzled state. He takes his hands off of you and drops them back to his sides.

“I- I need to get the lime wedge bucket,” you rush out, the entire sentence sounding like one phrase.

“Let me come with you,” he says.

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You’re not allowed back there.”

“Yeah well, you’re not allowed to ghost me about a wedding you invited me to, but look where we are,” he counters back. His legs start toward the kitchen hidden behind gray steel doors near the back.

You stand frozen; trying to catch your breath and looking around to still see an empty bar with no signs of life.

“Are you coming or not?” he calls out, a smile on his face juxtaposed to the annoyed expression he wore a few minutes ago when he caught you.

And if it were anyone else, you would be utterly annoyed. You would refuse and start rattling off how it’s a health code violation for patrons to be in the back serving area or how it was inappropriate or how you didn’t want anyone to come in and clean out the Hard Deck while you were distracted.

But because it’s Bradley and because you have this stupid big fat school girl crush on him, you don’t say anything even though you so badly want to.

He’s already a little annoyed with me, you think. He doesn’t want to hear me ramble on top of that.

Your sneakered feet follow him into the terracotta quarry-tiled kitchen in the back. He moves to the side to allow you to step in front of him in pursuit of the infamous lime wedge bucket you had your heart set on.

The silence between the two of you is deafening, but you can’t even rub two of your brain cells together to form a coherent sentence that won’t leave you hunched over in embarrassment. Having a crush as an adult is downright embarrassing. But having a crush as an adult on an older, more refined adult is absolutely humiliating.

The industrial refrigerator stands sleek and tall. The door weighs as heavy as it looks and you damn near pull your shoulder out of socket every time you attempt to open it. More than often, Penny has to come save you and open it because you can never seem to get the resistance of the rubber door gasket to give way.

Thankfully, the door opens with a heavy tug and the bucket of limes was left on a shelf you could reach. You pop the fridge door closed with your hip before you start a fast-paced walk back to the bar; leaving Bradley behind to scramble up to you once again.

In hindsight, your body language and lack of talking makes you seem furious and annoyed. And maybe you are, but it’s mostly frustration and annoyance pointed at yourself because you can’t just be fucking normal.

No, because you have to be the odd one out of your family. You have to be the one cousin who got dumped by her “perfect” dentist boyfriend (who treated you terribly, but you never complained aloud to your family for your fear of being called ungrateful and unbecoming). You have to be awkward and sensitive and young with a silly-ass schoolgirl crush on a gorgeous man who David of Michelangelo envies.

The bucket of lime wedges is slammed on the counter before you realize what your hands are doing.

Bradley rounds in front of the cash register, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, kid,” he whispers, “I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

A wave of guilt breaks the tide in your brain. He’s apologizing, and it’s sincere. It’s certainly not anything you’re used to. Usually, everything is your fault and you find yourself pushing your feelings aside to accept a half-assed apology.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you to something that’s such a big deal and then refused the details,” you say.

And you should stop there, you know, but you do that stupid thing you do about having to over-explain everything and keep going. Word vomit to the maximum.

“I mean, I think I kind of bombarded you about it? I know you said that you would go and that you didn’t mind, but it’s really a lot to ask of someone to come with you and fill in for your ex in front of your shitty family who has a cow because you didn’t get married right after undergrad.”

You rock back and forth on your heels and you pinch your fingers together to help soothe yourself. The anxiousness exuding off of you is obvious and Bradley can’t help but feel extremely guilty for making you feel horrible on top of what feelings you were already dealing with.

“You can really say no, Bradley. My feelings won’t be hurt if you do. Honest,” you whisper, finishing your statement.

Feeling small isn’t foreign to you in the slightest.

His eyes soften even more. He recognizes the doubt written all over you. He’s felt that way so many times before.

“I said what I meant, and I really wanna go to that wedding with you. Honest to God, I mean it,” he says, taking a seat on a stool nearby. “I just need to know what the plan is so I can pick you up and everything. Don’t want my suit to clash with your dress now, do we?”

A small giggle leaves your lips. “Alright, Casanova. You’ve convinced me.”

He extends his hand out to you. “Deal?” The large palm looks inviting, but you’re sure the adrenaline coursing through your veins has made your hands clammy.

Your brows knit together and your lips pull themselves into a straight line. “What the hell are you doing?” Suddenly, you’re self-conscious about the potential armpit stains that may have soaked your tank top.

Goddamn nerves.

He contorts his expression into one of faux offense. “Making you shake on it. What the fuck does it look like?”

You let out a breath through your nose. “I mean, exactly that, but don’t you think that’s too. . .”

“Sophisticated? Formal?” He grins as if he had just won the lottery.

“Little Rascals -esque.”

Bradley kisses his teeth before laughing. “You’re never too old to relish in the magic that’s The Little Rascals.”

“What happens if I don’t shake?” you question, fingers drawing circles on the surface near the cash register, “Will I be a target of the He-Man Woman Haters Club?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t confirm but I can deny only if you shake on it and promise me a dance.”

You shake your head before he finishes his sentence.

“I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Then I’ll make sure my dress shoes are steel-toe,” he reasons, shrugging his broad shoulders. His biceps subtly flex and you almost bite your lip but the fact that he’s so close and can see your expression makes you withhold.

“You really wanna go still?”

“How many times do I have to say yes, kid? I want to go with you and I promise you that we’ll have the best time ever. Is that clear enough?”

Penny waltzes back in before you can answer. Her eyes hold a mischievous glint as they look at the interaction going on between you and Bradley. She sends you a soft wink before she joins you behind the bar.

“Bradley!” she greets with a grin, coming to come rest next to you and in front of his seat.

“Hey, Pen. Mav taking you out on the bike today?”

She subtly bumps your hip with hers. She’s about to stir up some trouble.

“No, no,” she sighs, “I have to close up here tonight so we’re going this weekend.”

Bradley nods as you stand frozen next to her.

“Speaking of weekends,” she chirps, “What are your plans, Bradley?”

I love Penny. I love Penny. I love Penny. If I say it enough, I won’t wanna kill her.

“Oh, the kid and I were planning on going to her cousin’s wedding in Long Beach. We were actually just talking about it,” he answers as Penny lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Oh thank God. The suspense of if she was actually gonna talk to you about it was killing us.”

“Us?” you ask, voice filled with irritation and concern.

“Me, Pete, Tom, Mike,” Penny lists, “Jake and Rueben started a money pool. Guess Hangman’s a hundred and twenty dollars richer now.”

You groan and pinch your nose between your fingers as Penny takes your shoulders into her palms and rubs them. She picks up a crate of shot glasses before turning to leave.

“Bradley?” she calls, and his ears perk up.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Stay out of my kitchen,” her eyes narrow playfully, “That’s a health code violation.”

He holds his hands up with a grin. “You got it.”

“You kids have fun this weekend. Gonna have to take tons of pictures and show them to me!” she exclaims before disappearing behind the same steel doors Bradley had followed you into earlier.

A beat of silence passes; partly because you’re so stunned by what had just occurred.

“So,” he clears his throat, “Now that I know you’re old enough to have watched The Little Rascals, what’s the plan? Like is this an overnight thing or a reception thing or?”

You perk up at his question.

“Oh, umm.” You subconsciously pick at your cuticles before forcing yourself to stop. Your mom and aunt would be disappointed to see them ripped to shreds. “So I kinda - well, it’s an overnight thing but we definitely don’t have to stay overnight.”

He nods his head, ears intently listening to what you’re saying. You think he’s nodding his head to queue up a firm decline to your plans despite his insistence on going with you.

“I mean, you don’t have to! You can like, drive home and come back the next day? Or not go to the rehearsal dinner and just meet me at the wedding? I just know that sleeping in the same room is gonna be weird and I think my room reservation only has one bed because like I said, I had a boyfriend whenever they booked it and I never changed it after we broke up and-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he interrupts your word vomit, “Breathe, kid. Breathe.”

You take a deep inhale in and you want to kick yourself for doing it at his request.

Are you just gonna do whatever Bradley tells you to do, or do we actually have a fucking mind of our own?

“Why would I leave you hanging like that? Huh?” He licks his lips subtly and you have to keep from drooling. “You asked me to come with you and I’m gonna go the whole time and have a blast.”

You nod your head. Your thoughts and emotions have been bouncing off the wall in a vapid fashion from the two hours you’ve been clocked in.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily.

“Okay,” a laugh jumps from his throat and he leans in closer. “Can I get your number, at least? So I can call you instead and make it easier?”

You’re reaching beneath the bar and grabbing aimlessly at the mason jar full of random gel pens and a roll of open receipt paper that was too short to be put inside the machine but too long to be thrown away.

Lime green glitter ink spells out your phone number on the stark white paper before you wordlessly slide it over to rest near Bradley’s fingertips.

He sends you a smile before pulling out his phone and typing the number into the keypad. You have to look away because if you don’t, you’re sure you’ll start hyperventilating.

Your cell phone buzzes in your back pocket once, twice, thrice.

“Are you…calling me?” you ask, head tilting to the side to meet his mischievous glint.

“Context clues, kid. C’mon,” he replies. He holds his phone to his ear as he listens to the dial tone.

You stand in disbelief in front of him.

He shoos you with his hands. “Go on! Answer!” he urges.

You sigh and playfully roll your eyes before slinging your phone out of your back pocket. You click the green phone icon on your screen before bringing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Alright, missy. What’s the address I’m picking you up from Friday afternoon?”

Bradley Bradshaw may not be your boyfriend and probably will never be, but he sure knows how to play the part well enough to fool your family. He may even have you fooled too.

“Shit!” you yelp. Your upper body tenses up and you slam your curling iron on the countertop of your bathroom sink.

The strong vibrations of your phone ringing move your device closer to the edge. You scramble to pick it up and bring it to your ear. You didn’t bother looking at the caller ID before answering. Odds are, it’s either your mother or your only cousin that you can actually stand, Hallie.

“Fuck,” you whisper before clearing your throat, “Hello?”

You flash your neck in the mirror, fingers dancing around the irritated baby pink skin surrounding the already darkening magenta wound. The skin feels hot to the touch and you know that its placement makes it look more like a hickey than anything. Your mind starts to wonder if putting makeup on it would be a bad decision.

“Hey, kid.”

Fuck. Bradley. It’s Bradley. I forgot about Bradley!

“I’m outside.” You take a deep swallow that you pray he can’t hear over the phone. “You said the house with the purple hydrangeas near the front steps. Right?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Am I this fucking stupid that I can’t even think of another word to use right now?

The long pause doesn’t make Bradley hang up.

“Kid? You okay in there?” The sound of a car door slamming can be heard through the receiver. You listen to the Carlsons down the street mowing their lawn. A few dogs are barking and the sound of Bradley’s shoes hitting the pavement plays a symphony with the bliss of what is a Friday afternoon at 2 PM encapsulates.

His knuckles rap against your front door and you audibly gasp. Your finger hangs up the phone before sprinting to let him in. The flutters in your stomach make you feel like you might projectile vomit any second. No amount of pep talks you had given yourself in the past two days can prepare you for the events of this weekend; not to mention Bradley and your big fat crush on him being the cherry on top.

You swing the door open; a shocked Bradley staring at you and a frenzied heart damn near beating out of your chest.

“I’m not ready yet!” you exclaim, turning your back and rushing back into your bathroom. You move so swiftly that you don’t even notice the bouquet of flowers clutched in his right hand.

Fuck! The curling iron is still on.

Bradley lets out a laugh. “Well, hello to you too.”

You pick the iron back up and finish curling the piece of hair you had started on before being interrupted.

“Sorry!” you shout back, “Give me five and I’ll be ready to go.”

Bradley lets out a puff of air he didn’t know he had been holding in. If someone had asked him a month ago where he thought he would be spending a Friday afternoon in mid-March, he probably said he wouldn’t know for sure.

Which is true.

He’s worked out a schedule where he’s able to leave work by 11 AM on Fridays and what he does is often a wild card; his Fridays range anywhere from mundane errands to impromptu skydiving endeavors with Coyote and Phoenix. He might even go for a quick afternoon surf session if he feels up to it.

He’ll admit, sometimes he imagines spending his Friday afternoons with you. In one timeline, he convinces you to ride down the coast with him at sunset. Another has you laying on your stomach at the beach with your nose shoved in a book pretending not to be ogling him while he surfs.

Bradley even lets his mind wander to the possible tan lines on your hips and how he would graze his thumbs just beneath your bikini bottoms to feel the fullness of the skin there, but then he realizes how inappropriate that may be, and he lets the thought sit in the back of his brain unwatered and underdeveloped.

Besides, he was raised better than imagining women naked. . .Even though he thinks you’re absolutely stunning both clothed and naked. . .And would love the opportunity to see you na-

That’s beside the point. Get it together, man.

His eyes survey the surroundings of your living room. Throw pillows and blankets. Candles on the coffee table. Books everywhere. Open windows create sunspots on the carpet. A vintage record player on the shelf of your bookcase and your Tango in the Night vinyl playing softly.

He likes to think that in another life (he’s hopeful for this one, but he’s learned what having too much hope does to a person) your blue fuzzy blanket has a home on his cream-colored couch or that your Fleetwood Mac vinyl finds solace next to his Otis Redding and James Brown records.

Bradley takes a seat on your couch. The brown butcher paper holding together the peony floral arrangement he had picked up crunches in his hand. The other pats along to the soft rhythm arrangement in time with “Mystified.” He can smell the faint scent of your perfume and the sounds of life you make, the small gasps and soft humming and whispered curse words, fill him with endearment.

He’s so wrapped up in melting into your aura that he doesn’t even realize that you had left the bathroom until you stood dead in front of him; curled hair, makeup on, and an electric blue dress laying flawlessly on the silhouette of your body.

You make his mouth dry and any words that he wants to say disintegrate with how amazing he thinks you look. Him not saying anything makes you panic and you wonder if you forgot to blend the bronzer near your neck or if your blush was too pink or if there was a piece of hair you had forgotten or if the dress you had on actually made you look like a frumpy version of Aquamarine (a lot of or, or, ors).

Bradley, please say something.

He sits up straighter upon seeing you. The navy blue dress pants on his long legs bring out the green in his hazel eyes. Your heart feels warm at the thought of him matching you; especially after offhandedly mentioning that you were thinking of wearing a blue dress to the dinner rehearsal.

Your eyes glance to his non-dominate hand and spot the pink peonies wrapped in butcher paper. The simple notion of him getting you flowers makes your knees weak, and the fact that he didn’t get them from the grocery store - that it was an arrangement that he had gotten from a florist - makes you wish you were a better woman and weren’t thinking of dropping to your knees right there in front of him and thanking him with a blowj-

He doesn’t even think you look pretty enough to say something. Don’t get too ahead of yourself.

“Oh,” he wipes his empty hand on the fabric of his pants, “These are for you.” He pushes the bouquet forward for your observation.

A smile is center stage on your lips as you grab them from his grasp. “Thank you. This is really kind of you, Bradley.” You turn to head into your kitchen to grab a vase.

She didn’t say they were pretty. Does she even like peonies?

The silence surrounding you both is deafening. If you could ignore the slightly prickly feeling of heat eating away at the hairline on the back of your neck, you can almost forget that Bradley is even here.

But the thing is, Bradley is here. He’s here and so present and you’re gonna have to give your poor heart a break from beating so fast if you want to survive this weekend without having a stroke.

All the thought does is make you even more nervous (as if that’s even fucking possible at this point).

“Okay, kid. If we’re gonna be together all weekend, this,” he points his finger between you and him, “Ain’t fucking happening. We need to tallllkkkk.”

You swallow. “I -We are talking.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“Okay,” you whisper sheepishly, your bare toe grinding into the carpet. The friction sends a wave of heat to your otherwise numb toes. It’s unconventional, but at least it’s helping you feel something other than anxiety.

He nods his head before standing up. His eyes glance at the gold watch on his left hand. “Well, it’s 2:30 and the rehearsal dinner is at 5. We need to get going if we wanna beat traffic.”

“Okay.”

He sighs, watched wrist coming down to lay his hand flat across his stomach. “Talking means more than just saying ‘okay.’ That’s not a conversation.”

You pause for a moment. The flowers he had brought still rest in between the crease of your inner elbow. More silence ensues. You just don’t know what to say.

He starts heading down your small hallway. The whiff of his cologne kickstarts your reaction.

“Hey!” you say, starting to stalk after him, “What the hell are you doing?”

He snickers. “Grabbing your bags? I was serious about getting a move on. Don’t want your folks to think your boyfriend is a slacker now, do ya?”

Bradley grabs the two bags you had struggled to set outside your bedroom door with ease. You never forget how strong he looks (oggling at a guy three days out of the six you work will do that to you) but you always seem to forget how strong he actually is.

You close your mouth before you begin to drool. Bradley will for sure be talking about this weekend with his friends and uncle. You don’t want to add any more embarrassing details to the story. Besides, your awkward preteen pictures from your mom’s Facebook hadn’t even been brought up yet. Some room needs to be saved for your utter humiliation.

Your feet slide into the pair of heels you had set aside before you scramble to grab your keys and purse. How Bradley can move so quickly is beyond your thinking capacity as you haphazardly take the needle off of your record. Your eyes do a quick sweep over your living room to make sure that everything is turned off so you won’t magically come home to a fire safety example at the conclusion of your weekend.

Now, if you can just make yourself stop feeling so jittery, you might be able to actually manage to fit your key into the lock of your front door.

After what feels like three years (and the embarrassment of knowing Bradley probably watched you struggle), the keys are stuffed back into your purse before you pause on your porch.

A black Ford F-150 sits curbside to your driveway. It doesn’t fit in with the SUVs and small sedans that make up the neighborhood you live in. You had never seen a car like this where you lived at all. Come to think of it, you had never seen this truck ever.

Doesn’t Bradley drive a Bronco?

Your eyebrows remain wrinkled with your puzzled expression as he rounds the back of the car; the resounding noise of the back door shutting makes his entrance known. He opens the passenger door for you and stands next to it.

He squints as he looks up at you. The sun is blazing and he forgot to grab his sunglasses from his side of the door.

“Cold feet?” he calls.

You start to head down the stairs and onto the pavement. “It’s seventy-six degrees. I think cold feet is kinda ill worded.”

“It’s a saying.”

The crossed arms over your chest signal your apprehension. Bradley stands before you, leaning against the truck and his arm slung on the top of the cab. He raises his brows at you and does a gentle motion of his head to the seat, inviting you to climb in. Even next to the large vehicle, he still looks. . .huge.

In a good way! In a good way. He’s actually really fit and I’m shaking inside and I’m sure I’m sweating and I have got to stop wearing light colors in front of him because he can probably see the sweat and - Oh God. Oh God, the seats are leather. What if I sweat all over them?

The lump in your throat is swallowed as you stand before him. “This isn’t your car,” you say lamely.

He scoffs. “Spying on me? Do you have my license plates memorized too?”

You know he’s teasing and that he doesn’t mean it literally, but you almost answer, “yes” because you do. Thankfully, you’re in the stage of your anxiousness where you clam up instead of puking your words out.

You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowed because of the bright sun.

“How do I know it’s not stolen? What if we get pulled over because it’s stolen?” you wonder, and then the word vomit picks up and - “ I can’t go to jail! I had nothing to do with it and the ABA is gonna pull my Bar application if we get arrested and I spent too much damn money and worked too damn hard to let an F-150 ruin it for-”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters into a small laugh, “I know you love the Bronco,” he gives you a teasing look, “But the Bronco has no air and I figured that since we’re driving two hours on the highway, you would appreciate not having to ride with the windows down the entire time.”

“You still haven’t confirmed that it’s your car.”

“You know, for someone so smart, you are extremely bad at picking up on obvious context clues. Why the hell would I steal a pickup truck and then drive you to a wedding in it?”

You scrounge your brain for a reply. “. . .For the plot?”

He whistles and crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking your current stance. “Wow. I have a comedian for a date.”

“I’m serious. It could be a possibility!”

“Well I don’t think “felon” looks good next to “painstakingly handsome,” so I’ll pass.”

You remain standing in front of him. Stubbornness was a quality that your mother both loved and loathed and you know it, but Bradley has yet to see this side of you yet. Your arms wrap around your torso tighter and your eyebrows are raised every so slightly.

Bradley knows what you’re doing. He used to do it to Maverick all the time when he was growing up. You’re digging your heels in.

“C’mon. Don’t start poutin’ on me before I even get to disappoint you with my dancing,” he quips. He brings his face closer to yours before flashing you a toothy smile.

You sigh dramatically before letting him help you into the seat. The gentle “Atta girl,” he gives you pinkens your cheeks. You pray he won’t notice your flushed face when he sits on the driver's side of the car. Every interaction you’ve had with him has kept you tossing and turning at night because of your nervousness.

So many things you wish you could take back and so many ways you wish you could act normal; a never-ending cycle of “could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” and the thought leaves a small seed of sadness in your stomach.

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askror · 2 months ago

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Question for the diamond cutters. You’re all stuck w/ a set of bunkbeds w/ however many layers you need, who gets what bunk?

“I’ve actually gone through logistics for this,” Lanolin said.

“You… Have? That’s our boss, thinkin’ about everything!” Tangle said proudly. Lanolin reached up to her wool poofs and pulled out a piece of paper with a detailed diagram on it. Said details rendered in, of course, tragically utilitarian stick figure art.

“The absolute, most integral part right off the bat, is that I can’t be between those two. If I am, then they’re going to spend all night whispering sweet nothings to each other and I’m never going to get to sleep.” Her finger pointed at her chickenscratch illustration insistently.

“Would not,” Whisper said, cheeks puffing out a little with surprisingly adorable outrage.

“Yeah, we’d probably pass notes back and forth to each other!”

“The point stands,” Lanolin said dismissively, “So, knowing that, we also know they’re going to want middle-top, not bottom middle. The problem is, both of them are going to want the top. Tangle, because she’s going to want to jump out of the bed every morning dramatically-”

“Okay, now that one’s fair.” The lemur admitted.

“-and Whisper because it’s the highest vantage point to scope out the room.”

Whisper smiled faintly, nodding: “Tactically sound.”

“This is where things become difficult. Further study needs to be conducted to discover whether the resulting nervousness of Whisper would be less disruptive than Tangle forgetting where she’s sleeping and bumping he head every morning trying to do a jump. I’ve been thinking about having Belle run some computations, and-”

“Hey, Lanny, why don’t me and Whisper just share a bed?” Tangle half-lidded and poked her fiancee in the arm a couple times, making her fidget. “That would make everything simple, right?”

“First, because that goes against the hypothetical.” Lanolin sounded wounded at the mere concept of imaginary rules not being played by. “Second, bunk beds are usually too small for two, so-”

“I could use Pink,” Whisper proffered, “Slice the beds into three separate ones, and-”

“No! That’s extra against the hypothetical. The challenge is-”

“Hey the question says as many layers as we need. Wait, I could have like… An omega-super-fifteen-story bunk bed tower!” Tangle clapped her hands together excitedly and her eyes began to sparkle. “And that way we’d all have plenty of space! Me ‘n’ Whisper can be near the top, Whisper can build a sniper deck and I can build a diving board!”

“Good thinking,” Whisper nodded, smiling fangily and squeezing Tangle as a reward for this genius play. "That’s our answer. Tangle’s fifteen story bunk bed tower. Thank you for the question.”

“But that’s… You.. I… Ugh!” Lanolin was left to stew, balling up he diagram and just tossing it over her shoulder.. Some people just had no respect for the fun of playing everything by the most conservative version of the rules

#whisper the wolf #tangle the lemur #lanolin the sheep #sonic idw #road out of ruin

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chasedeys · 3 months ago

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do you write any rpf, like on Ao3? I’m new so idk if you’ve posted about it or not but IM LITERALLY OBSESSED with your answers to any anon ask. I would read a whole ten page essay from you about joemarr and im not joking. anyways, i love anything you post!!

hiiiiii loveeeee, thank you for liking my thoughts on joemarr!!! kind of self conscious abt it honestly bc im drawing up conclusions abt them technically without any basis but yeah 😭❤️ (also english is very much not my first language so i struggle to word things so saying you'd read a 10 page essay from me is very <33333)

i have written and posted 1 (one) fic and its a ja'marr gets nipple piercings fic lmaooo and opposite to the way it sounds it's not even horny or even tender horny its just like full of love and devotion ahaha no but really don't expect much please

some extra under the cut wkwkwk

SORRY BUT im taking advantage of this ask to add a whole unfinished 2k- jumble of another fic i was working on but probably won't finish bc the lack of full understanding of how contract and free agency works and like refusal to actually research shit bc i get stupid sad thinking about it so:

Joe stares down the stretch of the field, Ja’Marr standing by the rest of the receivers laughing as Chuck and Andrei try to playfully (....maybe) murder each other via sumo wrestling moves that are definitely not regulation. He’s just wearing tights today for bottoms–so the delicious tautness of his thighs are free for Joe to gaze hungrily at. Truck, 30 yards in front of him very patiently waiting to catch his warm-up throws, has cleared his throat three times in the past 45 minutes for Joe to tear his eyes away from Ja’Marr Chase and throw the damn ball.

It’s torture. It’s love, devotion.

It’s disgusting levels of Down Bad.

(joe gets introspective throughout practice post ravens lost yada yada they go back home, joe invites jamarr for sudden cheat day meal at like 2 am)

Ja’Marr shows up in his front door bleary eyed and sleep rumpled. He’s decked in thick flannel pajama pants that absolutely do not look cheap, dark grey geaux tigers hoodie with purple LSU letters that clashes with the red of his pants, last season’s bengals beanie that also clashes with the rest of his outfit colors, and gucci slides…that also clash with the rest of the outfit. It’s a mismatched sort of vulnerability that twists up Joe’s insides. Here’s his north star wrapped up in all the things Joe cherishes.

Ja’Marr turns up his nose when he finally finishes yawning right at Joe’s face and notices Joe with his raised eyebrow looking up and down amusedly at his outfit.

“Shut up,” he says. “It’s a 2 am non-party night. Like hell I’m dressing up pretty for you.”

Ja’Marr’s always pretty to Joe, but that’s fine.

“I didn’t say anything.” Joe replies back, moving to the side so Ja’Marr can drag his feet inside the threshold, “I don’t judge you for your fashion taste.”

Joe cleverly dodges the foot being kicked back to his side. Amazing reflexes, of course.

“Where’s this hearty meal you promised me?” Ja’Marr just talks loudly over the dig Joe makes at him.

“On its way. DoorDash says it’s 7 minutes out.”

“Did you get extra cream soup?”

“Yeah, of course.”

(yada yada some banter some cute shit wanted to describe them sitting in joes billion dollar custom renovated kitchen that i would stress out is 'modern and kitschy' with different shades of pink for accents)

He’s been making insane catch-and-runs, Joe reflects. Offers to his agent would be stacking up starting next year, his last year in his contract with Cincinnati.

“It would be easier.” Joe says, throat cramping. “If you want to trade.”

Ja’Marr’s hands stutter and his stupid little butter knife clatters to the table.

“What?”

Joe darts his eyes to the other man, a millisecond glance and he’s gazing back to his ice cream. The receiver’s voice had been harsh, choked up in surprise. Joe feels his insides curdle even worse.

“Just–” he starts, a mess of thoughts jumbled in his head, “if you wanted to. I would understand. Your stats are amazing. If Duke’s still gunning to be an idiot and wait for your contract to dry up before resigning, you can–”

Here he pauses. Saying things makes it real. Saying they’re not a championship level team made him want to gouge his eyes out. Saying how Ja’Marr could leave him would possibly end his life as he knows it.

But Ja’Marr deserves to know Joe won’t hold him back. He refuses to. So:

“If you want, you can sign up for free agency. Next season.”

Well.

Ja’Marr’s face is heartbreaking to see. Joe feels the corner of his mouth drag down, his eyes are fucking burning, his throat is closing up, his hands are clammy, his ears are ringing, his neck is cold but his head is on fire.

“Do you–” Ja’Marr starts, but his voice is cracking, so he has to start over again. He’s scrunching his eyes shut and his mouth is quivering and Joe feels like he’s clumped up dirt under a needlessly expensive boot.

Twice this season now he’s caused Ja’Marr to look like this. At least this time he’s not pushing him physically, but with the way Ja’Marr’s trembling all over this might just be worse. God, Joe can’t even blame being in Kansas City for this. This time, Ja’Marr isn’t hiding from the thousands of eyes scrutinizing him from the bleachers, from across the field, from the houses of unknown fans through LED screens. The agony is clear in the widening of his eyes and the curl of his mouth and the crack of his voice.

“Do you not want me?”

Just the barest whisper like Ja’Marr’s vocal cords has up and left. Joe feels insane thinking of the heart-clenching anymore? Ja’Marr doesnt say.

Joe’s mouth falls open but no sound comes out. There isn’t a single universe in the hypothetical collection of potentially diverse multiverses Joe believes in, that a Joe Burrow wouldn’t want Ja’Marr Chase to stay by his side. But would saying this to the other be right?

He takes too long to answer. Ja’Marr’s face shuts down, going cold.

“Wow, okay, fuck you.”

Joe flinches back at the viciousness of the curse. He has never once in his life been the direct recipient of Ja’Marr’s brand of tiger claws defense, teeth sharp, no mercy.

“I cannot believe you. I thought we were fine now! We’re on the same page again! I leave that contract bullshit behind, you fixed your anxiety over your wrist, but, what, another fucking shitty pick and you don’t think I got it anymore? Fucking free agency, shut your stupid fucking mouth, Joe Burrow, before I do something I regret.”

Joe’s hands automatically flashes to settle the plates rattling when Ja’Marr abruptly stands up and slams his hands to the table. He’s looking up at him now, still sitting down on the bright pink stool in his billion dollar kitschy kitchen with Ja’Marr Chase looming over him in fury.

“I followed you here! To fucking Ohio. I hated the idea of even stepping foot in this state before I fell in love with this fucking city! I did it because of you! I have said multiple fucking times that I’m not leaving you. I said to the fucking media that you were like a god to me, are you fucking kidding me? I bullshitted my way through all those disgusting interviews trying not to say the wrong thing and still having people say I’m stalking you or some shit because I can’t help word-vomitting over you! I have been this fucking close–”

Ja’Marr shoots his right hand up right in the space between them, pressing his thumb and pointer finger so close the skin whitens.

“–to saying to fucking Hobs that I’m ass over tits in love with you! And now you’re telling me it’ll be alright if I leave? That it'll be easier? Just because, what, this stingy ass poverty franchise doesn’t know how to handle its players unless they’re you? That we keep losing even when you throw fucking bullets and I run across the entire fucking field from endzone to the endzone for 60 points? Joe Lee Burrow, I swear if I loved you less I would kill you.”

Ja’Marr finishes his rant with another slam on the table like he needs one more outlet for his anger. He’s heaving breaths, tears running down his cheeks (god, no), face all twisted up. Through Joe’s frozen state, he could see Ja’Marr’s face pale rapidly as he fully realizes what he’s said. Mouth always running a full minute over his brain.

God.

Joe stands wobbly quick when Ja’Marr stumbles around the table towards the kitchen doors.

For all that Joe unashamedly lies over how fast he is–(’i am fast, ja’marr. I can outrun you.’ ‘be so for real right now.’)–he can never outpace Ja’Marr. But for this one thing–this one thing–Joe slams against a blurring Ja’Marr and uses the momentum and extra inches and pounds he’s got over the man to cage him against the nearby fridge.

Ja’Marr yelps as his back rattles against the fridge doors, magnets and receipts and photos and post-it notes not trapped between him and the door fall to the floor. One of those brightly colored humanoid magnets slam against Joe’s left toe. A polaroid of Joe and his Mom somehow balances perfectly right on top of Ja’Marr’s head before fluttering away when Ja’Marr shakes his head in furious disbelief. His beanie had fumbled off his head in the initial tackle, lying on the ground right next to Joe’s right foot.

Joe’s left hand is pinning his man’s right shoulder against the fridge door, hips flushed against him, a leg between his thighs, right arm tucked against the side of Ja’Marr’s waist, face right up against each other like every other overly enthusiastic helmet slam in the field after a ridiculous yard run–but there’s no helmet this time, and there’s no reason for Joe to hide how his eyes slide down the length of Ja’Marr’s face to his lips, letting his gaze linger deliberately long.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ja’Marr blusters, cheeks going deep red, eyes pinballing widely over Joe’s own features (to his lips even! how exciting.), hands curling on each of Joe’s elbows with his nails biting down through the thick fabric of his sweatshirt over his skin. “What, are you going to hit me? Break my heart? You already did, asswipe, no need to be an annoying overachiever this time! Get off of me, I swear–”

“I don’t want you to go. I never want you to leave. Ever.” Joe cuts him off brutally. Let this be the firmest truth he’s ever said in his life. “I asked you to come here. I always want to play football with you. I always want random midnight DoorDash dinners with you. You keep saying insane shit about me in interviews, have you heard me talk about you? The last KC presser I had to hold back saying I hurt you in front of 50 people sitting down with their laptops open looking at me like I’m a bug to study. I have never been normal about you. You drive me insane, stop staring at me with those cow eyes. Who the fuck lies about dressing their friends up in magazine interviews? And that fucking photoshoot! Were you planning on killing me? Tee sends me your Instagram training pics from back in May like once a week to torture me! I nearly blocked his ass, Ja’Marr, shut up.”

(like. i want the speech to be more?? idk more emotional in the confessional aspect but alas i don't know how to write shit out)

Ja’Marr looks back at him wide-eyed. He hasn’t really said anything throughout Joe’s turn of ranting, but even so Joe needs him to shut up, genuinely. This beautiful, beautiful man doesn’t know Joe loves him. Stupid. Stupid.

“Ja’Marr.” Joe says, low and hoarse. He slides his hands up to cup at his cheeks now that Ja’Marr isn’t pushing his weight back at him. The wetness of his cheeks from his previous tears seeps into Joe’s skin. “I love you.”

“Oh, wow.” Ja’Marr just says back, hoarse and dumb. This man, Joe swears.

Whatever.

Joe kisses him hard and gets dizzy with it. Ja’Marr chokes in surprise, but gets with the program quick enough.

The side of his nose presses against Ja’Marr’s, he’s biting at his bottom lips, his lashes brush against the cold wetness of his cheeks, his hands press hard against the side of Ja’Marr’s neck and he feels like he can count each heartbeat against the tender skin of his wrists pasted to Ja’Marr’s jugular.

“Hi,” he murmurs over his man’s lips, heart feeling so fucking full.

Ja’Marr laughs against his lips incredulously, eyes screwed shut and lips stretched stupid wide. The prettiest thing Joe’s ever seen in his life. Insanely, he feels that if he were to play all 12 games of the season left this morning right after separating himself from Ja’Marr, he’d throw over 300 yards each. Things love could fuel you to do–winning a championship of a sport he’s thrown his entire heart in, with a man who’s gripped it tight since he knew how to throw it to him too.

“Dumbass,” Ja’Marr murmurs back, nudging his nose to Joe’s for the softest nose kiss Joe has ever experienced, “hi to you too.”

ok bye

#ask #joemarr #twice I've written joe slamming jamarr against walls and wall adjacent how exciting #anyway u didn't expect this i know lol but i have to get it out somehow and i was never going to really finish it so i took advatange sorry #thank u for asking!!!!!! hearts <3 #nfl rpf #my writing #you can probably see how biased i am writing these but oh well #do i tag their names or

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myfandomprompts · 2 years ago

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𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏)

Synopsis: You are a French girl that had the opportunity to teach in Manchester, and you had been lucky enough to be granted a bed at the Bennett’s place. As Europe is on the brink of war, you start to worry for your family back at home, and you are surprisingly consoled by the one man of the house you would never have thought capable of landing you an ear. It’s not that you like Tom, is it? Masterlist

Tags: fluff, angst, little slow burn, next part will include more tags (wink)

It was late, and you were in the Bennett’s living room, unable to sleep and because you didn’t want to bother Lois who was already sound asleep upstairs with your light, you had chosen to read on the couch, literature distracting you.

It has been three wonderful months in Manchester. The place was lovely, the people welcoming, the school you had begun to teach at everything you hoped for, and the Bennetts were absolutely adorable with you. Douglas was sweet, and had many stories to tell, Lois was kind and funny, and you two had got along pretty quickly. Even Tom, when he was around, was making efforts to be as delightful and troublesome as usual.

You had found the place by your connections, your brother playing in a band with a trumpeter named Eddie, whose wife happened to be Lois’s best friend. And now you were sharing the bedroom upstairs with her, having taken Tom’s bed as he now slept on the couch. He had not complained once about it.

The first time you met him, he had entered the house mere minutes after you had arrived, having just finished introducing yourself to his father and sister. You heard him before seeing him. “So, the reason I have to sleep on the couch from now has arrived, eh?”

His tone was playful, but you still felt guilty nonetheless as you turned around to see the infamous Tom, slightly blushing when you saw the tall blond-haired man in front of you, his blue eyes widening faintly as he met yours.

“Tom, be nice,” Lois had said. “This is Y/N.”

You had greeted him shyly, not sure how to act with him as you jokingly apologised for the loss of his bed, but his grin had just grown wider and he had chuckled.

“Christ, are they all this pretty in France? I should pay them a visit, I would be a very happy lad there.”

Douglas had sighed while Lois rolled her eyes, and you had not known how to react back then watching him laugh again before going upstairs with a wink to his sister, satisfied with the way your cheeks had turned pink.

But now that you had been his flirtatious self for over three months, you had grown used to his witty remarks and knew better than to take them seriously. You got along pretty well in fact. One day you had stumbled upon him in the kitchen as he played with a deck of cards, and had offered to teach you how to play. You had never seen someone as skilled with his hands as he was, and you wondered now if this particular talent had anything to do with the two weeks he had spent in prison lately. Regardless, you had spent a wonderful afternoon with him that day.

It was a stark contrast with your current situation, reading late and laying on the couch with the oil lamp as sole light, finding the activity the only efficient distraction from the thoughts that prevented you from sleeping at night. You were quite the anxious person, and since the news that Poland had surrendered and that Europe was on the brink of war, you had grown concerned for your family back in France. The word out was that Western Europe would be next and your family was living too close to the German border for you not to be concerned. The fact that you had not received any letters from any members of your family in a whole week did nothing to appease that worry. So instead of sleep, reading it was, and you were so focused on your book that you did not hear the front door open softly and you jumped when you saw a figure standing in the threshold of the living room.

“Mon Dieu… You scared me!” you gently scolded as you brought your hand to your chest, steadying your heartbeat.

“Sorry love, didn’t mean to,” came the quick response of Tom, fully dressed with his overcoat, his cheeks slightly pink from the cold he had just escaped from.

“Where do you come from this late?” you inquired, shivering as you felt the draught reach you as he took his coat off.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Are you still scrapping for metal, Tom? Can I finally have that tin man you’re building?” you teased as you echoed Lois, watching him as he made his way to the chair across from you, lazily dropping in it and lighting a cigarette between his lips.

“Lois talks too much,” he answered, smoke coming out of his mouth as he spoke. “And you won’t find me doing that again. Don’t plan on going back in a cell this soon.”

He winked at you, but the only thing now on your mind was what Douglas had announced to you this morning. “I heard… Conscientious objector, uh? Your father must be proud, you already have the genes for pacifism.”

“I doubt that. I’m not really into what he believes in so…” his voice was low, contemplative. “Sooner or later, I’ll still be a disappointment. No surprises there.”

“Don’t say that, I know he is proud of you. At least he is glad you’re not on the mend any more. Or in the army.”

“Yeah…I’m a real hero.”

You frowned, saddened by his words but you found nothing to say as he reached for the ashtray next to him. You hoped that one day the man before you would see his worth.

“So, can’t sleep?” he kept on, putting an end to the topic as you stared at the way the smoke passed his lips. “Why are you in the cold like that?”

“I just… thought I would have some reading done,” you half-lied, raising the book in your hands. “But don’t let me keep you from a good night’s sleep. You look like you need it.”

Tom’s demeanour shifted at that and a grin appeared on his lips, looking you over. “Well, I would, but since you’re sitting where I sleep…”

Your eyes widened as you suddenly remembered that he had taken the couch because of you. And now you robbed him of it as well. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of that, I was just enjoying the living room... I’ll leave you be,” you said with slight embarrassment, closing your book and moving to get up.

“No, stay, you're warming up my bed so nicely already, you're not going to abandon me now, are you?" he teased, a sly smile on his lips as his face lit up. "There is enough space for both of us on this couch if we keep close."

The stern look you gave him at his inappropriate proposition amused him for a moment, but soon his anxious and serious expression returned, "No, honest, despite what you think I look like, I'm not tired. So stay. Please."

You hesitated, sensing that like you, he might use the company, but you still did not want to be a bother. He talked again before you could come to a decision.

“I know you read when you’re anxious, so tell me what’s bothering you. Why you can’t sleep.”

You were surprised for a second by the fact that he knew this about your personality, feeling something in your heart tingle as his blue eyes examined yours, waiting for your answer. "It’s nothing, it’s just, passing insomnia.”

He took another puff of smoke, not believing you for a second, “Worrying about your folks, are you?” he said as you lowered your gaze at your hands and nodded. You didn’t know Tom could be this perceptive, or that his eyes could have that softness you've never noticed before. “They’ll be fine. These Nazis won’t be able to do much if we have a say in it,” he stated, looking at how your pretty eyes had suddenly turned morose.

He didn’t want that. “What if they do anyway? Look at Poland, we weren’t prepared and now here we are. They don’t look like they are gonna stop there. Finland is-”

“You listen to the wireless too much. It’s always bad news nowadays, no point in listening to it if it makes you sad.”

You gave him a sorry smile, internally touched at his simplistic way of seeing things. “Stop listening to the news won’t make Germany stop invading its neighbouring countries Tom,” you replied softly, trying to ignore the way your heart ached at the thought. “What has happened is already so horrifying, I can’t even begin to imagine what it would look like if they really go all the way through with it.”

You felt tears come at the rim of your eyes against your will as you let the words you dreaded to say come out loud. Your lack of sleep was making you prone to strong emotions, and you had kept them hidden for a little too long. “It’s just… so scary. What if I can’t go back, or something happens while I’m here? They feel so far away! What if I end up never seeing them again? What if I have made a mistake coming here?” you went on, voice cracking and barely holding your tears.

Tom had straightened up on his chair. “Of course you’ll see them again,” he firmly said, but when he saw your teary eyes his voice turned soft, and he stood up at once. “Hey it’s alright. You’re alright love. C’me here.”

You watched him come over and sit beside you before wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you gently against him. You blinked at his sudden display of affection but did nothing against it, leaning into him as he pulled you closer, allowing you to rest your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, and you clung to the sound.

“Nothing will happen to them,” he whispered. “If they are half as smart as you are, nothing will get them. Trust me.”

His breath was tickling the side of your face as he talked. You giggled softly, now finding pathetic the way you had reacted due to your lack of sleep. “Thank you, Tom. You’re sweet when you want to,” you whispered, feeling your eyelids slowly flutter from the fatigue.

“I’m always sweet. You’re just not around often enough to witness it.”

“Then I am clearly missing out...”

Then it went dark, and you fell asleep in Tom’s arms. “Not as much as I am, Y/N.”

Tom watched you as your breathing became even, hand itching to prevent a strand of your hair from falling over your pretty face. Had it been anyone else, he would have woken you up and made you go to bed to be more comfortable, but as the minutes passed, he gradually abandoned the idea of moving even an inch as you felt amazingly warm over him. He gently took your book away from your lap before putting the cover over your form and leaned back against the couch, finding a comfortable position of his own.

Your peaceful expression suited you, he thought.

Sunlight filtered through the windows directly into your eyes, and you blinked yourself awake, the smell of smoke and sandalwood tickling your nose. It was nice, but as you realised from where, or from who it came from. Your face was resting against Tom, his chest rising up and down softly as he breathed and you straightened at once, the motion making him shift and blink in turn beneath you. You stayed still while you forced your memories from the previous night to come back. Tom lazily stretched his arm over him before dozing into sleep again. Oh no no no.

“Réveille-toi espèce de-” you scolded, hitting him on the shoulder to urge him awake. “Why didn’t you wake me up! We would both have been better off in our own beds!”

“Hey, easy!” he protested with a giggle, now fully awake and trying to take a hold of your wrists to stop you from punching him. “You’re the one that fell asleep on me, in my bed, and I’m not the one complaining here, love!”

His amused expression annoyed you more than it should have and you cursed in frustration, realising that you had to get ready for work very soon. You were glad that neither Douglas or Lois had woken up early to see you like that.

“If I’m late for school, it’s on you,” you warned, getting rid of the covers he had apparently put over you during the night and pointing an accusing finger at him, standing up to walk upstairs.

“What, I don’t even get a cup of tea as a reward for being your pillow? I clearly deserve it,” he taunted, taking his jumper off and looking at you expectantly.

You sighed, “Fine. But stop guilt trapping me. You still should have woken me up, I’m sure your muscles are killing you right now. No, I hope they are."

“My muscles are fine, thank you. And I would never have dared to wake you up, you seemed so relaxed in my arms, I didn’t want to ruin it for you.”

His grin was enticing but you escaped it by fleeing into the kitchen and processing to make you and him some tea, taking care in adding milk, a thing you had learned British people liked, and you brought one of the hot cups back to him. He was now comfortably laying under the covers, ready to fall asleep again, but he straightened up to take the beverage from your hands, satisfied with the way your nose flared in frustration. But even though you seemed vexed, it did not reflect your thoughts in the least

“Thank you. For listening to me last night.”

Your words made him arch his brow in surprise but his sweet smile quickly came back as he sipped his drink happily. “Anything, Y/N.”

You gave him a half a grateful smile in response before turning on your heels, heading upstairs to ready yourself for the day. Tom smiled at the way the covers were now infused with your scent, and he was glad to fall back to sleep in it.

It was your turn to buy groceries, and you had taken your time in the market today, strolling through products before heading back to the Bennett’s.

Nearing the back door, you were put face to face with a furious looking Tom, storming out of the kitchen and almost bumping into you as you set down your bike against the wall of the small alley. He barely apologised and disappeared into the street. You stayed stunned by the encounter for a moment before cautiously making your entrance in the house where Douglas was sitting at the table, a dismayed expression on his face while Lois was ironing.

“What was that?” you asked, looking between the two. They looked at each other before Douglas spoke.

“Tom enrolled in the Navy.”

You dropped your bags of groceries on the floor. “The Navy? But… what about civil work?” you asked, stupefied.

“Yeah… He is not doing that any more. He changed his mind.”

You glanced at Lois who gave you a sorry look. No wonder Tom looked so upset and Douglas so sullen. “I’ll… find him.”

It had not been very difficult to find Tom. You had strolled around the neighbourhood before deciding to head to the local pub, almost certain that you would find him there. And it did not fail.

As you entered, immediately noticing his back turned to you, elbows on the counter at the front. You made your way to him across the crowd and settled yourself beside him, looking at his now almost empty glass of beer.

“Can I please have the same thing but smaller?” you called out to the barman, making Tom acknowledge your presence for the first time.

He examined you briefly before reporting his gaze on his glass. “Did Lois send you?”

You shook your head. “No, I came on my own. You should not be alone.”

He nodded, taking his glass of beer and emptying it in one gulp.

“So… the Navy, uh?” you tried.

He licked his lips and proceeded to play with the edge of his now empty glass, jaw clenching a bit. “What, are you gonna tell me I made the wrong choice too? Didn’t know you were this much into pacifism. With your folks and all.”

“No, it’s not like that Tom, it’s just a little difficult for your father at the moment. I don’t want you to leave, but it does not mean that I don’t understand your choices.”

His eyes shot up at you as you were handed your drink, not noticing how Tom didn’t draw his gaze away from you as you ingested the cold liquid, warming your throat in the process. When you put down your glass, Tom was still looking at you, a triumphant grin on his face.

“My my, are you saying that you’ll miss me or do my ears deceive me tonight?”

You blushed, opening your mouth to try to think of a witty response. You found none. “Just… Be serious for a minute and listen to what I have to say,” you managed, and he groaned in frustration, ordering another drink as you continued. “Your father loves you, that is why he is so upset. He just… doesn’t want his boy to go away. He lived it himself, he knows how it is, he is scared for you.”

He only made an annoyed sound as he took a sip of beer again, a defiant expression on his face. You try not to question why your eyes had been briefly drawn to his Adam's apple as he drank.

“If you leave things as they are with your father, you’ll regret it. I know you will,” you kept on, willing to not let his pride take the better of him. “When do you leave?”

“In a week,” he replied. “First to Liverpool for training and then off to wherever they send me.”

You bit your lips. You had not known Tom for very long, but you knew that it was unfair that he had to go. You were terrified that war would take away all that liveliness and light he carried around. You liked that about him, even though you didn’t show it.

“At least you’ll get to travel,” you shrugged jokingly, but your heart was not in it. Tom however, seemed to find his humour back.

“That’s true. Maybe to France, who knows? Always dreamed to see if they are all like you there, or if you're some miraculous exception. I hope they are not as serious as you, though, I would be very disappointed.”

You let out a fake scandalised sound. “Me, serio-! That’s not very nice of you to say, Mr. Bennett! I have my moments.”

“What, is the demoiselle jealous?” he smiled, leaning closer, and you could smell the same scent you had woken to several mornings ago in the living room, but this time mixed with the smell of beer.

“No, you’re just being rude,” you replied, forgetting to move away from his ever-closing face. “And your charming smile won’t be able to get you out of my wrath if you keep depreciating me like that.”

He arched a brow, and you knew you had made a mistake. “Charming smile? Well, that’s a first. But do go on, what else do you find charming about me?”

You scoffed, unable to stop the blush from creeping onto your cheeks and chose to hide behind your drink as you took a long sip.

“C’mon, I’ll even let you say it in French, if that’s easier for you,” he pleaded, eyes glittering in mischief as he leaned closer to your ear. “I like when you speak French.”

“Tu peux toujours courir, mon beau,” you said, shaking your head with a smile. You can forget about it, handsome.

“Mhh… What does that mean?”

“It means that you, sir, have drank too fast, and that you should stop there,” you replied, ignoring the way he was now looking at your lips as they moved. “I won’t say anything, but please remember what I said. Don’t avoid your father, don’t make that mistake. Oh, and don’t come home too late," you said, dropping a few pounds on the counter.

“You’re leaving me already? It was just starting to get interesting.”

You could not repress a smile as you internally agreed. “I’m hungry, and I am cooking tonight. Maybe if you behave, I will leave some for you.”

And you turned your heels, letting him there with a lost expression as you made your way to the door, satisfied and your body a little bit too warm. Mere metres from the exit, however, you collided with someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, I wasn’t paying attention,” you apologised, even though it was him that had not been paying any attention to his surroundings as he was talking to his group of friends.

The man turned with an annoyed expression on his face at first, but it quickly disappeared to be replaced by a cheeky smile at your sight, “No to worry miss, no harm done,” he reassured you, touching your arm in a playful manner. “Where are you from? Don’t recognise your accent.”

“Oh, I’m from France. I… didn’t know it was that obvious,” you confess, uneasy at his sudden interest and secretly wishing that you were already on your way home.

“Nah, I just have an ear for it. Staying long?”

“I work here actually. School.”

“Wonderful, it means that we will cross paths again, won’t we? I believe in fate you see, not a coincidence we met like this hon’,” he said, leaning in closer and making you take a few steps back.

You knew it had been no coincidence when his arm collided with yours harshly a minute ago, just plain inattention on his part. Your desire to escape him grew wider by the minute. “Uh, I guess we’ll see about that,” you said, trying to give him a genuine smile. “Now I’m sorry but I must go. Maybe next time!”

The tall man nodded, and you now noticed how gruff he looked. “Alrigh’, to next time then, dove.”

You shyly smiled at him before hastily opening the door and exit the pub, the cold attacking your already shivering skin.

“I work here actually. School.”

“Wonderful, it means that we will cross paths again, won’t we? I believe in fate you see, not a coincidence we met like this hon.”

Tom’s gaze had not left you for a second as he watched you leave, seeing you struggle to reach the entrance of the pub across the crowded place, and he did not miss the way you collided with loud guy either.

The man was a regular named Larry, but Tom usually called him ‘the loud guy’ as he never seemed to ever shut up. The fact was, that lad had already challenged Tom's nerves a couple of times, and his legs were now making their way to the two of you on their own. He had only heard the end of your conversation before he could get close and as you left, reassuring him, Tom was about to make his way back to the counter when he heard Larry’s boisterous voice.

“Pretty this one, and a teacher at that. She could teach me whatever she wants any time, eh?” he said to his red-haired friend next to him. “I’ll bet you she touched me on purpose, the naughty thing. She must get laid pretty easily.”

He then proceeded to have the fattest laugh Tom had ever heard, his friend on the other side only giving him an unimpressed glance, and Tom felt his blood boil.

“You want to repeat that, mate?” he defiantly said, staring straight at Larry who froze and turned at his voice.

“Repeat what? Don’t you know it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations?”

“Well you’re not really whispering there, are ya? You wouldn’t be able to have a private conversation even if you wanted to, with your ugly mouth of yours. Or do you lack the brains to understand that?”

You were right. Maybe he had drank too fast, and maybe although he was as tall as Larry, the fact that he was twice his size did not bode well for him. But he was very crossed right now, and it wasn’t the first time he had got himself into a situation like this one. He could take it.

“Watch it lad, wouldn’t want to damage your pretty face, don’t think your mum would be happy about it, yeah? Now piss off.”

“Big words for someone who talks about women like that. Did your mum forget to teach you some manners?”

Larry’s expression turned dark. “So that’s about the French lass, huh? Frustrated she took interest in a man rather than a boy like you? You wanted a taste, am I right? Well too bad. Let the big men play and piss off.”

Tom didn’t know why this particular sentence had infuriated him that much but it did, and the next moment his fist had landed on Larry’s face, making him reel backward and growl as his nose started to bleed. Rage took him and he punched Tom back in the stomach, making him huff and gasp for air as people started to yell around them, rushing to stop the fight.

“Stop this! Or take it outside!” yelled the barman as someone held Tom back, preventing him from punching loud guy again.

“Gladly,” sneered Tom, but Larry’s friend had another opinion.

“It’s not worth it. C’mon Larry move. I said move,” he insisted, pushing his nose-bleeding mate out of the pub. Tom had tried to follow them, still enraged but the hands retaining him did not let him go until the two men had disappeared into the night.

“You’re alright lad?” asked a man to his right.

“I’m fine,” he growled, shaking the pain from his hand and feeling his torso aflame by the blow he had received.

He didn’t know why he had reacted like that, but as he returned to the counter, he had definitely sobered up.

@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan

Part 2

#tom bennett #wof #world on fire #tom bennet imagine #tom bennett x oc #tom bennett fanfiction #oneshot #ewan mitchell #world on fire 1x02 #wof gif #mygif #angst #short story #fluff #smut #aemond #Tom bennett X reader #gone with regret

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carcarcraziiv2 · 1 year ago

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The Woman with the Pink Hair (Parts 10, 11, 12, and 13 (final))

HERE ARE THE LAST PARTS FOR THE WOMAN WITH THE PINK HAIR! I Sincerely hope you enjoyed <3. I have already started the next story in the series (oooo). Lmk if you wanna see it! <3

This is a Vi x Fem! Reader fanfiction.

Please note that this is the first piece I wrote after a HEFTY (I mean years long) hiatus from writing.

P.S. Lowkey I KNOW there's a bunch of shit I could fix in here to make it better due to my practice over the past year or so, but I just… I'm so lazy rn LOL. Anyhoooooo….

ALSO- here are the TW for you lovelies! (This is for the WHOLE SERIES)-

Violence, mental illness, oral sex, dominant tendencies, torture, kidnapping, plotting?… lowkey there's probably more but you should get the gist here, AS ALWAYS ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK ILY<3

READ PART ONE, TWO, AND THREE HERE->

https://www.tumblr.com/carcarcraziiv2/737189248110821376/the-woman-with-the-pink-hair-p-1-2-3?source=share

READ PART FOUR, FIVE, AND SIX HERE->

https://www.tumblr.com/carcarcraziiv2/738139002294747136/the-woman-with-the-pink-hair-p-4-5-6?source=share

READ PART SEVEN, EIGHT, AND NINE HERE-> https://www.tumblr.com/carcarcraziiv2/739738198020964352/the-woman-with-the-pink-hair-part-7-8-9?source=share

PART TEN - Vi

"What the hell...?", Vi said lightly, scanning the top deck of the ship she just boarded after returning from her confrontation with Kench. She was not in the mood for anything but a drink and to cuddle up with (y/n). Her stomach plummeted when she saw the small pool of blood a few feet away.

Blind panic fills her soul, and she bolts for the stairs. Please don't be gone. Please don't be gone. She thinks to herself, silently pleading to the Gods she wasn't even sure exists. Basically jumping down the small flight of stairs into the cabin of the ship, she notices it is in disarray. The dark wooden table was flipped, and glass was shattered all over the floor. There was a trail of water from the top deck, down the stairs, leading directly to a dead stop in front of the room the two lovers were occupying.

"Fuck, no no no!" Vi yelled, running down the hallway, and bursting into the room. The armoire was open, but there was no (y/n). "Fuck!" Her hands reached up to her hair, pulling as she fell to her knees. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered her head and began to cry.

After a few minutes of sobbing, Vi slowly crept up onto her feet again. No emotion on her face, her eyes glazed and icy cold. She walked over to the chest at the end of the bed and pulled it open. Inside were two large fighting gauntlets. She hadn't used them since all of the bullshit with Jayce.

There is no better time than the present, and she was prepared to destroy anyone in her path to finding (y/n).

--- 🖤🖤🖤 ---

"Please! Please! I'll do anything, just don-" Crack.

The sickening crunch that resounded through the dark rocky cavern made you shiver. Prior to what you assumed to have been the untimely death of some other prisoner down here, the voice had sounded like a young woman, much like yourself.

You did not move as you waited to hear anymore sounds, shuffling, or wet slapping footsteps. Waiting nearly 20 minutes, you finally let out a gasp of breath, and crawled back to your corner where a useless excuse for a bed lay on the floor. It was nothing but a long, dirty piece of fabric. At one point, you were sure, it had been padded.

The cell was entirely uncomfortable, and you were sure you had been there for at least a week at this point. You prayed, which you never ever did, for someone to rescue you. The things that you and Vi shared for some reason did not fully convince you that she would want to go through the trouble of rescuing you. Hell, you didn't hardly know anything about her.

Over the days that you had spent here, they had been sending in plates of slop, you weren't entirely certain of its origin, that smelled like absolute ass. The first few days you refused to eat, and Tahm personally came to inform you that if you didn't eat, he would either kill you or let you starve to death. You were sure no matter what you did, you had a death sentence over your head, but due to fear and your hunger you decided after the third day to finally just eat it. After today's food was delivered, a few hours after the confrontation down the hall, you heard those wet sloppy footsteps approaching the iron gate of your cell.

As the steps approached, you quickly scurried to the very most corner of the room, drawing your knees to your chin as you awaited and prayed that the beat would continue past. To your dismay, the large shadow enunciated by the faint candlelight in the hall stopped right before your door.

"(Y/N), I have some questions for you. Do you wish to comply, or are you going to make me force them from you?" The long-winded question reverberated through your body, making you tense up and tingles run down your spine.

You stayed silent. If there was anything you would do, talking would not be one of them.

The creature let out a defeated sigh, and you held still, not wanting to react. Even as a tear began to fall down your face and the creature wabbled inside, and engulfed you in the rancid large mouth, you still did not struggle.

Mind blank, the only thought in your head was how easy it would be to break you. You had the pain tolerance of a baby and were terrified of what he might do.

As Tahm Kench walked, you sloshed around in the small space you were in. You could feel his long tongue wrapped around you like a rope holding you tight. Although slick and slimy, it did not budge when you dared to fidget ever so slightly. You simply squeezed your eyes shut, and forced the rising bile back down your throat as the journey quickly came to a stop.

He spit you out, and again you landed on a hard floor. Before you had the opportunity to take in your surroundings, two gruff pairs of hands were dragging you off the ground and sitting you onto a lone chair. Looking around, your eyes straining from the brightness, you realized that the sun was shining through a broken window to the left. In fact, it appeared that you were being kept underneath a large, abandoned boating house.

You were quickly snapped out of your realization when the monster began to speak..

"Tell me, (y/n), how do you know Vi?"

Silence.

He let out a soft chuckle, and leaned closer to you, the motion looking hard due to the bulkiness of his body.

"I will give you one more chance, child. How do you know Vi?"

Remaining silent once more, you conjured the spit in your mouth and spewed it directly into the monster's face. He took a moment to wipe the spit off of his face. Turning around, his chubby arms resting at his side, he looked over at one of his minions and nodded slightly before continuing his venture to the other side of the room.

Panic blossomed as you noticed what one of them was holding. In its green, wet hand you saw the sheen of a blade. You leaned as far away as you could as the creature approached you slowly, as if it was enjoying your fear. It leaned in, its face mere inches from your own, it raised the knife and pressed it to your cheek, snickering. It began to slowly press in, when you let out a sharp hiss.

"She's my girlfriend," You said quickly, silently cursing yourself for breaking so quickly. As you realized the shit you were in, you prayed that he would not ask any in depth questions that you didn't know the answer to. You knew they wouldn't believe you.

Tahm turned back towards you, a long smile spreading on it's face.

"Good," He said, and you felt he wasn't simply talking about your answer, but more so the ability to break you.

PART ELEVEN- Unleashed

Getting thrown back into your cell, you were wholly torn apart. The evil menace that had captured you picked you up, crumpled you in his palms, and threw you onto the ground. Entirely spent, you could not sleep, not while you knew that those demons were wandering the halls and rooms above you thinking you are hiding some important information from them.

You aren't.

You hadn't a speck of knowledge aside from the things that you and Vi had shared. Kisses, long gazes, conversations about both of your childhoods. You realized, in that moment, that you didn't even know what her favorite color was. What kind of food she liked to eat or where she liked to go to get away from it all.

You decided that when - if - you got out of this hell hole, you were going to make a point of learning all of those things.

Sighing, you wince as you roll over on the decrepit pad on the floor. Your ribs were bruised, at the least, if not having a few broken. Every breath you took caused a sharp lingering pain to blossom in your torso. There were small lashes on your arms, your face, and you were sticky from the sweat and blood covering your skin. As you laid there, tears falling at their own will down your cheek and onto the mattress, you prayed once more for your savior to find you.

--- 🖤🖤🖤---

--- VI ---

"Tell me where the hell she is, I don't want this to be harder than it needs to be, Illaoi. Please, please just tell me," Vi seethed, her fists where clenched inside the large foreboding gauntlets. Her heart was racing and breaking beneath her white tank top, her thick arms straining with the stress coursing through her veins.

Before her, Illaoi sat in an old brown leather chair, her legs spread and her forearms resting on her knees. Her fists were held together, acting as a podium in which she rest her sodden and tired face.

"Vi, I don't know where he keeps them. I only know where his base is. I am telling you this because I have been bound to that monster for far too long, and I, too, want to get my revenge. But please, you must call down. He has cronies all over the town, some who may be lingering these very halls. Their hearing is keen and sharp, and they will do anything in their power to protect their boss."

"Do you think I give a single shit about that? Take me to his base," Vi spat, her body unflinching as she gave Illaoi the option, no, the order to take her where she needed to go. She would break through every god damn house in Bilgewater if it meant finding (y/n).

"Vi, I ca-,"

Vi slammed her fist against the wall, making the house shake. Dust fluttered off of the shelves and ceiling, littering Vi's shoulders and arms like sad rain.

"Take. Me. There. Now." She said calmly, but her calm demeanor only hid the wrath behind her eyes so much. Illaoi sighed, standing. She was a tall, muscular woman, and her admitting defeat was anything but that. She was willing to fight for what she believed in, even if that meant risking her life. Vi was proud of her for that and vowed silently to forever be in her favor.

After the woman collected her items and put on a few scraps of leather and gold armor on her arms and chest, they left the small apartment that Illaoi must have called home. Vi had located it after cornering Captain Fortune in a pub a few streets down.

It had been 5 days since Vi last saw (y/n), and she didn't dare think about the possibilities of torture, of death, that have been plaguing her little love. She seethed, gritting her teeth and choking down the lump in her throat. She would not cry, not here, not now. Not while she needs to be strong.

Illaoi led her down a few wary streets, venturing down a few blocks from where they started. They ended up at some old rotting docks, the boards broken and falling into the stinking sea beneath them.

"That boat house, down at the end. That is where Kench and his men do their biddings. I will not proceed, but I will be here, waiting. Yell if you need me, and I will come to you. I will help you, for the sake of defeating Kench."

Vi merely nodded, her fists clenching within her gauntlets as she strode towards the decrepit building. The place smelled this shit, like him, and she was not happy about the concept that (y/n) may be here somewhere.

The thought rattled her, that she could be a mere few feet away and Vi wouldn't even know. She silently begged the gods that she was here, simply so that she could rescue her as soon as possible.

Approaching the large rusted doors, Vi didn't care about silently entering. She slammed through them with her gauntlets, making the whole building shake as the door shattered in front of her. She stomped in, over the broken wooden splinters littering the floor. Across the warn concrete floor, there was a table of cronies playing cards and shooting shit with each other. They all looked up in unison, gaping at Vi before everything broke into chaos.

Two of them approached her, unsheathing sharp twisting blades and stalking in her direction. Vi cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders, and snarled as she began stalking towards her.

The one on the right lashed out, and she quickly parried it by bringing her massive metal fists up and smashing it against its body, making it fly to the wall beside them. It slunk to the ground, grunting with no appearance that it was going to stand. The second one ran at her, and she turned 45 degrees to her right, launching her fist into the creature's face. A sick crunching sound reverberated through the building, and it fell to the ground before her.

It held its nose and whimpered slightly as Vi lent down to grasp its dirty hole ridden shirt. She lifted it, her face a mere inches from her own.

"Where is she?" She snarled.

"I don't know who you're talking about," the creature snickered back. She could tell it was lying and that made her even more feral.

"I will cut out your tongues and feed them to your cowering brothers," she threatened, pointing at the two others who were running towards a door in the back of the building.

A door she hadn't noticed before. A door she was sure led to the very captor she was looking for.

She shoved the monster to the ground, and it grunted on impact as she raised her fist again and punched his face into the ground. When she stood, the creature did not stir. She wasn't sure if it was dead or not, but she didn't care. The other that she had fought was still on the other side of the huge room, its body slouched against the base of the wall.

Quiet, almost silent screams echoed below Vi's feet.

She's here. She's here. She's here.

Vi stormed towards the back of the room, slamming into the door. Those fuckers locked it, she thought. She didn't hesitate for a second as she brought back her fist and slammed it into the iron door. It didn't move but a smidge, and so she hit it again, and again. Finally, the bolts broke from their spots and the door shot open, not falling off of its hinges. A musty, sodden smell drifted up the stone stairs that Vi stood atop of.

Another scream echoed through the chambers below, this time much louder than before. She could hear shuffling, and the sounds of grunting as she assumed whoever was screaming was being dragged away.

She cascaded down the steps, now more alert to her senses as the darkness encompassed her being. She wanted to be quiet enough so that they didn't know exactly where she was. They already knew she was here.

She listened for more sounds, more grunting, more anything. Silence ensued, so she began walking down the dimly lit hallway. She noticed immediately the small iron gated rooms surrounding her. Each had a small sad bed on the floor. Some, there were bones and blood, others were empty. She reached the end of the stretch where another hallway collided with this one, making a T shape. The very last room she peered into before veering down to the left caused her to stop in her tracks.

There, in the middle of the room, as if left as a sign for her and her alone was her jacket. Her dark red jacket she took from one of the first people she encountered in Zaun after getting out of prison.

She was here. Vi could hardly hold back the vomit that threatened to rise in her throat, as she scanned the little stone room. From top to bottom, she could sense that she had been kept in here. Various plates were strewn across the room, rotting food sat on a few of the plates and she grimaced at the thought of (y/n) being forced to eat that trash. Gods know what it was.

Right before she went to continue on her hunt, she heard another blood curdling scream, before a familiar voice yelled-

"Vi? Vi! Please, anyo-," a grunt sounded from that voice, as if being punched in the stomach to quiet her pleas. White hot rage flooded Vi at the thought of someone touching and hurting her girl. Hers.

She zig zagged through a few more halls, before descending a small staircase and bursting through a door that she could hear a ruckus coming out of. The sounds; crying, cursing, and heavy breathing. Vi had to momentarily shield her eyes as brightness flooded her vision. As they adjusted, she took in her surroundings quickly.

There, in the middle of the room, bound to a chair and gagged, was a beaten and bloody (y/n). Her eyes widened at the sight of Vi, and she whimpered, pulling lightly at her restraints. Vi started towards her, her only inclination to free her immediately. At her first step, she heard (y/n) yelling through the gag, her eyes widening and her head shaking vigorously. Vi took another step, and (y/n) closed her eyes and screamed into the gag. Only then did Vi realize there was a crony behind her, using her as a meat shield with a knife to her back.

"Well, well, well," a familiar voice boomed. Vi didn't flinch as Tahm Kench emerged from a shadowed room to the far right that she hadn't noticed before. "It's a pleasure, as always, Vi."

"Free her, Kench. Now." Vi ordered. It merely offered a chuckle in response.

"For a price, child. Everything comes with a price."

"What do you want?" Vi pleaded. She did not plan to go through with anything, other than to get (y/n) as far away from here as possible.

"Your girlfriend here told me a lot about you. About your connections to the one they call Jinx?" Panic flooded her momentarily, and she glanced at (y/n) who only sobbed, her head sagged to her chest. She knew (y/n) was strong and must have endured a lot to say anything. "Although, she wouldn't tell us anything else. About your dealings in Piltover. Pity, if she had cooperated, I would have offered her a clean, easy death. But they never do, do they Vi?"

She shuttered at the thought and burst out of her stance towards kench. She stopped dead in her tracks when 10 other creatures came out of the shadows. Fuck, she thought. She knew Kench could, and would fight too, but she didn't know his moves, what to expect. Thinking for a moment, she knew what she had to do.

She leaned back her head, and as loud as humanly possible she yelled, "ILLAOI!"

A quiet tense aura shifted the place, each of the creatures looking back and forth at one another. A minute passed before Vi cursed again, and a few of them laughed.

"Illaoi? That is how you found us, huh?" Tahm smirked, a hint of distaste lingering in his tone. "She wouldn't dare come down here and face me, not for the like of you."

Just as he finished his sentence, Vi felt the heavy presence of Illaoi's spiritual bonds to the Kraken. The air shifted into a heavy, haunting, foreboding feeling. She turned around, just in time to see the massive woman breach the threshold of the room. She glowed slightly, Vi realized then, and her power was emanating through her and rippling through her room.

Illaoi did not hesitate as she approached Kench. All of his cronies seemed to cower in her powerful presence.

"Release the girl, Kench," She stated plainly.

"You do not understand what you are doing, woman," Tahm said, sounding slightly afraid. Even the great demon cowered in her presence. Vi made note not to fuck with Illaoi.

"I suppose you are going to do this the hard way," She mocked. She must have been closer than I thought. Suddenly, all around the room, large green spirit like tentacles rose from the floor, flapping mindlessly left and right. Illaoi glanced back at Vi, "Take her, and come help me kill these scum."

Vi did not hesitate as roaring combat erupted around her. Her primary focus was (y/n). She stormed over to her, immediately ripping the binds of the gag off of her face. She threw it to the floor and leaned down, making quick work of the bindings around her arms and legs. (y/n) quietly sobbed and looked up through her wet, blood-matted hair at Vi.

--- 🖤🖤🖤---

(Y/N)

You couldn't stop crying. Not now, not here. Not while Vi knelt in front of you looking entirely panicked and you couldn't move an inch. Every part of your body ached, and you felt weak from blood loss. You didn't flinch, though, as Vi delicately looped one arm under your legs and the other around your back and carried you towards the stairs. She set you down, on the steps, far enough away to keep you safe, but close enough to be able to monitor you.

"I've got you, baby. I've got you," She brushed a hand lightly over your bruised face, and you winced from her touch. The color drained from her face, and she looked utterly defeated as she stood. "I have to help Illaoi, don't move." You almost, almost, laughed at that. As if you could move if you wanted to. You were so weak, so frail.

Maybe she would teach you how to fight, when this was all over with. You watched her as she turned her back to you, descending the few steps she had gone up. You could see through the doorway the hell that had broken lose. Illaoi had made quick work of the monsters that worked for Kench, the tentacles becoming solid and slamming into them, crushing the majority under their weight. Blood splattered the walls, screeches echoed until all was silent. The only remaining contender was Kench.

Before you, Illaoi shot out what appeared to be a tentacle, much smaller than all the others, towards kench. Before it could reach him, a giant hole summoned below the monster, and he jumped into it. You gasped, then grimaced from that pain it caused your body. Suddenly, you heard a wet thud from above you.

You didn't dare look behind you, you knew who it was already.

"You have caused me quite a bit of trouble, child," he said, his stubby arms wrapping around you. You let out a scream, guttural and otherworldly, as you grabbed the knife that was still attached to your thigh. It had gone unnoticed, or more likely, they hadn't bothered to care simply because you were a weak little human.

Slashing backwards, pure adrenaline made the pain subside slightly as your blade coursed through the thick skin of Tahms face. He let out a disgusting screech, dropping you. Your body rolled aimlessly down the stairs, and you could feel a snap as your arm landed beneath you. You let out a scream and saw Vi and Illaoi running towards you. Through your tears, and the encroaching darkness that was shrouding your vision, you noticed that Tahm was no longer at the top of the stairs.

Before you lost consciousness, you saw the woman fall to her knees beside you, carefully adjusting your body and arm. Relentless pain tugged at your sanity.

"(Y/N), baby, I've got you. I've got you. Let's go home." you heard her voice say faintly. Her tear ridden and bloody face was the last thing you saw before you lost consciousness.

PART TWELVE- Encouragement

Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment you are flustered. You do not recognize your surroundings, and you scramble up against the headboard of the large bed you realize you rest upon. Panting, you clutch the covers to your chest, your clean chest. After a moment, you also notice the pain.

You yell out in pain, and quickly clamp a hand over your mouth. Before the panic could set in, the door at the furthest left-hand corner of the room swings open.

At the threshold, Vi stares at you with wide eyes, panting as if she had sprinted to the room. For a brief moment, you were in shock. Vi let out a soft sigh of relief as she began walking over to you.

You did not mean to, but you shrank from her. The experiences of the last week were still haunting your very being. She stopped in her tracks.

"Baby, you're at my house. You're safe now," Vi said in a cool tone. Her hand was put up out in front of her as if to further reassure your safety with her gesture. It didn't take more than a second for tears to begin falling down your cheeks, cascading down your neck and onto your chest under the shirt you wore.

As Vi walked to the bed and sat on the edge, she placed a hand on your knee. You did not flinch away from her touch as you did when she was walking toward you. Instead, you let your head fall back against the headboard and let out a pitiful sigh through your sobs.

"It hurts, Vi," was all you could muster. You hated sounding so pathetic, but the state your body was in was not one to argue. Vi nodded, and reached her hand up to your face, caressing it far more gently than she ever had before. In that moment, the only thing you could think of to say was, "What is your favorite color?"

She looked slightly taken aback, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. "It's red."

You smiled slightly.

"What is your favorite food?"

"Um... don't make fun of me, but bar food?" she laughed, lowering her head in embarrassment.

"Where do you...escape to?" you said lightly, your gaze landing on her own piercing one. You twiddled your thumbs as she looked at you as if studying what she was seeing. She looked away, out the square window that, to your surprise, had sunlight seeping through.

"I used to leave for stretches of time after getting out of prison. Usually for odd jobs here and there." She looked back at you before she continued. "There is this place here in Piltover, where the trees surround a small lake close to the border of the undercity." She swallowed. "When I got out, I had... a relationship with an officer of one of the Council leader's daughters. They hated me, thought I was scum of the earth.

I would leave Cait's house and wander the streets as if I knew where I was going. No matter where I went, people gave me dirty looks. They knew who I was. What I was. But when I found that place where the grass was green and the only noise was birds chirping and leaves rustling in the trees, I knew I had found my safe space.

That was, of course, until I met you."

You could feel your chest tightening, your heart aching for the harsh treatment she had received from people that didn't know her just because of where she came from. Where you both came from.

"When I met you, it felt like something clicked inside of me. Like a missing puzzle piece had gone into place. Even when I was throwing a fit in that alley way unsure of who you were. When I looked into your eyes in that moment, it felt like we were meant to be there. I was supposed to meet you. Every time thereafter that I saw you and you laughed, I felt that same feeling as I had at the lake. I felt safe."

Tears that had dried on your face became wet again as new ones began tumbling down your cheeks. "Vi..." you whimpered; your mouth downturned in a far too dramatic that's so sweet type of look. "I feel the same way about you, too." You tried pushing off the headboard but hissed in a breath as a shooting pain traveled through your torso. Your arm, luckily, had been put back into place as you were unconscious. It no longer hurt aside from minor aching.

Vi stood, and leaned over you so that her shadow covered your famished frame. Bending her neck, she raised her hand and lifted your chin ever so slightly with a single finger. Her lips pressed against yours so gently. It was as if she was ensuring that she would not break you.

"I am going to go downstairs and grab you something for the pain. You have two options, a remedy from a medic or booze."

You let out a slight chuckle, and replied, "I think it would be smart to take a remedy this time."

After a few minutes of observing the room you were in while she fetched the pain reliever, you came to the conclusion that this was her space. Her familiar (now quite destroyed) red jacket was thrown over the back of a black chair in the corner of the room. You could see spools of white wrapping on a desk that rested in front of a large rounded window, looking over what you presumed to be the city.

"Here you go," Vi said, startling you slightly as she re-entered the room with food and a small bottle of red liquid. "This does not taste or smell great, please don't smell it like you smelt the shit on the ship." She sat beside you once again, popping open the small vile and handing it over to you. You hesitated, almost smelling it before reaching your other hand up and plugging your nose. Throwing your head back as you drank, you sank it back like a shot of whiskey. "Good girl." was all she said in response. You melted at her praise, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. She snickered, no doubt noticing your reaction.

"Patience, baby. Once your better I am never letting you leave my room."

"Promises, promises," was all you said in reply as a sly smile spread across your face.

PART THIRTEEN (FINAL)- Peace

- Spicy -

It has been a few weeks since your expenditure with Tahm Kench. Vi had not lied for the most part, she had not let you leave her side even once after having rescued you. No matter where you went or what you did, she was with you.

"(Y/N)," Vi said, lying next to you on her large bed. She lay on her side, resting her head on a hand and twirling absentmindedly fiddling with a piece of your hair with the other. "You feelin' okay today?"

You nodded in response, turning your head away from your book to peer down at her. "Yeah of course babe, why?"

"After everything, I just want to make sure you're okay. Like... mentally?" She gazed at you with concern lingering on her face, but as if she was trying to hide it.

Contemplating for a moment, you weren't entirely sure. You were certainly glad to be here, but it felt so sudden. Like all of these things had happened so out of the blue. The momentum of your life had been completely overturned, and the experiences of the last few months had certainly changed the way you think about things.

"Honestly... I don't know. I am not scared, but I am not at peace. Do you know what I mean?" You looked at Vi as you talked with your hands. She nodded knowingly in response. "I am just glad I am out of that place, and we don't have anything to worry about. Plus, I feel a lot better physically which definitely helps."

"Good. Do you want to go to that place I told you about? By the lake?"

You recalled the place that Vi had told you about being her hide-away location. Her peace.

"I would love that." You replied with a smile.

--- 🖤🖤🖤 ---

Vi had given you a light sweater to wear, as spring had just arrived and although it was warmer than during the winter the wind was still crisp as it ran across your skin.

Walking through the streets of Piltover, you didn't care to look back at the gawkers and whisperers. You held Vi's hand in yours and felt like the most powerful woman in the world standing next to her. She did not look anywhere aside from ahead, and occasionally over at you to give a faint smile.

Approaching the end of a neighborhood road, the sidewalk curved around with a tall fence guarding from what lay beyond- the forest. You looked over at Vi and raised a brow.

"Am I supposed to climb that?"

She laughed, "My love, there are some obstacles you must overcome before you get to where you want to be."

Although she was right, you still let out a prominent sigh and rolled your eyes to the heavens. She laughed again, bright and vibrant sounds radiating through your skin and bones. You approached the fence, using your fingers and boots to push you up, up, up and over the top. You took a moment at the top, looking over the small road you had come from. No one was watching, and you were thankful that no one was going to see you struggle with such a simple physical activity.

"You ever going to come down?" Vi urged, shocking you from your revery.

"If I fall, will you catch me?" You said in response, nervous flutters racing through your chest. It was ridiculous, as it was only a few feet off of the ground. It felt like a hundred.

"Always." She responded, looking you dead in the eyes. You sighed again, slowly turning your body and descending the opposing side of the fence. Once you nearly reached the bottom, you jumped off the last ten inches and turned to face Vi.

"You have got to help me get into shape, honestly," You smiled, huffing out breaths.

After a tad bit of banter, the two of you continued walking. A thick line of trees sat ahead of you, a sweet whisper of pine lingering in the air. Vi released your hand and began walking forward, beckoning you to follow. You stepped in line behind her as she pushed branches aside and followed a path only known to her.

"Here it is," Vi said, holding back another branch and stepping back as if revealing the area to you. You stepped forward, gawking at your surroundings as Vi stepped up behind you.

"Oh my Gods, its..." You started. You couldn't even find the words. A small meadow filled with Lavender, Honeysuckle, Tulips, and various other flowers rest in front of you. The breeze made gorgeous floral scents waft over to you, instantly relaxing your mind and muscles. A few feet ahead, you could see a round pond littered with lily pads. Across from the pond, the trees finished the circle encompassing the area. It really was a secluded paradise.

"I know, right?" Vi smiled, looking longingly at what lay ahead. She grabbed your hand gently and pulled you with her as she began walking. "Over here there is a perfect place to lay down and look at the stars at night, if you want to stay long enough to do that."

You nodded sheepishly, feeling honored to be taken to her sacred place. As you reached the flat plane of grass that looked almost manicured compared to the rest of the space, she sat down. Gently she tugged your hand to follow suit.

Sitting in silence, you rested your head on her shoulder and looked across the water. It was crazy that all of these things had happened in the span of a few months. Meeting Vi, meeting her sister Jinx, getting kidnapped and tortured... All to lead to this place, next to this woman, who you could not deny you were falling undeniably in love with.

"What are you thinking about, sweet stuff?" Vi murmurs, looking over at you with her head tilted as she lifts your chin with a finger. Your gaze meets hers and you take in her beauty. The small scar that sits on her pink lips, the jewelry in her nose. Her hardened eyes softening only for you.

"I think..." You start, pausing to suck in a shaky breath, "I think I'm in love with you, Vi."

She looks taken aback, her eyebrows raising, and she blinks a few times. You feel heat rise to your cheeks before she smiles sweetly at you. Relief floods you when she responds.

"I think, sweet stuff, that I may just love you, too." Her hand moves to your cheek, cupping your face. You lean into it, closing your eyes for a moment and inhaling deeply. When you open them, you meet her gaze. Her eyes have heated, lids lowering. As she gazes and you through her lashes, she runs her teeth over her bottom lip. "You know... I think you feel better enough that we can consummate our love... the good ol' fashioned way." She sniggers, raising a brow and tilting her head the other way.

"I suppose there is," You reply, trying to sound sultry even though you have no idea what you're doing.

She giggles at your attempt, leaning in close. Your foreheads touch, and for a moment the two of you just sit there basking in each other's presence. You can feel her eyes on your lips, and instinctively you lick them. She lets out a small growl, moving her hand to the base of your neck and pulling you in. Her lips brush yours slightly, and a sigh escapes you. As your lips part, she enters you with her tongue. The two of you kissing passionately, she slowly lays you backward on the grass you sat upon.

Vi wants to cater to you, to love you. She wants you to feel special, but you can tell that there is something else urging her to go faster. She is ravenous to taste you, it seems, as she quickly trails down your body and pulls the pants down that you are wearing. You nearly reach down to cover yourself, but she snaps her gaze up to your own with an intensity so fierce you can't help but feel obliged to let her move forward.

Leaning your head back on the grass, your breathing intensifies as you feel her breath brush against your bare skin. The feeling of being out in the open, in the wild, is exhilarating. You had never experienced anything like this, and you are more than happy to be doing it with her.

Deep in thought, you intake a sharp breath of air as you feel her flat tongue lick you from your opening up to your clit. The world slows, but she speeds up. Your eyes roll back into your head as you reach out a hand a clasp her hair. She lets out a satisfied groan.

"Fuck, baby. You look so fucking hot when I am pleasing you," Vi says quickly, returning to what she was doing. You feel one of her hands travel down your side, past your thigh and to your center. She pauses briefly as she adjusts herself and inserts a finger into you. Vi curves it up, flicking that spot perfectly, making little breathy moans escape your lips as she continues licking and worshipping your clit.

"Vi... Vi I'm gonna...", you start to say, and she looks up at you, breathing against your pussy only to pause for a moment.

"Look at me while you cum, Princess," She urges, returning to that spot. You look down at her, and as she consumes you, you see her eyes meet your own, and you explode into a million pieces. You can't help it, falling back and bucking your hips against her face. She doesn't stop savoring the moment, until you use the hand that was once clenched in her hair to gently stop her.

She smiles, a feline smile as she retreats from your throbbing pussy. You're panting heavily, and she crawls up your body. You think she is going to kiss you, but she brings the hand that she was fingerbanging you with to your mouth. You reach out your tongue and suck your juices off of her finger, and watch as she inhales and closes her eyes.

Using all of the strength you can muster, you grab her wrist and pull her to the side. As she falls over, you giggle maniacally and crawl on top of her. She laughs out loud as if shocked you got the upper hand for even just a moment.

"Now, Vi, let me return the favor? This love... it isn't one sided." Before she can open her mouth to protest, you lean down and kiss her long and hard, letting your right-hand trail down her neck, her breasts, until it brushes over a nipple. She gasps, and you can't help but marvel in the fact that she is sitting here beneath you. Vi looks so stunning, a blush creeping into her cheeks. Her blue eyes are hooded, never leaving your own.

You lean down, unzipping her jacket as you go. You let it fall to the sides of her torso, and slowly caress her bare stomach underneath her white tank top. You pull it up and up until her chest is exposed to you. You had often wondered what she would look like here, as you hadn't gotten the opportunity to see yet. But she was perfect. Her breasts were not big but not small, cute little pink buds were hard as the breeze and most certainly her arousal enticed them. You bit your lip, before leaning down and taking one into your mouth. Swirling around it, sucking, and releasing it with a pop. You turned your attention to the other and did the same thing.

After you were satisfied that she was feeling positively enchanted, you trailed soft kisses down her stomach, stopping at the hem of her pants. You hooked a finger in one of the belt loops and looked up at her expectant gaze. In this moment, you recalled the first time she did this to you.

"Is this okay?" You smiled, and she smiled back. She must have also remembered what she said to you that night on the ship.

"More than okay, Sweet stuff," she said, no louder than a whisper.

You took no time in removing her bottoms, her panties, and marveling at her beautiful pussy. She was so wet, glistening. The thought that you were what caused her intense arousal made you proud. You had no mercy in your fucking her. The love flowed through you and your tongue against her clit until she was crying out your name. You had never heard her sound like that before, so sensual, so free.

After you were finished, you both got your clothes back on. Vi rested her head on an arm as her back pressed against the grass, and you climbed up and onto her chest. Mainly, the two of you were looking at the stars.

"I guess we get to look at the stars, after all," She smiled, and you glanced at her in awe.

"If it's with you, I will do anything." You shifted onto your stomach, resting your chin on her chest so your face was directed at her. "Because after everything we have been through, I have come to realize that you're my escape, too. You're my home."

Vi stretched down, tears threatening to leak from her eyes. You rose up slightly, to accommodate the space between the two of you and shared a pleasant, soft and loving kiss.

You realized, in that moment under the stars, that there was nothing you would ever change about the past. And that the future, no matter what it could bring, would always be better than it could of been before if you were with her.

Your home.

------ 🖤🖤🖤 ------ THE END ------ 🖤🖤🖤 ------

#vi arcane #vi fanfic #vi x reader #vi league of legends #league of legends x reader #vi smut #vi x reader smut

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tbdofficial · 1 year ago

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An extremely fast-and-loose analysis of several TBD characters’ outfits (Croissant, Timekeeper, String Gummy) ft. Steampunk and Her Weird Cousins. take all of this with a grain of salt bc it’s just written off the cuff lol

⏳ Croissant is in a getup typical of ladies in sci-fi and especially mechanic-y types - half-zipped coveralls tied at the waist, and a tank top (grease and sweat optional). Doesn’t look one bit out-of-place in our era, which means it’s very suitable for our Croissy - an engineering student in the late 2010s/early 2020s. There’s a fun hint of steampunk in her design with the brass goggles, of course, which doubles as a spot of foreshadowing. Her Timecraft, though, is a special case! It’s a Renaissance Era-inspired, Da Vincian flying machine - this would be considered ‘clockpunk’.

⏳Timekeeper is steampunk. You all know what steampunk is. Top hat, monocle, puffy shirt sleeves, an embroiderer, various gears and gizmos - all retrofuturistically Victorian things. Overall a lovely design that makes people go batshit bonkers, and rightfully so. Their costumes tend to combine masculine and feminine articles quite succinctly, which I adore for them. Nonbinary slay.

⏳ Ruler of the Ephemeral Flow also draws a lot of steampunk, but also bleeds past that into other aesthetics - there’s kind of an early 1900s theme with the Ruined Future characters that I’ll touch on in a bit. In a lot of ways, it resembles a military uniform, with the jacket and cloak. The skirt-over-trousers look was fairly popular with Victorian women (well, skirt cage in this particular case), and two out of three of Teek’s outfits include it! I’d also like to point out a particular feature - the 19th century weeping veil, worn during periods of mourning; in this case, donned when Timekeeper is at their absolute lowest. Whoever designed these characters deserves a raise and a handjob. Moving on.

⏳ Timeless Love is pink. I fucking love pink. I don’t have many thoughts on it though but it fucks. Fantastic.

⏳ Director Croissant is decopunk - dieselpunk’s contemporary, but brighter and shinier bedfellow. (We’ll talk about dieselpunk in a bit.) Decopunk is based in the early-mid 20th century, much like dieselpunk, simply from a more optimistic perspective - because as we all know, nothing bad ever happens in the early 20th century. Symmetry, straight lines, smooth patterns, rich metal accents, admiration for crisp modernity and the beauty of machinery. The Future is Bright! Tech & invention will change our lives for the better! Art deco! Expressionism! et cetera. The cloak and chain makes her resemble a military commander, with her new leadership position.

⏳ The patterns on her outfit are smooth and geometric - diamond-shaped buttons, swooping arches on her cap, all decked out in gold and steel. It’s… a fittingly ironic aesthetic for a character whose invention unwittingly destroyed the world, straining to keep up her once-genuine mask of idealistic optimism. It also foils her nicely with String Gummy, whose gruff exterior belies a genuine sense of hope.

⏳ String Gummy is a dieselpunk - likewise based in the early 20th century, but darker, grittier and more pessimistic. Baggy military uniform-esque pants, gas mask, tiki skull motif, shaved haircut, metal prosthetic, and a Big Ass Rifle. In a similar vein, his skill + Smile Detector’s green glow resembles that of radium dial clocks, which is…. um. uh. Concerning. I don’t think pastries can get cancer or anything but but but but

⏳ Detective String Gummy (his “dashing uniform” as he describes it) is also rooted in dieselpunk - the archetype of the film noir detective. He’s more colorful and more unambiguously heroic, and - I was going to say “less depressive” than most examples of said archetype, but this is String we’re talking about, so the bar is lower than a Dutch conga line. Still tough as nails, gritty and relentless, but not without his softer spots.

#ooc #cookie run

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hannahssimblr · 1 year ago

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Chapter Nine (Part 2)

It’s me who answers the door when he rings. I buzz him in and wait for eternity as he climbs the three story staircase, and he only needs to knock once before I yank the door open. My breath catches when I see him.

There is blood streaking down one side of his face in one clean, scarlet line, leaving dried stains on his jaw, his neck and staining the collar of his white t-shirt beneath his coat. His eye is already turning purple and swelling, puffy skin almost closing his eye entirely. A gash is clearly visible on his brow, cutting it into two distinct, uneven parts. He automatically raises his eyebrows when he sees me, and a fresh stream of bright red blood cascades down his cheekbone. His smile turns to a grimace.

“Hello.” He says weakly, waving a hand in front of his injury. “Sorry about this.”

“Come in.” Claire says, adopting a very matronly tone as she ushers him to a kitchen chair and locks the door behind him. “Sit.” He does. She already has her first aid box open on the table, neat little bandages still in their unopened boxes, scissors in a little pink suede sheath, cotton and gauze laid out perfectly as though waiting years for this moment to come. She starts cleaning away the blood with cotton wool and soapy water. Watching it makes me wince, but Jude stays very still, obedient and patient as she carefully cleans the skin around the gash.

“You’ve been absolutely split open.” She informs him. “Did you get boxed?”

“Kicked, actually.”

“Jesus.” Claire murmurs. “Is that the new thing now? Kicking each other in the head?”

“It makes sense when you consider the situation.”

Jude winces as she gets closer to the cut. I start chewing on my nails. “Why did he kick you?” I ask.

“I was being funny.” He explains. “I just made a joke.”

“Did you get in an actual fight?”

“No.” He holds his hands out to me to show me his knuckles, clean and unmarred, save for streaks of his own blood that have dried on the sides of his fingers. “He hit me, I didn’t hit him back.” Claire starts cleaning his neck and he tilts his chin for her. “This isn’t great.” She says.

“Should I call a taxi to the hospital?”

“You’ll be waiting there all night. I think it’s better if you sober up a bit first, and we should at least try to stop it from bleeding. I think I have those stitch plasters in my bathroom. Shane needed them before. I’ll try and find them.” Without a word she hands the cotton ball to me and goes upstairs to look for them.

I hesitate with it in my hand, pink with water and blood, then gingerly I take the seat next to him. His breath is like whiskey. “You are drunk.” I say quietly, and he shakes his head. “No, but I have been drinking. I was out with some people.”

“Can you go from the start?” I ask him as I gently swipe the cotton along his cheek where blood has dried into his pores. “How did we get here?”

He moves his head to let me get at a spot at the corner of his jaw where it has pooled. “I just thought I’d go out with some people from school, some pub in East Wall. We were drinking. It was alright, I suppose. Actually, no, it wasn’t that fun, I was just there to be there, but this guy comes over to one of my friends from school and starts going on about how much he hates his shoes.”

I can’t help but snicker. “His shoes?”

“Yeah.” He grins, but it seems to hurt him, because he makes a pained sound in his throat when he does. “He always wears these Doc Martins boots, really old and scuffed up, but I think they’re cool.”

“I like them.” I say. “Actually, I have a pair.”

“I know, I like yours on you. But this guy had such an issue them for some reason.” He says. “He was all like, ‘nice shoes, man, where’d you get those, man? They look like shit, man.’ I think to impress the girl he was with, or something.”

“And what did your friend do?”

“He didn’t do anything, he’s a shy guy, so he just stood there and took it. But I noticed that the other guy – his shoes were actually way worse. He had those brown deck shoes on, you know, with the leather shoelaces?”

“Yes, I had to wear them for school. I loathe them.”

“I thought it was funny. Like, how can someone with those shoes call someone out for theirs? So I said ‘hey, are those Dubarrys?’ just an innocent question, which he took as antagonistic, but I… I suppose it wasn’t that innocent. I drew attention to him pretty purposefully, and all the guys started chanting ‘Dubarrys, Dubarrys‘ and kinda crowding around him to look. I thought it might be funny to squat down in the chaos and get my friend to take a picture of me with him to remember the moment.”

“Oh my god. And he let you?”

“For a good ten seconds, yeah, he didn’t really know what to do, he looked a bit rattled and confused by us, like he was a deer in headlights, and his date tried to stand in front of his shoes so we couldn’t take a picture of them. He was all like ‘stand up, man, stand up and look me in the face.’ And obviously I was having too much fun pointing at his feet that I didn’t see the point in doing that, and then he saw that the girl was embarrassed, and,” A shrug.

“And those ugly shoes kicked you in the face.” I finish.

“Yeah. And then the bouncers came and chucked me out of the bar.”

“You? Not him?”

“Us both.” He clarifies. “And then I like, had to leg it away from him in case he did it again. That’s how I landed on the docks, without my keys, trying to call Shane.”

“Oh dear.” I say. “What were you doing in the photographs?”

“This.” He throws up his two fingers on both hands, and I shake my head and laugh. “Seems a bit like you provoked him, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah probably. They were just big words from a little man.”

I hold his chin and bring his head back to the middle, grabbing a fresh cotton ball to wipe off any remaining streaks. His eyes follow my movements closely. “There’s quite a bit of blood.” I say.

“I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It does.”

“Lift your chin for me.” He obeys. “I feel like Claire is a lot better at this stuff.” I confess. “I feel like I’m not very caring, like, by nature.”

“No?”

“No.” I chuckle softly. “You know my mam tried to get me to do nursing in college. It’s what her sister does, and her own mother did it too before she got married, but I can’t imagine anything less suited to me, I just don’t think I have the… whatever you call it. The nurturing touch.”

I meet his eyes as I move to the other side of his face, where a rogue fingerprint is left on the opposite cheek. They watch me curiously, rimmed with thick, spiky lashes. I try not to think about how close we are, or how I can feel his breath feathering over my jaw. “I don’t think that’s true.” He says softly. “I think you’re very nurturing.”

“Thank you.” The clock ticks past midnight on the wall ahead of me, the thunk of the hands the only sound apart from the patting of cotton against his skin. “It’s a pity about your T-shirt.”

“Yes.” He says. “You hardly have something I could borrow.”

“Well actually, your sassy little grey number with the hole in the armpit is upstairs, if you want it back, finally.”

His eyes travel over my face. “Maybe in a minute.”

“Okay.” I place the cotton onto the table. “I think I got it all off, and I don’t know what to do next. I think as long as you don’t move your eyebrow we should be in the clear.”

The corners of his mouth lift. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Do you doubt my blood cleaning abilities?”

He chuckles. “So what’s the verdict?”

“You mean how bad do you look?”

“Out of ten?”

“Eight.”

“Wow, that’s bad.”

“Eight for you.” I clarify. “Probably like four for someone else, you’re lucky you’re so pretty.”

He flutters his lashes. “Gosh, thanks.”

“Do you want to go and look in the mirror?”

“Nah it’s okay, I’ll shock myself tomorrow.” he picks up the cotton and starts dabbing at the blood on his hands, all long fingers, angular, jutting wrist bones and fingernails with little white half moons on them, like he’s never been inclined to bite those bits off. “Thanks for helping out.” He says.

“It’s Claire, really.” I say. “I would have been useless on my own. I don’t think I even have a box of plasters to my name.”

“I think I’d still be grateful if you used wet kitchen roll on me.”

“Can I get you anything else? Something to eat or drink?”

“Nah.”

“Not like you to refuse a snack.”

“Not hungry.”

I frown at him, and he looks right back, something vulnerable and open in his expression that I didn’t expect to find there, not with one eye almost fused shut now, the gash above it red and open and angry. I’m terrified by the depth of emotion I feel for him at that moment, be it instinctive protectiveness or something else. “I’ll bring over the tub of sweets.” I decide. “Claire and I won’t finish them anyway.” I start making moves to fetch them but he reaches out to me, hand just above my knee and fingers curling slightly to the ticklish skin underneath sending a shiver ripping through my body. “Wait, Evie, can I-”

“Got them.” Claire comes down the stairs and Jude lifts his hand away, whatever spell that was between us unwinding itself, and we fall away from each other in an instant. I hop up to allow her to settle back into her seat in front of him. “They ended up being at the very back of the cupboard under the sink. I didn’t see them for ages. You’re looking nicely cleaned up.”

“All thanks to you both.”

She unpeels the stitch plasters and starts carefully fusing the open skin together with them. I can’t look away, it’s fascinating as much as it is utterly disgusting. Jude’s jaw is clenched and his eyes are squeezed shut.

“Stop twitching your eyebrows.” Claire chides. “You keep pulling the skin all over the place.”

“Sorry.” He whispers. There’s something a bit sweet about how he’s not trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt him, and how he’s kind of being a bit of a baby about it, no “it’s nothing”s or “It’s just a scratch”es He catches me smirking at him and gives me a questioning look, but I just shrug and turn around to retrieve the chocolate tub from the coffee table.

“Have a treat, for being so brave.” I say, holding it out to him. “Which is your favourite?”

“Caramel.”

“Too bad I’ve eaten them all. That’s my favourite too.”

“Fine, I’ll get one of the hazelnut ones.” He plucks one out and untwists its purple wrapper, but his lips quiver as he brings it close. “Ugh, I actually feel a bit sick.”

“It’s probably the shock.” Claire says. “Come over and sit on the couch for a bit.”

“Should I not just go to the hospital?”

She cocks her head. “I really don’t know if it’s worth it. These plasters should hold it closed, and if you’re careful about it for a few days I think you’ll be alright. Here, I’ll give you some more in case they come off.” She slips a few into his coat pocket. “I think maybe a cup of tea might make you feel better. Take your coat off, sit down over there and I’ll make one for you.”

“Claire, you really don’t have to do all of this for me. It’s nice enough that you even let me in, I don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense. Sit.”

He wrestles himself out of his coat and hangs it on the back of a chair. The massive blood stain is suddenly impossible to ignore.

“Your T-shirt.” I comment.

“Yeah, not great.”

“I’ll get you a clean one.” I head upstairs to retrieve the grey one. I’m not certain why I even took it to Dublin with me, but the idea of leaving it in Tullamore to sit in my empty wardrobe was as depressing as throwing it away. Maybe I planned to wear it to bed, even if the idea of doing that feels really intense, considering the cosmic weight it carries. The last time I wore it on my body I was an entirely different girl made up of different tissue and cells, before everything that happened, happened.

He’s on the couch when I come back down, ignoring the dinky little jug of milk that Claire has placed next to his mug of tea. He’s tainted by his Americanness. He only takes sugar, not milk. He smiles gratefully when I hand him the shirt, and then I turn around shyly to give him privacy as he changes.

“Oh, will one of you hand me a cotton ball, or something? The blood soaked through my shirt a bit.”

Claire comes to the rescue before I can and tosses him a ball, but I take a chance and glance over my shoulder at him anyway, and feel a deep blush creep over my neck and cheeks as I do. His back is facing me, and the sight of it does something extraordinary to my insides. He didn’t look like that when he was eighteen. Claire catches me staring, pulls a face and gives my arm a quick squeeze as she passes by.

She clears up the last few bits and pieces in the kitchen and puts the milk back into the fridge. “I’m going to bed now.” She announces. “Jude, my dear, stay if you want, the couch is free, Evie’ll get you some blankets, if you want to go, that’s grand, just make sure the door is properly closed behind you, it tends to be a bit sticky.”

“I will, thanks Claire.” He’s put the clean t-shirt on now so I’m safe to turn around. He sits back down, and Claire switches off the kitchen light and heads upstairs. We listen to her footsteps across the landing and the click of her bedroom door, and then I feel like holding my breath in the silence that follows. The clock still ticks, and nothing else makes a sound.

“Do you want to sit down?” Jude asks me in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. I eye his bloody T-shirt in a pile on the coffee table. “Can I wash it?” I ask.

“I think it’s probably for the bin. I’ll chuck it away after I leave.”

“I think I can get the stains out. I actually know quite a bit about laundry.”

“If you want to, but it’s fairly disgusting.”

“It doesn’t matter, really.”

“Does this have something to do with you wanting to purloin another of my T-shirts and hold it hostage for three years?”

“Hmm, I can’t confirm or deny.” I pluck it off the table and toss it into the washing machine behind me. “I’ll give it my best go tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.”

I walk over and sit next to him. “Is the tea making you feel better?”

“Sort of. Are you going to have anything?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” But I don’t move. He smiles at me. “Or do you want some of mine?”

“I couldn’t stomach it without the milk, sorry.”

“Well have you tried it?”

“Yeah like once when I’d already made a cup before I realised we were out of milk. It was sick.”

“Maybe this will be different.” He holds it to me and I take it. The mug, hot in my hands makes me feel warm all over, the feeling enhanced by the cosy glow of the string lanterns around the window that frame the bleak winter scene outside. I take a cautionary sip, and it tastes bitter and sweet at the same time. I don’t like it, and tell him as much.

“Worth a try.” He shrugs, and lifts it out of my hands. When he takes another sip he puts his lips against the very same spot where my mouth was, and I wonder if he did it on purpose, the idea of which is strangely erotic. I shiver. “Are you going to stay over?”

“It’s not ideal, but I don’t have my house keys. I can get a taxi home but I’m almost sure that nobody will be awake.”

“That’s alright.” I assure him. “It’s a small couch but I can get you blankets and try to make it as comfortable as possible.” I look him over and deduct that the sheer height of him would be one and a half times the size of the couch if he were lying down on the floor next to it. He’s in for a cramped night’s sleep. The corner of his mouth kicks up. “I’ve slept in worse places, Evie. Don’t worry. There’ve been smaller couches than this one, floors without a blanket, out on a friend’s lawn on wet grass. I’ll be fine.”

I nod. “I hope you find your keys.”

“Yeah, same. Otherwise I’m not getting back into my apartment in Berlin in the new year.”

“Ah, yeah, well that wouldn’t be great.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine, they’re probably in the bar. I bet I dropped them on the floor. They’ll turn up.”

He takes a long, full breath and rests his head against the wall behind him. He looks so tired now, for the first time since he arrived, and the bruises on his face look somehow more painful than they did then too, but I opt not to mention it again. I’m sure he knows.

“It’s kind of strange to have you in my house.” I say instead, which I somehow imagined would be a not-weird thing to say to him before it came out of me. He looks rightfully perplexed. “Really? Why?”

“It just feels like, I dunno, like I cultivated a different version of me in this house than the version you used to know, it feels a bit like one universe colliding with another.”

“Ah, like Jude Turner doesn’t exist in this universe.”

“Right.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s on the beach in 2010, of course. My life sometimes feels like it’s been split into segments, and the beach feels like one distinct segment, like nothing about that time bleeds into any other time. It was its own unique world. ” I don’t say the part about even to this day, I view my life as ‘before’ and ‘after’ that summer. Before and after Jude left and everything changed.

“I think about that summer all of the time.”

“Yeah, I do too. We’re so different now.”

“Nah, not really.”

“I feel different.”

“So do I, but then I go away and I live my life and I don’t see you for ages, and I come back and find you and we’re always the same. It always feels like nothing has really changed as much as we think.”

“You have shorter hair, a tattoo and a third piercing.” I say, as though it proves something, and he smiles. “Yeah, and your freckles are gone, but those things are superficial. It still feels the same to talk to you.”

I brush the bridge of my nose. “My freckles.”

“Yeah you had them during the heatwave, do you remember that?”

“Of course, I only get them when I’ve been out in the sun for days and days. I think that was the only time I’ve had them since I was a child.”

“They were clearest at the festival, I remember how they made your face look tanned from far away.”

“Well, tricked you. Get close enough and you’d have been blinded by how white I was underneath them.” I grin. “You know, one of my favourite memories from the whole summer was when we went to Pendulum, and we thought we’d hate them, but they were absolutely amazing.”

“Yeah, and I put you on my shoulders so that you could see the stage.”

“It was so hot by then, like all of the heat from the day felt like it congealed in the air and everyone was bathed in sweat, and when I was high up like that they were drenching me with cold water from those hoses, and I felt like I was holy.”

“You were.” His gaze wanders over me. “I remember Jen took a photo on her digital camera, and it’s crap quality because she got her finger in the way a bit, but it’s of you on my shoulders, and you’ve got that cigarette that we shared hanging out of your mouth and your arms are, like, stretched up to the sky and your eyes are closed, you really looked like you’d met God.”

“I was moved by the spirit.”

“Of Propane Nightmares?”

“Yes.” I grin at him, and he smiles back, a small, closed mouth smile that makes my stomach start to quiver. He has such a sensual little mouth. I wish he’d kiss me with it. The memory of what happened right after the Pendulum gig slides into my mind, the vividness of his hot mouth open against mine, and I briefly picture myself crawling onto his lap and repeating history.

The look on his face near convinces me that he can hear my thoughts. Surely he must know the power he has over me, because he lightly takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my head to the side. My heart thuds. He pinches my earlobe. “Do you think that earrings would still go into all of these little piercings if you tried them now?”

“I’m not sure. Probably.”

“But would they make you feel like ‘you’ yet?”

“Maybe.” I whisper. “I’m starting to feel like I’m coming back around to them.”

“Hm.” He says, and I’m a bit terrified of the moment he turns my face back to him, because I am certain I will throw myself at him. I can’t kiss anyone. It’s not the right time. I’m not ready. I’m afraid, and – oh God – Astrid still exists.

As though he has the very same thought at the same time, he swiftly takes his hands away from me and says “Sorry, Jesus, that was weird of me. I dunno why I just went in and grabbed your ear.”

“No it’s fine.” I say, flustered, heart pounding. “It’s no big deal, it’s just an ear.” I spring up and collect his empty mug and the jug from the table and head over to the kitchen to stack them into the dishwasher. “I think I’ll go to bed. I’ll just go up and grab a pillow and some blankets for you.”

“Yeah, okay, alright.” He says, and I go hastily up the stairs to retrieve the spare bedding from the hot press. I can barely look at him as I hand them over, my cheeks still flooded with heat. “See you in the morning.” I say, and I head upstairs to bury myself in blankets, and eventually fall asleep and have the kinds of dreams, of crumpled sheets and golden skin and lips and hands and breath, that will make me feel woozy when I wake up.

He’s already gone in the morning. Blankets folded tidily on the couch cushions, a note propped on top that simply reads:

You are angels.

See you in Berlin?

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#lucky girl part 3 #tw: alcohol #tw: violence #tw: blood #tw: sex

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