#back to scrabbling to stay afloat i guess

[a-bucket-in-the-void]

i think we all need a week to just sleep

[merakiui]

Apricity

yandere!albedo x (gender neutral) reader art credit - miHoYo cw: nsfw elements, yandere, captivity/restraints, unhealthy behaviors note - please come home to me and take care on the journey, albedo! :D also kindly heed the warnings. thank you!

His eyes are unnaturally pretty. Like twin crystals glittering in an expansive, dismal cave, searching for secrets unheard of within Mondstadt. Somehow you’re always in his peripheral, not too close and yet impossibly far at the same time. The distance is harrowing, terribly so, and Albedo knows it should be nothing short of a coincidence. When he shows up at your quaint stall with Sucrose, claiming to be in need of the exact wares you happen to sell, you pay it no mind. After all, you’ve met your fair share of regulars, and their support is what keeps you afloat. 

But there is more to those beautiful irises than he lets on. Whether it’s intentional or not, you can’t exactly say. You suppose you would rather run into someone as well-respected as Albedo as opposed to an unlikable stranger with ill intent. And it’s always great to see a familiar face, especially when he chooses to peruse your stall rather the others around you. It isn’t all that strange; you’ve even become friends with Sucrose during your short interactions. Albedo has indulged in stiff conversations with you before, but most of them were meaningless. Simple throwaway chatter between two acquaintances. 

Oddly enough, Albedo finds himself wanting more. He doesn’t want to talk about the weather or the transitioning seasons; he wants to listen to you explain how your day was and if you made more profit than the day before that. He wants to stand there and immerse himself in your pleasant voice, ignorant to the hustle and bustle of the people around him. And yet he just can’t. For a variety of reasons that pull him out of the haze of intrigue, you’ll always remain in the background. And he simply can’t bear the thought of that.

It’s rude to deteriorate a relationship that’s only just begun to blossom. If your meager acquaintanceship with him were to wither away into dust, he would feel obligated to keep it going—as if he were simply beating a dead cow with a stick. Although your hobbies differ from his, it’s nothing he can’t handle. A genius must familiarize himself with other areas of study if he intends to craft solutions that are outside of the box.

“Albedo?” 

Your tone is meek and small, tinged with the slightest shiver. Part of him feels bad for lying to you, but you were just so trusting. It’s almost comical how easily you fell into his trap. If he gets to see you in such a delicious way all the time, he’s more than willing to forsake the truth to meet his own desires. A selfish wish, yes, but it’s absolutely wonderful.

“What is it?” 

He eyes you from his spot behind the easel, and even though you can’t see him you can feel his piercing gaze. Like the sun shining brightly in a wintry afternoon, his eyes smolder with unbearable heat and yet his expression is cold with brilliant focus. 

“A-Are you almost done? It’s really cold.” Your bare back touches the wall and you flinch, an instinctual response that makes Albedo’s brow quirk. “And this is sort of...weird.”

“How so?” 

He says that in such a dismissive manner, acting as if your current position isn’t compromising. As if this was a normal exchange between friendly strangers. You have trouble finding your voice in this situation, especially since talking seems like such a chore. You’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing and then it’ll leave a false imprint of who you are on Albedo. But you’ve always been nice, unable to refuse those who are kind in return, and so you’re forced to endure the discomfort that comes with modeling nude for this peculiar alchemist. 

“Think about it.” You distract yourself with a ramble of an explanation—certainly more than what’s necessary, but Albedo doesn’t mind. He finds solace in your voice. “You’re looking at me and I’m...n-naked. And we don’t really know each other. I’m not trying to vilify you when I say this, but I don’t want you to do anything bad to me. N-Not that you would! It’s just—this is really weird. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Hm.”

“And do I have to be tied up like this?” You shuffle in your bindings, fingers scrabbling over the cuffs and chains that jingle like horrible sleigh bells. 

“You were moving too much earlier. I won’t be able to get your anatomy right if you’re constantly fidgeting.”

But it’s uncomfortable, you think, chewing on your lip out of habit.

“I guess I understand. It must be an artist thing, right?”

“You could say that.”

His work on the canvas offers a display that’s just as lewd as the real model, down to the way your nipples perk and harden in the cold. He’s not even close to finishing and that’s a blessing in itself. He could stare at your figure for hours on end, committing every inch of your flesh to memory, and he wouldn’t grow weary. 

“Do artists normally blindfold their models? I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but it’s okay if it helps with the process.”

“I find it to be interesting,” he answers, simple and vague as ever. “It adds a mysterious touch to the finished piece.”

“So you draw the model with the blindfold?” You’re used to gazing upon paintings of flowers and portraits of influential historical figures rather than blatant nudity. “Artists are definitely unique.”

Albedo hums in response, secretly reveling in your naïveté. At the end of the day, you’re just a normal citizen of Mondstadt, who stands behind a wooden stall every single day and happily chats with potential customers. You excel in business, but when it comes to the inner workings of art you’re at a loss. And that makes it all the more easier for Albedo to spin all sorts of wild tales. He fears that gullible nature will harm you in the future, yet there isn’t a threat in sight. Not when you’re here in front of him, no longer confined to his peripheral. And you’ll stay there for however long it takes him to finish this painting. 

It’s a twisted infatuation. Albedo knows he shouldn’t take too much of your time or else he’ll become addicted and it will be impossible to focus on his studies. But he can’t stop himself or his wandering gaze, which trails up your midriff. Higher and higher until he’s staring at your face, eyes obscured behind the soft fabric of a blindfold. Your body is a temple he wishes to worship, and perhaps that’s a sacrilegious thought that ought to have him consider the weight of his emotions. 

And yet you’re far too irresistible. His thoughts are dangerously potent, swirling within his brain like a maddening hurricane. Surely your missing presence in the market won’t be questioned if he were to keep you just a little longer. Longer than the boundaries of sanity will allow, that is. There are other vendors who sell the same things you boast; the economy won’t shatter if you’re not there to provide.

The paintbrush moves along the canvas in even strokes and suddenly Albedo’s mind is wandering between subjects. From art to alchemy, love to lust, and the wondrous crevices in your anatomy that call out to him. The brush stills in his hand. If he’s not mistaken, Sucrose will be stopping by to assist him and the last thing he needs is staining his appearance in a suspicious color. 

“Albedo?” His name rolls off of your tongue in such a delectable way; it’s almost sinful how his thoughts race and race in an endless track. “Are you almost done? My back is sore and the floor’s really uncomfortable.”

“Sorry. This will take longer than I thought.” He sets his brush and palette down, and you listen to his footsteps as they draw near. “Something has come up, but I promise I won’t be long.” 

“Wait. You’re not going to leave me, are you? I need to get back to the marketplace!”

Before you know what’s happening, the blindfold is coming off and you’re locking eyes with Albedo, who peers at you with intense scrutiny. Certainly the look of a genius studying a textbook. You grow flustered all at once, just now coming to terms with the fact that he looked at your body for longer than you’d like to admit. Shyly, you shut your legs to obscure your private parts, but it’s not like that will help the embarrassment that claws its way onto your expression like a persistent beast. 

“You’re better off waiting here.” He shrugs off his coat, draping it over your shoulders as if that’ll keep the dreadful chill away. “As much as I would like to finish this now, I have other work that must be taken care of.”

“I get that, but you can’t just leave me here! That’s practically kidnapping!” you protest, hoping he’ll heed the desperation in your trembling vocals. “At least, that’s what this feels like.”

“I wouldn’t kidnap you,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “You’re too funny.”

Yet he isn’t laughing and neither are you as you helplessly watch him depart. The floor is too cold for your liking and the idea of entrapment settles under your skin like a million maggots feasting on a decaying, chilled copse. Devoid of warmth and carrying an air of measured grace, Albedo doesn’t spare you another glance.

He doesn’t need to. He’ll have all the time in the world to study your body like it’s the finest artwork, and you’ll be powerless to object.

[cosimuhs]

haven’t seen you (since i was your little girl)

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

[or: Jamie has never been good with parents, but this? This feels important.]

read on ao3 or under the cut!

It’s a slow afternoon when the bell on the door jingles open, bringing with it a brisk wave of autumn air.

Honestly, as much as Jamie grumbles about it, autumn in Vermont has grown on her. She’s not one to celebrate the death of plants lightly (unless it’s a pesky invasive species) but there is something to be said about New England foliage. In quite the contradiction, it feels like life is abound in these months - the crunch of leaves and the brightness of Dani’s laugh that settles deep in Jamie’s chest.

As the heat of the summer slips and then disappears altogether, so does her personal space. In the newfound chill, Dani takes it upon herself to warm up, not with extra layers, but by pressing as close as possible — in the street, their joined hands stuffed into Jamie’s jacket pocket, shoulders knocking, or in the middle of the night, when Jamie will wake up, half off the bed, a pile of blonde hair heavy on her sternum.

Yeah, it definitely is one of her favorite seasons.

The only downside is the dip in sales, people sequestered at home against the chill, not looking to start gardening as they face the winter head on. Not to mention, as the months trip slowly past the autumnal equinox, the housewives who pop in, begging for mistletoe and holly in the middle of October.

The woman who has just entered, greying around the temples with lines of age deeply indented around her eyes, seems like just the type, and Jamie steels herself to send her packing for another month or two.

She looks strangely surprised to see Jamie, which is dumb because it’s her bloody shop, and even more taken aback at the lilt in her accent when she asks if the woman needs her help. That at least, she’s well acquainted with, because for some reason, no one in this town is aware that Brits exist.

So caught up in her stewing, she almost misses when the woman speaks. Almost.

“Maybe I got the wrong shop,” she mumbles, wringing her hands.

Jamie has to try hard to tamp down her annoyance because, really, what kind of product do you expect from a store called The Leafling?

Instead she tips on her customer service smile, the one that Dani says makes her look like she swallowed a lemon. “What were you looking for?”

“Who,” the woman corrects and pauses long enough that Jamie thinks this odd lady is not going to provide any other information before she continues.

“I’m looking for Danielle… er — Clayton. Danielle Clayton.”

There’s something familiar about the woman, yet Jamie doesn’t recognize her as one of their regulars. Even weirder, Jamie has never heard anyone refer to Dani as Danielle in her entire life.

“Ah, she’s out at the minute, but she should be back soon,” Jamie says, and she’s about to ask how and why and who, but the lady must see the confusion in her eyes and cuts her off.

I’m Karen,” the woman adds helpfully, as though that will clear literally anything up for her.  

“Okay, Karen,” she says, drawing out the vowels and trying desperately not to roll her eyes at the lack of context. “I’m Jamie…?”

Karen’s shoulders have dropped from around her ears, the worry lines fading into her forehead now that she knows she’s in the right place, though the anxious energy surrounding her doesn’t completely dissipate.

There’s a spark in Karen at Jamie’s introduction, like her name means something.

And.

The familiarity is scratching at the base of her neck, that feeling where you know you should know something, but it’s an inch past your reach and you’re forced to scrabble aimlessly, trying to connect the dots. She knows , can place this stranger in the swirl that connects the two of them, but she just can’t name it.

Thankfully, the door is pushing open again before she can guess, this time bringing in the object of their conversation, windswept and harried as she nudges hair from her eyes with a wrist, arms laden with multicolored arrangements.

Dani looks beautiful like this, cheeks flushed from the cold, even with the scowl on her face.

Her afternoon has been filled with endless options and the sharp bite of a bridezilla who needs everything to be practically perfect and Jamie knows Dani can’t wait to let the long day soak away, curl up with Jamie and a strong cuppa — said as much before she left the sheets this morning.

She’s going to close up shop early tonight, she decides the second she sees the strain in Dani’s shoulders, and help release the tension in other ways.

They just need to get rid of Karen first.

“Oi, Poppins, there’s a lady here to see ya,” she barely gets out, before the woman is turning and Dani’s face is falling, hands grappling for purchase on her pots.

“Mom?”

And oh .

Shite.

They have the same eyes, Jamie realizes belatedly, and the aging woman in front of her clicks into place with the grainy childhood photos Dani has tucked away in their apartment.

Karen — Mrs. Clayton — steps forward, enveloping Dani in a clumsy hug around the planters clutched to her chest. Dani doesn’t move to put them down, and Jamie would think it’s all rather laughably awkward if Dani weren’t looking at her over her mother’s shoulder, mouth set and pleading.

“How did you — Why are you… here?” Dani asks like she doesn’t really want to know the answer and Jamie’s chest aches because she knows Dani is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Thinks her mother has come to convince her to move back yet again, or to make her feel bad about leaving in the first place all these years later.

Could never just be a trip to see her daughter.  

Jamie knows Dani has told Mrs. Clayton about her, on their sporadic calls throughout the years. Not about them necessarily, but that they work together, live together. Dani had never said they were just roommates, but her mother assumed and she never bothered to correct her.

Even still, it’s a warmth with which she is greeted by Dani’s mother that she wasn’t expecting, one that must have emerged in the years following Dani’s maturation if the look on her wife’s face is any indication.  

“I looked you up in the Yellow Pages!” Mrs. Clayton looks remarkably proud of herself, her palm still warm on Jamie’s forearm. “I figured not many flower shops have the same name in Vermont.”

Dani cringes and Jamie almost snorts, knows she’s regretting telling her mother the name of their store right about now.

Mrs. Clayton pushes forward, not even noticing the strained energy of the room.

“I’ll be here for a few days, in the inn down the road,” she beams. “I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to come out here!”

There’s a reason she hasn’t been invited. After years of bombarding Dani with questions of when she’s coming home, not willing to listen to the truth of she’s not, not now or ever, it seemed the pestering had suspiciously disappeared.

Now they know why.

Jamie clocks the quiet resignation that settles in the slope of Dani’s shoulders, but she thinks she sees a spark of eager excitement, smothered and tamped down, behind the solemnity.

Well. No way to avoid this now.

She’s hardly a religious person, but she sends up about ten Hail Marys in preparation for the evening, splayed long and endless, before her:

“You staying for dinner, then?”

---

Supper is maybe the worst thing Jamie’s ever sat through, and she had had to deal with Peter Quint for a good portion of her life.

She ruins the chicken and usually, Dani would grin, wide and teasing, before kissing her breathless against the stovetop.

This time, she sends an exasperated sigh towards the heavens and orders Chinese.

It’s stilted and uncomfortable and she finds herself constantly trying to stay afloat in this weird staring competition that Dani and her mother have got going on. Mrs. Clayton had already tried to mention Eddie, and Dani’s curt, “Don’t,” and the way her eyes flashed over the tableware had thankfully been enough to snap her mother’s mouth shut.

Dani had told her once, the hum of her words spilling into the dark warmth of their bedroom, that her mother had started truly caring about her too late, too removed. By the time she came around to the fact that she had a daughter worthy of time investment, Dani was past caring, had already learned to seek shelter in other, different people — too burned.

And now they’re here. At an impasse - mother and daughter who know nothing about each other, when it really comes down to it - who have spent decades tiptoeing around the mutual hurt and pain of being pushed to the side. Swept under the rug in favor of brief and surface level phone calls since Dani left for London.

Yet, Dani is so open, so achingly vulnerable always, in her emotions, that Jamie can see the longing drawn in the soft lines of her every time she hangs up the phone, sees the way Dani wants, violently, to tip headfirst into the notion that her mother means it this time around, right at the dinner table.

Jamie has been rough around the edges her whole life and she has never, ever been good with parents and, luckily, hasn’t had much opportunity in her life to make her impressions worse.

But this — Dani’s parent — feels important.

So she fills the space between by talking about hydrangeas, her favorite brand of manure composite, and whether she dabbles in vegetable growing. With each breath, she watches Dani breathe out of the corner of her eye, loosening in tune with the flow of Jamie’s brusque accent.

By the end of her blabbering, Dani is giggling at a particularly bad joke she makes and Mrs. Clayton eyes her daughter curiously across the tablecloth.

“Well, I would love a tour of your apartment, ladies,” Mrs. Clayton claps, and it jars Dani so much the table shakes when her knee jumps.

Her knee is the last of Jamie’s worries as she meets Dani’s wide eyes, because she totally forgot that they only have one bed, and how in the fuck are they supposed to just be roommates now?

Dani’s entire body has returned to rigid, fingers white-clenched on her chopsticks and Jamie longs to reach over, smooth her fingers over the groove of knuckle, kiss the promise sitting mercifully unnoticed on her ring finger.

Christ, this is so not how Jamie imagined the evening going.

“Sure,” Jamie yelps. “Why don’t you take a look around the living room while we clear up?”

She ignores Mrs. Clayton’s protestations and politely pushes her towards the record player in the corner as Dani fills the sink with warm, soapy water and they settle into a well worn routine; hip to hip against the counter, one washing and one drying.

“I’ll just be Bert the Chimney Sweep tonight, Poppins,” she murmurs, stroking a subtle hand down the length of Dani’s back when she’s sure Mrs. Clayton is distracted with the photographs on the wall.

Dani rolls her eyes.

“Bert was Mary Poppins’ love interest,” Dani whispers, but the corner of her mouth tilts up and she sags into Jamie’s touch for a moment.

“Allegedly,” she lobbies back, revelling in the grin she gets over the suds.

“I am serious, though,” Jamie continues, knocking Dani’s elbow gently with her own. “Just say I’m in the process of moving out or something and I’m crashing on the couch for a few days, that’s all.”

Jamie can see the moment that Dani decides, what she decides. Can read it plain as day on the face of the woman she loves more than life, in the curve of her lips and the set of her jaw.

“Are you sure?” They’re words from another time, another life, but Jamie means it just as much this time — would rather prioritize comfort, security, over rash decisions.

“I am always sure about you,” is the reply and Dani looks at her so softly, so carefully, that Jamie thinks she could cry, heart ricocheting against her ribcage.

---

She does it in the most Dani Clayton way possible.

“Mom, this is our bedroom,” Dani says, syllables burning quiet and destructive, nostrils flaring. “Where we sleep together.”

Jamie doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not what happens.

Mrs. Clayton nods thoughtfully, brushing past the door frame to inspect the plant prints above the bed. She doesn’t speak for a long moment, fingertips running over the worn paperback on Jamie’s side table.

Finally clears her throat, thick and sticky.

“It’s a lovely apartment, Danielle.”

Dani’s mother glances up, meets their surprised faces, turns towards Jamie. “It seems like a lovely life you’ve built together.”

“You… Oh?” Dani manages, her calm belied by the tremble in her voice.

Jamie is frozen watching it all, the beauty of it unfolding in front of her with bated breath.

“I may not be a great mother, but I’m hardly an idiot,” Mrs. Clayton chides with no real malice.

At this, Dani’s eyes well up and she stumbles forward to sink onto the mattress, mouth opening and closing without a sound.

Jamie shoves her hands into the pockets of her jeans, suddenly feeling like she is intruding.  Wants to give the pair the time they so desperately need from each other.

“Tea, Mrs. Clayton?” Her voice sounds loud in the still acceptance and she thinks she says something about Dani being terrible at it but her ears are buzzing too loudly for her to be sure.

“Please, call me Karen,” Mrs. Clayton says for the umpteenth time, and Dani lets out a watery laugh and nods, fingers slipping over Jamie’s briefly in quiet reassurance. She will be okay by herself, and if she isn’t, she trusts Jamie to help her pick up the pieces.

She dips her head and excuses herself quietly, winking sweetly and reveling in the faint blush that pinks Dani’s cheeks.

The apartment is quiet for a while and if Jamie makes more noise than usual putting the kettle on to give them their privacy, then no one has to know.

The drinks have long gone cold by the time they emerge, raw and yawning in the waning candlelight. Mrs. Clayton bundles herself into her coat when she sees the time, clutching her daughter’s hands in her own, and Dani hugs her, actually hugs her, eyes red rimmed and gentle.

“I would love to see you both tomorrow,” Mrs. Clayton looks at Jamie with Dani’s cheekbones, Dani’s kindness, and smiles.

It feels like approval.

---

After, when the door is long shut behind her and Dani has flicked on the television, feet curling under Jamie’s thigh, they will breathe again.

“All good?”

Dani looks at her with those mismatched eyes and presses a kiss to her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Keeps peppering long soft pecks until Jamie has to lean forward to capture her in a proper kiss, lips slotting together easily, eagerly.

Thank God for those Hail Marys because this is definitely her heaven.

Jamie gets lost in it, has barely been able to kiss this woman all day. Can feel the tightness in her chest unwind when Dani sighs into her, pulls her close and vows not to let go, maybe not ever with the way Dani’s hand is winding around her neck. She makes a little noise in the back of her throat and Jamie cracks open, splintering into oblivion to settle within Dani’s bones.

When they finally separate, foreheads tipped together, lips swollen and hair mussed, delight is written in every curve of Dani’s body.

She is radiant.

“All good.”

[cagestark]

A Hole in the Head//7

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

Read here on AO3.

I’ve been inactive and some have been worried; everything is fine, I’m just waiting until some irl things clear up. I *am* writing though. Hope this makes up for my absence even a little bit?

About this: nff. Slut-shaming. Sub-drop. General rough and meanness lmao.

-

He drags Peter off of the couch, one hand wide enough to cradle the back of Peter’s head to avoid letting his skull kiss the floor. Drunk off of arousal, Peter doesn’t fight back, instead arches into the contact so that his hard cock drags along the older man’s, a low desperate sound slipping free from his throat. 

“What are you doing?” Peter breathes, hopeful. Bucky settles between Peter’s thighs (and the stretch in them is absolutely delicious; it’s borderline obscene how wide they have to spread to accommodate the other man) and humps down into the warm cradle of his legs, causing fireworks to explode behind Peter’s eyes. “Not that I’m complaining—oh fuck, please don’t stop—” 

“Tell me everything you know about what Tony was saying on the phone,” Bucky growls. Peter cracks his eyes open at the strange request. Above him, Bucky’s hair is a dark curtain that parts around them, blocking out the rest of the world. His face is set, jaw clenched. At his hesitation, Bucky grinds downward again and the friction has his eyes rolling. “Tell me, or I’ll stop and leave you here like this.” 

“What do you mean, what—” 

“Why’d Tony say those things about me?” 

“Because he likes you? Jesus, I thought you were supposed to be some ultra smart assassin capable of, oh, no, no, don’t—” 

Bucky has leaned up, letting one heavy arm rest flat against Peter’s chest to keep him pinned to the floor and the other resting just above his cock, palm flat against the twitching abdominal muscles. Like this, no matter how much Peter strains, his cock receives no contact. Through his teeth, the dark man says, “What do you mean he likes me? He’s Tony fucking Stark!” 

“What’s that got to do with it? Please Bucky, please, it hurts!” Showing mercy, he drags his hand down from where it rests against Peter’s stomach, and when that large, warm palm cups his cock, it is almost enough to make him cum. He struggles to get his heels planted on the floor so that he can arch his hips upward. With surprising tenderness, Bucky cradles Peter’s aching balls in his hand before moving up to wrap his fingers around the clothed cock as best as he can, jerking Peter off in a slow, firm rhythm through the fabric of his sweatpants. “Oh fuck yes, thank you, sir, thank you.” 

“Focus, kid, and maybe I’ll let you cum,” Bucky says coldly. “Tell me everything Tony has told you.” 

“He, he thinks you’re hot,” Peter gasps, shaking, fingers scrabbling at the carpet for purchase. “He said that he re-respects you, oh god, thank you, don’t stop—” 

“Then keep talking.” 

“He said that you, you’re art and he admires you and you—oh fuck, please sir, squeeze me tighter, yes!—he said you make him feel safe. When he fucked me yesterday, he said he wished that you’d walk in on us, he said that he thinks about you in the next room listening in. God, please, Bucky, can I cum?” 

“What are you asking me for permission for? Like you’re not just a brat who will take whatever he wants anyway.” Bucky says. His voice is cold in the best way, a juxtaposition to the endless heat he pours off, the heat he’s ignited in Peter’s belly. Planting one palm on the floor beside Peter’s head, Bucky reaches down to slide a hand beneath Peter’s ass and drag his hips up off of the floor and grind them against Bucky’s own, their cocks a delicious, explosive friction. “But you told me what I needed, so I guess you’ve earned it. Go on, then. I don’t have all day.” 

Peter wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, tangling his fingers in that dark hair and using his heels to get the leverage he needs to thrust his way off the deep end. The coil wound so tense in his lower stomach snaps, balls drawing up as he cums into his sweats, so long in coming that it hurts in the best fucking way. His body jerks, muscles tensing and untensing like he’s in the throws of a seizure. But Bucky holds on to him tight, firmly guiding his hips to drag out the orgasm until Peter feels like a cloth wrung free of water. 

His head feels a little fuzzy, throat dry by the time Bucky slips his hand from beneath him. The stickiness in his sweatpants tickles a little where it drips down his legs, but he can’t find it in him to care, not when he’s on this most fragile edge between staying afloat and going under. Then, coldness—and when he opens his eyes, he sees that Bucky has withdrawn, dragged himself and his heat back to the couch and seated himself heavily on the cushions, face tilted towards the ceiling with his eyes closed.

He’s still hard. Peter is just drunk enough to pull himself up onto his knees and make his way to kneeling by Bucky’s legs. The assassin parts them easy enough, leaning his head back up to watch Peter with an empty curiosity, even when Peter opens his mouth and breathes hotly on the bulge in his tactical pants. 

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks, low and dangerous. 

“‘m gonna suck you off,” Peter says. His tongue drags a long, wet stripe from the bottom of that twitching bulge to the top. All he tastes in his mouth is the polyester-cotton blend, and he can’t wait to replace that with the taste of Bucky’s cock. A noise rumbles in the dark man’s chest, a warning, but the challenge does nothing except make Peter’s eyes go glossy where he looks up from beneath his lashes. “I don’t mind if you pretend I’m Tony.” 

Bucky grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair and pulls his head back so harshly that a noise slips free of Peter’s mouth, his throat bared. Bucky pulls him, coaxing him back to the floor lest he snap his own fucking neck. One thick boot comes down flat on Peter’s chest, pressing just enough to threaten the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Still seated on the couch, Bucky looms over him while he loosens his belt. 

“You want my cum, kid?” Bucky asks through his teeth. He draws his cock free from his pants and Peter cranes his aching neck, desperate to see it. The angle is no good, only lets him see the last three inches before the sight is blocked by Bucky’s thick thigh. But what he sees makes his own spent cock jerk. Bucky is thick, flushed a pink just as dark as his lips.With a practiced, firm hand, the man begins to jerk himself off. “Beg for it.” 

Beg for it? The words echo in Peter’s head, setting off alarms that he isn’t nearly far enough under to have silenced. Peter doesn’t beg. Alright, he does, but Peter is under no illusion that being submissive makes him any lesser than the people who dominate him. His submission is a gift to them, Peter Parker is a motherfucking gift, one that Bucky does not yet appreciate and has not yet earned.

“No, you coward,” Peter gasps. Both his hands wrap around Bucky’s boot, but even with all his strength, he can’t budge it. 

The force behind Bucky’s boot increases. When the man leans over to place more weight on it, he looks downright unhinged, his lips pulled back to bare straight, clenched teeth. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me. You’re a pussy! Does coming up with an excuse for your depravity make you feel better later? I had to jerk the kid off, for information,” Peter mimics, throwing his voice in a mocking impersonation of Bucky himself. “I wouldn’t have let him suck me off, but he begged for my cum. You are a twisted fuck. Own it, asshole!”

For a moment, watching the way Bucky’s handsome face twists in fury, Peter thinks maybe he went too far. The boot on his chest adds pressure until his ribs creak, and he feels true fear. Ever since he was a boy, people had warned Peter that his mouth would get him into trouble someday. Maybe this is his ticket about to be called. 

But instead Bucky slips down from the couch until he’s straddling Peter’s chest, pinning thin arms tightly to his sides with the larger man’s thighs, belt buckle gaping and framing his erection like the golden stage curtains at the fucking Lincoln Center. This close, Peter has to stare straight up to look at the man’s face. When his hands fall back to the buttons on his tactical pants, Peter’s eyes slip there instead. 

“Fine,” Bucky mutters. He pulls out his cock, and from this angle it’s truly something spectacular: long and thick and cut with neatly trimmed pubic hair and balls that hang low and heavy. Reflexively, Peter lifts his head up off the floor to see if he can crane enough to lap at the purple, slick head, but he can’t. “That how you want to play it, kid? I’ll own it. I’ll own you, you little shit. Gonna paint that pretty fucking face.” 

“Do it,” Peter groans. He struggles to breathe through the weight on his chest, heart hammering. Above him, Bucky strips his cock like it’s a weapon, stroking the length of it with an unforgiving grip while the other reaches down to cradle his own balls, palming them with uncharacteristic tenderness. It’s one of the most obscene, arousing sights Peter’s ever seen, his soft cock twitching where it rests in his own cooling cum. Bucky’s face is just as artful as his cock, head tilted in pleasure, full mouth parted to reveal his teeth clenched tightly shut, the ultimate juxtaposition of soft and bestial. 

His eyes slit open while Peter stares, dark stormy-sea eyes. Peter opens his mouth wide like a target for Bucky to shoot, and the way his face twists in arousal, the cry that comes from his throat as his head falls back - there’s no way Peter could ever forget those things. When Bucky cums, it’s downright explosive, pearlescent seed raining down on Peter, striping his face and the curls of his hair and landing on his eager tongue. 

A desperate sound slips from Peter’s throat as the taste bursts across his buds. It’s cum, not fine cuisine, but it’s Bucky’s. Above him, the man makes a tortured sound at the sight of Peter licking his lips. When at last Bucky has drained himself, cum trickling down his scarred knuckles, he shuffles off of where he pinned Peter to the floor. 

For a long moment, both of them rest and catch their breath. Bucky is the first to move, plucking a tissue off of the end table and holding it out to Peter like a white flag, a peace offering. The expression on his face is mostly unreadable. The man who pinned him to the floor and then jerked off onto his face seems to have receded, letting a more closed off Bucky to the forefront. Peter is more than a little fucked thinking about how fond he is of both sides: the unhinged and the sane.

“Don’t get soft on me now,” says Peter, even if it’s kind of nice. The last thing he wants is Bucky feeling some twisted guilt (all that bullshit Peter said earlier about the man’s perversion was just that—bullshit. Maybe they are all perverts, but at least they’re among like kind). He ignores the tissue and reaches up to wipe three fingers through the mess on his cheeks, slipping them into his mouth to suck them clean. 

“That was a mistake,” Bucky says, voice like sandpaper. “It’s never going to happen again.” 

Peter gapes. “Why not?” 

“Tony—” 

“Were you listening to that phone call?” Peter asks. He feels liable to explode, a ball of fury (of hurt) throbbing just beneath his throat, desperate to be released. How long will Bucky continue to play these games with them? With Peter? “He’s fine with it! More than fine. He’s fucking into it!” 

“Just because he might like it doesn’t mean it’s good for him,” Bucky grits out. “It’s the last thing either of you needs when you’re still getting over what happened with that cunt Beck.” 

“Right,” Peter says, pushing himself up so that the assassin is no longer towering over him. Bucky has an easy four inches on him (and probably sixty pounds), but Peter has never let his small stature keep him from speaking his mind. “Because you’re obviously the authority on what we need!”

“You’re goddamn right I am!” Bucky shouts. “You think you need this? You think you need me? You need me like you need a fucking hole in the head.”

“You—aren’t—Beck!” Peter’s face burns, reddening with fury and embarrassment. How many times and in how many ways will Beck come back to haunt him? How long must he be dead before the cloud of him dissipates from above Peter’s head? “Tony hasn’t ever left me alone overnight in the five years we’ve been together. Why? I haven’t woken in the night once this week to find Tony sitting in the armchair by the bed, cleaning his gun because he can’t sleep. Why? And you heard us on the phone—Tony hasn’t bottomed in over twenty years, but he said he’d do it for you. Why? Because we trust you, fuckface!”

All at once, the fury drains out of Peter. He finds himself exhausted, eyes burning in a terrible, traitorous way. Turning away, he snatches up the tissue that Bucky had grabbed for him and begins to clean himself off, clenching his jaw so that it doesn’t tremble. His hands shake, adrenalin from the sex, the fight, hormones crashing. 

Peter sits heavily on the sofa, the pile of tissues beside him. His mind begins to whir, trapped in an endless cycle. It’s his fault he and Tony are in this mess, both lusting (that’s all it is, all it can be, Peter swears) after the assassin. When he speaks, his voice is fragile and cracking, slow and slurred and not at all its typical self, but he can barely hear it, can barely feel the words as they trip from his open mouth: “I just don’t get it. You’re attracted to us. It won’t get you in trouble. Why, then? Why do you keep doing this? Is it—is it me?” 

“Don’t,” Bucky says, low and threatening. 

Peter doesn’t hear it, lost in the fear that creeps over his mind like fog too thick to see sense through. His words come out garbled around the knot in his throat that is strangling him. “Is it because I’m, because I make things so hard? Running from you ‘n talking back? Because I, I can be good. I swear. Just give me a chance and I can show you.” 

Firm hands grab the collar of Peter’s shirt and drag him right up off the couch until his toes struggle to touch the floor, fabric ripping underneath the brutal grip. Now he’s face to face with Bucky who searches his expression with furious eyes and a downturned mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” the man asks. He shakes Peter a little. “You’re acting like—what’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” Peter says, answering a question Bucky never asked. His voice warbles, thick with emotion, eyes misting. “I’ve never known—” 

Bucky squints, eyes raking over Peter’s face before settling on his trembling mouth. “Are you dropping?”

Oh, he thinks, teeth chattering. Yes, yes I am. One of Bucky’s wide palms comes up to cradle the back of his head and coax him to look the larger man in the eyes. They’re narrow, intense, unreadable as always. “Come on, snap out of it. Tell me what helps when you’re like this, kid,” Bucky says. 

“Nothing,” Peter says with wet lashes. Because that’s how it feels when he drops this hard, like nothing will help, like nothing will ever get better. 

Bucky pulls them flat together, chest to chest, tucking Peter’s head underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around Peter’s thin frame, squeezing firmly because Peter can’t stop shaking, because he’s trembling like a leaf on a tree tossed in the wind. The warmth the other man gives off is heavenly, cutting through the chill on Peter’s skin and soaking into him deep. Awkwardly, one hand begins to pat at Peter’s back. 

“You’re okay,” Bucky mutters. “Just—fucking calm down. Please.” 

Bucky says please like he’d usually say a threat, and it makes Peter’s heart squeeze.

He shakes his head before burying his face deeper into the man’s broad chest, inhaling while he twists his fingers around the fabric of his shirt. Bucky smells always of leather and cologne, sometimes of sweat, but even the smell of sweat isn’t unpleasant when it comes from the him. Groaning, Peter lets himself relax into the heat and the scent and the arms that feel like the only thing tethering him to this world. Half of him wishes that they’d let go, that he’d float away somewhere where he’d cease to bother and burden the ones he loves. 

The ground slips out from beneath his feet as Bucky scoops him up and into his arms. Peter struggles for only a moment until Bucky’s grip tightens in a way that is both threatening and soothing. Under that grip, Peter goes lax and lets the man carry him up the stairs as if Peter were nothing more than a basket of laundry. Outside the doors, Bucky hesitates for only a moment between his own door and the door Peter shares with Tony before choosing the latter. 

The sheets smell like Tony. Peter rolls upon contact with them, burying his face and inhaling. Trying to clear the fog from his head. He jerks when someone touches his shoulder, but it’s just Bucky, staring down from so high up with his typical frown and stormy eyes. The bed depresses as Bucky kneels up onto it, coaxing Peter to roll over and sit up. He feels like a child when Bucky takes his shirt off, but there’s no fight in him, not with his mind so far away and his body so weak and fragile. With uncharacteristic tenderness, Bucky uses a cloth dampened from the en suite bathroom to clean Peter’s face of any residual cum, wiping carefully at the delicate skin beneath his eyes, across the expanse of his forehead, down over the slope of his jaw. Peter lets his eyes fall shut, feeling the rasp of the cloth against his sensitive skin, the warm dampness of it. 

He lowers Peter carefully back down into the den of soft sheets and blankets and pillows, and Peter stares through heavy eyes at the man’s figure—

Then he blinks, awakening. The lighting in the room has changed, the sunlight tilting to a dramatic new angle to show that time has passed, that Peter has been asleep far longer than he might have expected. His head throbs, the skin beneath his eyes tender and crusted with dried tears, but he sits up anyway and wipes the drool from his mouth. 

Bucky is seated in the armchair having pulled it up close to the bedside. He’s slumped over, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. At the sound of the sheets rustling, he lets his hands drop to a more neutral position while he looks up, face blank. 

“Why didn’t you wake me for lunch?” Peter asks. His hands still shake, but the terrible tightness in his chest is gone. “I had a salad in the refrigerator, now I’ll bet the lettuce is all wilted. Thanks for nothing.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Bucky. 

For a moment, Peter thinks he’s misheard. When he asks Bucky to repeat himself, the man looks like he’d rather face torture. But still, he says it again. 

“The salad isn’t a big deal,” Peter jokes weakly. 

Bucky ignores the attempt at deflection.

“I’m supposed to be keeping you safe. But I just keep fucking up.” He stands up and sheds the dark henley he’d been wearing. Peter’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the man shirtless: pale skin, every muscle defined from his pecs to the abs and the lines that frame his package. Here and there are scars: brutal ones along Bucky’s shoulder that make Peter wince in sympathy; a hole of twisted scar tissue from a bullet wound long healed over. Every last detail takes Peter’s breath away. “If you want me, you can have me,” Bucky says, jaw clenched. “I’ll—take care of you.” 

“What am I, a fucking houseplant? Did Tony leave you instructions to water me every other day if my soil feels dry and give me a quarter turn so I don’t bend towards the sunlight? I don’t need you to ‘take care’ of me.” 

“Kid,” Bucky says, low and dangerous. “You make it real hard not to throttle you. I’m trying to have a serious conversation here. Dial down the brat.” 

“I am the brat. Conversation would go a lot smoother if you’d stop being a dumbass, how’s that for a suggestion? A life hack. Yours for free, asshole. And for what it’s worth, I do want you,” Peter admits. He scoots across the bed until his back is pressed against the headboard, pulling the sheets up around himself. It feels easier, here on his turf, in this place that he and Tony have worked so hard to reclaim as safe. Easier to be honest. “Just not like this.” 

Bucky scowls. His abs tense, a distracting motion. “Either you want me or you don’t.” 

“You’re missing the point,” Peter snaps. “Just as much as I want you—maybe more than I want you—I want you to want me. I want to be wanted.” 

“You think I jerk off on casual acquaintances?” Bucky asks. “I want you, okay! Maybe if we fuck, you’ll get this out of your system—” 

“I don’t want you out of my system!” 

“What do you mean? What, you want more than a fuck?” 

The way he says it, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world that Peter could possibly want—it makes Peter feel cold all over. Suddenly, he realizes the gravity of what he is saying. He’s admitting to things he didn’t know he felt, things that he’d buried. Tony, he thinks. I need to talk to Tony. “Forget it.”

Bucky seats himself again, slouches deeply and tangles his hands in his hair to tug.  Watching all the muscles in his chest and torso work makes Peter lick his lips reflexively. “Jesus Christ. I still don’t know what you fucking want from me, kid.” Then, with a vulnerability that shakes Peter to his very core: “I’m not good at this. You want me to snipe a guy from a thousand yards? I’m your guy. You want me to build a bomb with whatever you’ve got under your bathroom sink? I can do that. But this—whatever the fuck this is? I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m just going to fuck it up.” 

Peter swallows heavily. A part of him wants to reach out and take Bucky’s hands from his hair, coax him to let go of a grip that must surely be painful. A bigger part of him wants to say something foul and snappy, something that will keep this argument spinning forever and forever, like tires stuck in slick mud. “I believe in equal opportunity,” he says, as gently as he can. Gentleness doesn’t come easy. “So I’d like a chance to fuck this up, too, please.” 

Bucky snorts softly. “And with both of us working to fuck everything up, who the hell is going to hold this together, huh?” 

And isn’t it obvious? Peter thinks. 

“Tony,” he says. “Duh.”

Reaching out, Peter pats at the bedspread beside him. Bucky watches with wary eyes, like maybe Peter has slipped a whoopee cushion under the blanket, or maybe there’s a land mine that’s been left sitting since WWII buried beneath the sheets of a bed in a 2010 built mansion in New York, still active, ready to detonate as soon as he sits. But after a long moment, he pushes himself up out of the chair (which creaks with his muscled weight) and sits gingerly where Peter directed. 

He looks lost. Unsure. Younger than Peter’s ever seen him. 

“Tell me,” Bucky says, quiet though no less intense. They’re close enough that he doesn’t need to do more than whisper. “Tell me what you want from me. From this.” 

“I want there to be something between us to fuck up,” Peter admits. 

-

Peter takes Tony’s call out by the pool. The New York mansion sits on twelve acres of land, which gives him plenty of vantage points to watch the sun as it sets, smearing the sky with oranges and pinks. Even from this distance, he can feel the weight of Bucky’s gaze. The man is ever watchful, as if someone is going to step right out of the woods and try to drown Peter in the in-ground pool. 

Tony listens quietly while Peter tells him the events of the day, only interrupting to ask a clarifying question or two. That’s the thing about Tony: he’s an amazing speaker, but God can he listen. Peter is a habitually nervous talker, always eager to fill any silence between himself and another person. It works out in Tony’s favor on nights like tonight, when all he has to do is hum thoughtfully and Peter spills his guts and more into the empty air between them. 

The only thing he leaves out is the motivation for Bucky’s actions, the hard-on Peter believes he’s harboring for Tony. That he isn’t spilling yet; not until he has more solid confirmation.

“Are you angry, sir?” Peter asks. His anxious feet kick up ripples in the pool. 

“No—why in the world would I be?” Tony asks. “I goaded you into propositioning Bucky, or did you forget? And I’m more than half hard after hearing about your little tête-à-tête this afternoon. I’m downloading the security camera footage from the game room as we speak, just so you know. 39% of the way there.” 

Peter smiles, glad his back is to the house so Bucky can’t see. Knowing that soon Tony will be watching him driven to absolute desperation (and then he will see what he let Bucky do to him, not that Peter could have struggled free even if he’d wanted to) makes his gut clench. But as quick as it comes, his smile fades. “I knew you’d be okay with that part. But it’s not like you asked me to go and—catch feelings for him.”

Tony hums. 

“I don’t want you to think that you aren’t enough for me,” Peter goes on when the silence lasts too long. “Because you are. And I don’t want you to think I’m a slut, even if I am—” 

“Peter,” Tony says, voice low and infused with warning. Peter ducks his chin even three thousand miles away. He still feels the disharmonious undercurrent thrumming in his blood and chest from his earlier drop, and it makes him more pliant than usual. The last thing he wants to do is upset his lover, disobey his lover. “I’ve had it with you calling yourself that word in that tone. Do it again and for the next two weeks I’ll jerk off during my morning shower and the closest you’ll get to sex with me is overhearing any sounds I make through the bathroom door. Understood?” 

“Yessir,” Peter murmurs. Despite the sharp words on the other end of the line, Peter’s feet kick happily. There has always been a part of him that believes his love of sex is a moral defect—society, past lovers, past friends teaching him so. The reassurance from Tony is like aloe to that scorched part of him. There’s nothing wrong with him. Tony says so.

“Good boy. The only feelings of yours I’m concerned with are the ones you hopefully have for me,” he says. “Do you still love me, kid? Tell me now if you want me to cut you loose, and for both our sakes, I’ll pretend that I could do it.” 

“You can cut me loose, but I’ll never leave,” Peter says. “I know where I want to be, Tony. At your feet. Always.”

“I miss sucking on that silver-tongue, sweet thing.” Tony’s voice is just short of a growl, the sound of it rushing over Peter’s skin like the breeze, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

He lays down, back against the tiles of the poolside, feet still in the water. Above him, the sky is just beginning to turn cobalt blue. Jupiter is bright tonight. His heart squeezes in his chest when he dares to think about how lucky he is. Tony. And now Bucky. But he doesn’t want to count his chickens before they hatch. “Come home, sir.” 

“You just want to fuck,” Tony says slyly. 

Smiling, Peter lets his eyes shut. “I don’t want to go to sleep without you here.” 

“Are you afraid?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Tony hums. 

Peter sighs. “Maybe not. But I miss you even when you’re just in the city—imagine how I feel with you on the other side of the country.” 

“I left you in excellent hands. Speaking of which, I can hardly wait to see those hands on you. 92%.” 

“So slow?”

“The file is huge, kid.” 

“He says he wants to wait until you get back before we fuck,” Peter says, scowling to the stars. 

“No wonder you want me to come home. If he can manage to teach you the value of patience, I’ll double what I’m paying him.”

“The two of you are going to kill me.” Peter weighs his next words carefully. “You know, I think Bucky has a hard-on you.” 

Fabric shifts in the background. Tony’s voice is sharp when he asks: “What makes you say that?” 

Sirens go off in Peter’s brain complete with flashing lights. Abort, abort. “Well who wouldn’t, sir?” 

A soft, humored exhalation, and Peter relaxes.

[diskwrite-ffxiv]

ffxivwrite 2021 - #15 Thunderous

Continued from #11 Preaching to the Choir - ( first | second )

Gridania, 1565 6AE

In that peculiar manner like her head had been doused into a stream, the sound went out. A subtle ringing noise replaced it, droning into a disassembling whine until it faded out into the disagreement of birds that punctuated the whispered susurrations of the leaves around them. A chattering chorus that still for some reason felt unreal, leaving her standing there numbly with her fingers slack, hands crooked in front of her like a pair of pleading paws.

“I beg your pardon?” Shandrelle managed at last.

Before she knew why, she flinched.

“Your family,” Ojene uttered, and true awareness roiled back with a rapid prickling down Shandrelle’s shoulders- for the wry familiarity Ojene’s eyes had vanished into a sharp intensity that burrowed straight to her spine. And though Ojene hadn’t moved the dagger, it suddenly bore again a lethal promise that parched Shandrelle’s throat. “They’re trying to kill me,” Ojene repeated. “Again. And you’re telling me you know nothing of it?”

Shandrelle found velvet petals smoothing between her fingers again, grasping backwards as if somehow reaching out to something- anything- would steady her, for abruptly she felt as if the ground beneath her rolled like a drenched log floating down a river, and her scrabbling desperately to stay afloat as her hands windmilled madly at her sides.

“No,” she croaked. “Matron, Ojene, why would I? The last I saw you, Twelve, it was- you up and left and so abruptly! And I haven’t heard hide nor hair of you since.”

“Then why do you think they’re after me?” Ojene asked, her voice suddenly too calm.

“I- I don’t know! How should I know? I don’t even know what you’ve been up to the last decade or so, how could I even feign to guess?”

“Perhaps you could,” Ojene said softly, “if you tried. You said your father told you what happened.”

“And perhaps he’s unhinged enough to try it! I don’t know- I wouldn’t put it past him- but why would he after all these years? You’re not a threat to me anymore. Er- in his eyes!”

Ojene’s expression hardly changed, save for the subtle narrowing of her eyes. “Then your mother,” she said, just as soft. “Or your relatives- think, Shandrelle, think!” In a flash she was off the fallen tree, pacing forward in a wide circle, the dagger loose at her side.

Twigs jutted hard in the small of Shandrelle’s back as she recoiled. “No- leave them out of it! Unless- they did do something wrong that I don’t know about but- my mother- I don’t think she ever knew, even if she didn’t approve of you and I, she couldn’t- she wouldn’t-”

“And you’re sure?” Ojene nearly whispered, and she stopped but a couple fulms away, looming over with her great height, and oh, by the Twelve- how Shandrelle felt herself shrink in the shadow, pinned there by the twin glaciers that bore such a cold and distant promise that her voice matched.

“I-I-” Shandrelle rapidly stammered. “As sure… as I can be. Which is not to say… a lot.”

Twin creases kneaded around Ojene’s eyes as she regarded Shandrelle for a long, silent moment, before with a low rumble of the back of her throat she turned on her heel and withdrew a couple paces.

And the end of her thought burbled up in the back of Shandrelle’s thought, leaking out like the croak of a frog. “I was sure of my father too,” she blurted. “After all.”

Ojene shot her a glance over her shoulder, but in truth she’d never fully turned away. “All right,” she muttered, and she returned to the spot at the fallen tree, and still standing she propped one boot up in the same place she had before as she leaned forward like an apostrophe.

In the break from scrutiny the deep breath Shandrelle had swallowed heaved out in a tremulous gust, and she seized her elbows in quivering hands, clutching her arms close to her chest.

“Twelve, Ojene,” she breathed. “I know we didn’t part on the best of terms but… what’s happened to you?”

To her surprise a subtle ripple jerked through Ojene’s shoulders, bowing her head a couple ilms lower. The silhouetted panes of her irises vanished as her eyes swiveled off- and yet still not baring her back, not truly looking away-

“A lot,” at last came Ojene’s muttered reply, and as she straightened she turned back, fixing Shandrelle with an expression that after all this felt strangely empty.

Shandrelle loosed another held breath. “By the gods- I know you don’t have any reason to trust me… but that’s a far cry from me wishing harm on you.” Her voice splintered oddly- she swallowed. “I never wished harm on you. Didn’t know about the harm on you, or… didn’t want to see. And maybe I did cause it. And if I’ve hurt you beyond the ways I realized- then I’m truly sorry. But for the sake of what we did have- Matron’s breath I never wanted you dead!”

Quite unexpectedly tears seared into her eyes in surging pools that spilled thick drops into her lashes, and Shandrelle stuffed her hands to her mouth as she indendeted her upper teeth into the meat of her palm, choking back a sudden sob.

In the moment before wetness blurred it out, she saw the way Ojene’s expression suddenly slackened, her brows lofting upwards. But then the waters streamed forth, wiping everything away into a kaleidoscope of grey and green, and Shandrelle squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m sorry,” Ojene said, a bit breathlessly. “I’m sorry.”

“Gods,” Shandrelle uttered, a hoarse croak against the vice in her throat. She buried her face into her elbow. “What has gotten into you?”

“I’m- you’re right. You shame me- and rightfully so.”

In the lapse of momentary silence Shandrelle staggered a tremulous breath into her lungs, and with a deep breath she lifted her face aloft. The blurry figure of Ojene resolved, in the absence of tears, into a withdrawn shape once again perched upon the fallen tree. But this time her legs crooked up in front of her, drawn inwards as her hands looped absently around the hilt of the dagger, the blade disappeared under the flats of her arms.

Their eyes met, and a muscle flickered through Ojene’s jaw. “I never truly thought you were out to cause me harm,” she continued softly. “I suppose I was just- furious about it.”

Sniffing hard against an unpleasant wave of phlegm, Shandrelle struck her sleeve across her eyes. “Over- the past? Or now?”

“Both, I suppose… but I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I’m sorry.”

“Why did you?” Shandrelle demanded- and suddenly as she did she had the sense that the ground had changed beneath her feet but this time her shoes burrowed against solid earth that buoyed her up the lip of the hill looking down, not the other way around.

Ojene averted her eyes, one thumbnail budging under the dagger’s pommel. “I guess I wanted to know if you were telling the truth.”

With a disbelieving laugh Shandrelle thrust a hand over the top of her head, flattening down a few straggly hairs as she went. “Well, there’s better ways to do that, you know! Instead of launching me into- some bloody interrogation! I mean, honestly! Did you not hear a word I said?”

“There’s hearing. And then there’s believing.” Ojene’s gaze flicked up, suddenly affixed to Shandrelle’s face with a seriousness that stopped her short. “My life has been a liability to the people around me for- some time now. So I have to be careful with who I bring into it- especially with you.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

Ojene grimaced- and as soon as she’d met Shandrelle’s eye she glanced away again, one shoulder rolling in an approximation of a shrug. “Well, if you weren’t part of it all, then… I was going to have to ask for your help.”

A particularly shrill ululation of birdsong punctuated the silence.

“Ojene,” Shandrelle gritted through a half-bared grimace of a smile. “You have one hell of a way of asking for support.”

Ojene opened her mouth to reply, but Shandrelle battened it down with the sharp loft of a finger. “I am very put out with you!” she said. “And I am going to need a moment to process- whatever the hells all this is- but if you’re telling me that you’re in danger and it’s my family that’s doing it- well, I couldn’t very well say no, could I?”

“You don’t know that yet,” Ojene hazarded.

“I suppose I don’t! But fuck you, honestly, showing up here, telling me things like that, and then expecting me not to give you succor. I am going to need some time!” Bending down, she swiftly plucked her lunch basket over her arm. “So you are going to stay here.” She turned on her heel. “And don’t follow me!”

With a great huff Shandrelle swept down the path she had meant to walk down to the creek from the start, blooms of vetch long since forgotten as Ojene’s silent eyes followed her til she turned out of sight.

[kootenaygoon]

"Nanor and the River Eels" by Will Johnson The Adams River contains a queer magic only detectable to those who trouble to learn her song. There’s an electric undercurrent in even the most placid of eddies, and the roaring power of the rapids can be felt far beyond her seductive shorelines. She is the throbbing lifeblood of the Shuswap, a phantasmagoria of violence, chaos and intoxicating beauty, and she thunders along relentless while human beings live short and brutal lives under her beguiling influence. She barely notices each time her currents claim a life, as cold corpses bounce against the riverbed, and her machinations are beyond human comprehension. She has a grand plan, but nobody knows what it is. Shuswap Joe spent his formative years living among the Indigenous fisherfolk who had saved him as a baby, but the river was the closest thing he ever had to a mother. She woke him in the morning, whispered to him in a soothing susurrus all day long, then sang him to sleep in his solitary home high among the trees. Every night he would lay listening to the forest’s tumult of groaning, creaking conversation and wonder where he fit into this world. He had no way to know it, but he was quickly becoming the spitting image of his strapping gold miner father while adopting the lifestyle of his gypsy hermit mother. All he could do was imagine who they were, but he also understood that time only flows in one direction. It’s useless to fight the current for very long.

Long after sunset one night Shuswap Joe was pondering his parentage, at 12 years old, when the night came alive with a strange electricity. Above him the moon had a skeletal scowl, and the surrounding trees all stood silent, as if holding their breath. Instinctively he rolled on to his stomach and gazed down from his nest to the river, scanning the moon-glinting surface for any sign of intruders. Earlier that season he’d gotten into a friendly tussle with a black bear over a fresh salmon, so he had a healthy appreciation for the dangers of wildlife, but he knew that the true villains were always human. With their guns, their alcohol, their greed. He was entranced and frightened by these settlers, and wondered if one day he would join their sordid ranks. He looked down in the direction of the weir, a large wooden dam that had been recently constructed near the river’s mouth. Multiple sluice channels were open, allowing the lake to tumble through in tandem torrents, creating a soothing soundscape perfect for his sleeping hours. At first Joe could see nothing out of place, and he nearly disregarded the strange clench in his stomach. But then, from out of the darkness, came a slow-moving tree trunk that was half-submerged in the current. Its waving branches clawed maliciously at the sky. Mounted at the front was a flickering torch that illuminated the purple waters surrounding it, as well as the limp body of a dead logger lashed at its base. Perched atop the black wood like some giant arachnid was a hooded figure with long bone-white limbs. He manipulated the branches in slow, sweeping motions, and expertly guided the trunk around the bend without a sound. It was only a handful of moments before he was gone, leaving Joe to wonder if he’d been asleep or awake for this disturbing vision. Was he some sort of demon? A watery death spirit that lived on human flesh? The next night, as the moon took its rightful place among the stars, Joe waited crouched and shin-deep on the riverbank. He had become skilled at navigating the river using the detritus of the forest, careening through rapids atop a rolling log or swimming through the Canyon using a broken branch for flotation. That night he’d chosen an elbow-shaped branch, the bark peeled clean, to help him tail the spectre from the night before. And when he eventually appeared, his torch casting ominous shadows across the surface, Joe shoved into the current and allowed the river to talk hold of him. With the branch wrapped around his chest he bobbed in the darkness as the water lapped around his cheekbones. He gazed up at the silhouetted trees, which were all whispering with suspicious voices. They understood the danger he was in, whether or not he did. Eventually the current began to rumble and rage as they approached the rapid known as the Lion’s Head. Joe could see a billowing pillow of water pummelling a proud boulder directly ahead of the hellish raft, the waves hopelessly yearning for the exposed roots of a grove of trees at its zenith. His legs bounced against the jagged rocks beneath him and twice his branch was completely submerged. He fought to stay afloat. Far ahead he heard a high-pitched keening, like the song of some demented bird, echoing amidst the chaos. Was the man singing? Joe expected the man to pivot his trunk downstream, towards safety, but instead he seemed intent on driving it straight into the rock wall. Blinking through the waves, rivulets pouring from his face, he watched as multiple whirlpools gaped open on cue and swirled hungrily. The river’s grumble escalated to a thunderous roar and he kicked furiously, pointing towards the flickering flame. He was vaguely aware of the man’s skeletal arms waving towards the moon and then his body was forcibly yanked underwater. It was as if someone had grasped him by both ankles. He didn’t have time to scream or panic or fight before being consumed by the blackness. The next thing Joe knew he was retching the contents of his stomach on to wet stone. It was cool to the touch. Above him was a curved ceiling alive with dancing light, illuminated by a glowing pool beneath it. He wiped away bile with the back of his hand and examined his surroundings, dimly aware that the roar of the Lion’s Head waves were now on the other side of the wall. He rose to his feet and scanned his surroundings, his gaze eventually falling upon the snake-like limbs of the man he’d been chasing. Nestled into the twisted white roots of a tree and bathed in shadow, he looked exactly like some giant spider ready to devour him. As Joe stood agape, the man unfurled himself from his cross-legged perch and crawled towards him on all fours. His face was a horror to behold, with fiery red veins shooting through his ice white skin like river channels. His grin was a red ravage of broken teeth. “Why have you intruded upon my lair, boy? Do I not frighten you?” Joe considered for a moment, dripping. “Nothing frightens me.” He laughed. “That’s because you’re drunk on youth, and a stranger to the darkness. There’s plenty in this world that should frighten you, as it does me.” “And who are you, exactly?” “Most don’t even believe I’m real, and the rest wish I wasn’t. My name is Nanor, and it’s my job to ferry those the river claims to their final resting place. A gruesome job, perhaps, but one that needs to be done.” Nanor was perched above Joe on a rock ledge, dressed in nothing but a soiled loincloth, and his shoulder blades violently jutted out like sinister wings. He clambered down the rock on all fours until he was inches from Joe’s face, the stench of his breath thick with brimstone. His eyebrows and hair were bleached snow white but a few curled black whiskers hung from his chin. There was no way to judge how old he was, but it was clear he’d survived long past his natural lifespan. There was a strange twitch to his muscles, a jolting quality to his movements, that suggested he was being controlled by some power apart from himself. Joe forced himself to stand his ground, never backing away as the man swooped and spat his way through a meandering monologue. It was clear he hadn’t spoken to anyone for a very long time. The story began decades earlier, when Nanor was a young man flush with mining ambitions. He’d grown up alongside a woman named Lenore, and upon reaching manhood had promised to save enough money for their marriage. He set out with his rucksack into the wilderness, and signed on with an outfit that was exploring deeper and deeper into a mountain rich with silver. At the end of each day he would take off his boots and marvel at how the mud sparkled, how this precious substance had been buried and hidden among all the worthless rock. He became addicted to its sheen, scrabbling ever harder and digging ever deeper in search of its lustre. By the time he’d saved enough for a ring he knew that it wouldn’t be enough, he had to keep accumulating. They could buy an acreage, with a nice little farmhouse, lousy with farm animals and screaming with life. It was this beautiful dream that kept him spelunking further and further into the black crevices far beneath the ground. Sometimes he would forget how it was above the surface, up in the sunshine, as he became increasingly acclimatized to his subterranean solitude. “Some people think this world is here for us to ransack, to rape, and I should’ve known all that time I was yearning for silver that it would have a cost one day. That’s what you’re going to learn, kid, is there’s a cost to everything. Especially dreams.” “What happened to that woman, then?” “She had her own dreams, I guess.” The day came eventually when Nanor returned to the surface with his bounty, only to find his skin had turned translucent from its time away from the daylight. When he turned his face to the sky, basking in the sun’s warm kiss, he instantly felt a sharp sting. His cheeks split open like bacon crackling on a spit, and furious red sores erupted across his forehead and down his neck. He retreated into the darkness with licks of grey smoke curling up from his burning flesh, and when he covered his face with his hands they came away covered in an oozing pus. For days he writhed in agony, applying wet bandages that made him look mummified and horrific, as he lamented Lenore’s imagined response to this condition. How could she love someone like him, a nocturnal ghoul incapable of living among the rest of society? He couldn’t and wouldn’t ask that of her, so he convinced the mining company to issue a letter in which they informed her of his death by tragic accident. It was kinder that way. For months Nanor lived in the wilds, traveling only by night and burrowing underground during the day. Eventually he happened upon a traveling circus, and shortly after sundown he approached a mad scientist by the name of Dr. Klondike. Nanor had been impressed by his performance the day earlier, in which he introduced a number of exotic animals procured from faraway lands. He whipped blankets off water tanks that housed not only giant fish, but also squids and stingrays and all manner of bizarre aquatic creatures. The stars of his little show, though, were the electric river eels he’d retrieved from the Amazon River. While the crowd hooted in delirious delight, Dr. Klondike danced across the stage with an intricately carved flute that produced a trance-like, elegiac melody. It roused the river eels to the surface slowly, until they began to leap into the air shooting bursts of electricity and singing in their otherworldly voices. Nanor watched those river eels dance, transfixed, and knew he had to claim them for himself. It was rumoured that their electricity could cure all kinds of afflictions, why not his? “How do you kidnap a river eel, though?” Joe asked, genuinely interested. “Can they survive out of water?” Nanor shook his head. “I couldn’t steal the eels themselves, but I could steal their eggs. That night I brought Dr. Klondike a jug of his favourite hooch, and together we drank long into the night. That was when he confessed that he had a new clutch of eggs, fresh, that he’d nestled away for safekeeping. Before the liquor swept him off to unconsciousness I convinced him to show me the hiding spot. He had them swaddled in a blanket, like the baby Christ, three dark green eggs with white spots. I stole off into the night with them hidden beneath my cloak.” As Nanor spoke the pool behind him began to swirl, and Joe saw the twisted spines of river eels beginning to break the surface. One of them leaped into the air and belched up a lightning storm, illuminating the cavern, but his master barely noticed. He was too caught up in his story-telling, describing to Joe the healing effect the eels’ electricity had on him. He’d hatched the eggs beneath the Lion’s Head and watched as they grew and multiplied, growing ever smarter. He would wring their bodies in his hands until they fired their electricity straight into his veins. Under the influence of the eel’s magic he felt like he understood the world in a way he couldn’t otherwise, like the drab darkness of his existence was suddenly shot through with rainbows of throbbing energy. Eventually he couldn’t stand ordinary reality, and he returned more and more often to the river eels for his next jolt of life-giving inspiration. “What’s it feel like?” Joe asked. “The electricity, I mean.” Nanor flashed his broken teeth. “If you want to understand, you have to experience it for yourself. It’s different for everyone. The river eels know what lesson you need to learn, and how to teach it to you.” “Is it dangerous?” “Of course it is. It wouldn’t be any fun if it wasn’t.” Joe stood above the pool and watched in wonder as the river eels slithered and slid over each other. Behind him Nanor produced a flute, just like the one he’d described Dr. Klondike having, and lifted it to his lips. Music filled the chamber as Joe plunged his hands into the water and grabbed two of the dark green creatures. They struggled and writhed as he lifted them from the water, their mouths gaping open in panic. He watched with fascination as white flashes crackled from his palms, making his hair stand on end. Then one of them turned towards him and spoke a single word: “slave”. The vision that appeared before Joe’s eyes in that moment has long been immortalized in song. Untethered from time, and released from the restrictions of his mortal body, he felt himself fighting through the current of the Adams River as a spawning salmon. He felt the pinch of talons and flew dripping above the trees in the clutches of an eagle. The earth hummed as men chopped rhythmically at trees hundreds of years older than them, as they ferried the bobbing logs down the current and out to Shuswap Lake. He saw whiskey-fuelled street brawls and danced manic to the ragtime tomfoolery of the nearby settlements. He saw himself bearded and proud, commanding other men, then saw an explosion in the forest that left his cohorts blackened and coughing. Finally he saw a woman, looking over her shoulder at him, her light brown hair flapping in the wind. She was braced on a makeshift raft that was approaching the Adams Canyon, and on her face was a look of fearful determination. She was ready for whatever was coming. “The future is coming whether you’re ready for it or not,” the woman said. “You already know what you’re supposed to do.” “No, I don’t.” “You do, boy. Listen to the river.” Joe closed his eyes, allowing the current to drown out these visions, and the scene transformed. He was in the midst of circus tents billowing in the evening wind, turning in circles to get his bearings. Suddenly a much younger, much more human-looking version of Nanor bulled into him. He rushed past with an unfriendly growl, his cloak flapping, and moments later Joe found himself in the tent of Dr. Klondike. The river eels banged against their tank walls as Nanor chased the crazed scientist around the room, ultimately pinning him to the dirt and strangling the life from him while they shrieked. He watched as Nanor tipped the body into the tank, watched the eels tear their master into tiny wriggling pieces, and watched as the murderer cackled. Human blood dribbled from the edges of his mouth, and in his eyes was a deranged intoxication — he was now hooked on death. The dreams began to come more rapidly, swirling storm-like before his eyes before dissipating just as quickly. Nanor swept from the darkness, clutching unsuspecting humans and quickly dispatching them with his wormy fingers around their throats. Joe watched as he grabbed first a fancily dressed courtesan, and then a wealthy businessman, and finally a drunken logger. He didn’t discriminate when it came to class or gender or profession — he chose his victims at random, and came without warning. Repeatedly Joe saw the ghostly death trunk floating down the river, a fresh body lashed to it, ready to be fed to the river eels. It was true, what Nanor had told him, that he was addicted to their aquatic electricity, but he hadn’t mentioned the cost. To keep himself alive, others needed to die. Joe’s eyes filled with tears as he felt the grief of countless families, as he witnessed rainy funerals with empty coffins. From among the crowd of mourners came the woman again, his love, and she took his face in her hands. “Don’t be afraid now. Trust the river, it will bring you to me.” “He’s killing people, though. He’s feeding people to his river eels.” “There’s no shortage of darkness in this world, Joe. You don’t have to fight every battle. You’re just a boy.” “Soon I’ll be a man.” She smiled sadly. “I was worried you might say that.” Their conversation was suddenly interrupted when Nanor’s teeth sunk into his shoulder, abruptly ending his reverie. The river eels were screeching with delight, splashing in their pool, as he reeled forward and shook off his foe. They grappled then, clutching at one another in a macabre dance, their bare feet slipping on the wet stone. Lightning flashed, the light bouncing prismatic off the cavern walls. A few times Nanor’s teeth came chomping within inches of Joe’s face, but finally he hoisted the man over his head and hurled him against the wall with a mighty crash. Pebbles and then rocks began to bounce around them, the walls of their cave trembling, and then the Adams River came crashing in. Nanor surged through the racing water and they tussled amidst the waves, punching and grunting. The water rose around their stomachs, and then their chests, until finally they were being sucked into the early morning light. All around them the river eels cheered as they soared past, free from their dank confines. Joe nearly lost consciousness, but then his head broke the surface. Nanor was nowhere to be seen. Shortly later Joe dragged himself on to a rocky beach, crawling on hands and knees until he collapsed in the sand bleeding and exhausted. Just behind him came the logger’s corpse, which bumped along limp in the shallows. The sky was baby blue overhead, and for a long time he lay listening to the stoic creak of the trees. He was alive, on purpose, and suddenly his surroundings seemed that much more beautiful. He’d felt the seductive allure of death, looked her in Nanor’s ravaged face, and come out the other side. The woman from his dream was right; the future was coming whether he liked it or not, and the time had come for him to leave the Adams River behind. He was done with all its tragedy, all its pageantry and bizarre magic. He wanted to find his place amidst the rest of humanity, a place that didn’t include vampires or river eels. The woman had told him to listen to the river, and the river was telling him to run away as fast as he could. And so it came to pass that Joe lugged the dead logger’s body on to the beach and stripped it of its clothing. He pulled on a pair of patched blue jeans, stuffed them into a soggy pair of black boots, then donned the man’s red flannel shirt. He didn’t know it at the time, but this would be his outfit for the remainder of his days on this planet. Running his fingers through his hair and admiring his reflection in the river’s surface, he said a quick prayer to the power that had sustained him until this moment. “One day I will return, but until then I ask that you carry me to whatever future awaits. I am not afraid, nor will I ever be. Nanor was wrong; I’ve seen the darkness but still believe in the light.” The river didn’t answer with human words, but Joe understood them all the same. He stood and began making his way into the trees as behind him the morning came alive with the song of river eels.

The Kootenay Goon

[thefaeriereview]

Tour: Aftermath of Secrets

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★★★  CATE BEAUMAN'S AFTERMATH OF SECRETS RELEASE CELEBRATION! ★★★

AFTERMATH OF SECRETS

The Carter Island Trilogy, Book 2

RELEASE DATE:  June 4, 2020

When The Secrets Of The Past Threaten To Destroy The Future…

Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor has it all: good looks, a great career, and plenty of wealth and prestige. But Bradley Sanderson’s charmed life quickly falls apart when scandal rocks his famous family. Arrests have been made; the media circus has begun, and Brad’s been tasked with the daunting chore of restoring the Sandersons’ good name. Moving back to Carter Island and picking up the pieces hasn’t been easy, especially when the one person he needs the most won’t give him the time of day.

Bakery owner and island resident Molly Carter is loyal to her core, but that doesn’t mean Brad’s homecoming hasn’t left her torn. Brad’s darkest days aren’t lost on Molly, but reaching out to her lifelong friend isn’t so simple when she’s forced to guard her heart. Everything changed when she woke up alone after their sexy summer night.

The complications keep coming when Brad’s long-lost brother shows up in town, bringing the remnants of his checkered past with him. Forgiveness and redemption are possible for all, until new secrets come to light that may have dire consequences.

*A contemporary romance with twists of mystery and suspense

4 out of 5 fairies

The Aftermath of Secrets is intriguing. A wonderful follow up to book one, this book has a better pace with all the romance and drama with a dash of mystery that the first book has. Molly and Brad will capture your heart just as quickly as Callie and Nate did. Brad's life might be complicated, but when is love ever easy? Grab your favorite drink and curl up for a few hours with a great story.

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REVIEWS & ENDORSEMENTS:

5 Stars! “I'm a big sucker for a good love story, especially one that has drama. Aftermath Of Secrets by Cate Beauman provided both in a beautiful way. I was swept in by the characters, their wants, and desires.” -Shannon Winings, Readers’ Favorite Book Awards

EXCERPT:

“What do you think it’s been, five or six years since you’ve been home for more than a week in a row?”

Brad nodded slowly. “Yeah, something like that.”

“It’s like the good old days.”

He shrugged, pushing off the wall, moving her way. “Sort of.”

Molly winced, foolishly forgetting that life for Brad was currently unrecognizable. “I guess that was pretty dumb of me to say.”

“No, I just meant Nate isn’t here hanging out in his boxers, and I haven’t done this yet.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Dunked you,” he said as he pressed his hand on top of her head and sent her under.

She sank beneath the watery depths, slapping at his hand and arm as he kept her submerged for a good three or four seconds. She came up sputtering and glaring. “You idiot.” She coughed again. “Are you trying to drown me?”

He dismissed her with a chuckle and flippant raise of his brow. “So dramatic. We had about three minutes before we needed to start worrying about brain damage.”

Her eyes narrowed again. “Oh, you’re dead,” she said, gritting her teeth, charging after him.

He laughed, swimming away.

But they were well-matched, both of them excellent swimmers. All the Sanderson and Carter kids had had numerous lessons in their younger days due to their proximity to the Atlantic.

She hooked her arm around his neck, maneuvered her way onto his back, and sent them both underwater, her legs locking around his waist to keep her leverage. But his sheer size and strength were her disadvantage.

Then they both surfaced for air, Brad laughing before she brought him under again. Within seconds, he had their positions reversed, and he held her against him, one arm wrapped around the front of her waist, the other around her shoulders as they came up for another draw of air.

His breath puffed against her neck in hot torrents as their legs brushed with their kicks to stay afloat, while he let her waist go and used his arm to tread water. “Molls, this is quite a predicament.

He wasn’t kidding. She was pinned beneath his strong arm, and her back was pressed against his solid chest, with no choice but to grip his muscular forearm caging her in place. “Fine. You win.” She just needed him to let her go.

“That’s it? Since when do you give up so easy?”

Since he’d kissed her brainless and taken her to bed. “Since I realized it’s time to get home and get changed for your party at Nate and Callie’s.” She tried to move away from him.

He switched arms, now holding her around the waist, and began keeping their heads above water with his opposite arm. “No problem. Just say, Brad, you’re the best Scrabble player I know. I bow to you, you genius.”

She huffed out a laugh, raising her arm to the surface to help keep their chins from bobbing under. “I won. Three years in a row now.”

“Just luck.” He held her tighter, whispering next to her ear, his voice full of teasing. “You’re the best, Brad. That’s all I need to hear.”

“Broody Brad,” she murmured, knowing he hated it when she called him that—a slight from their childhood.

“What was that?” he asked, drilling his fingers into her side, tickling her.

She scream-laughed. “Damn it, Brad.” She fought him enough to turn and immediately realized her huge mistake as he held her chest to chest, and they stared into each other’s eyes.

He grinned. “This is certainly a situation.”

A droplet trailed down his face to land on his firm bottom lip, and his eyelashes were webbed together, making him even more irresistible than he already was. Her heart pounded, her pulse thundering in her throat, and she glared at him, needing to be free of him, well aware he was enjoying this far too much.

There was an undeniable attraction between them. All she had to do was press her mouth to his, and they would have a repeat of August. But they weren’t going there again. She wasn’t risking their friendship a second time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Cate Beauman is the multi-award-winning, international bestselling author of The Bodyguards of L.A. County series and the Carter Island Novels. She is known for her full-length, action-packed romantic suspense and contemporary stories. Cate's novels have been named Readers' Favorite Five Star books and have won the Booksellers' Best Award, Maggie Award for Excellence, the Holt Medallion Award, two-time Aspen Gold Medal, two-time Readers' Favorite International Gold Medal, three-time Readers' Favorite International Silver Medal, and the Readers' Crown Award. Cate makes her home in New Hampshire with her family and their St. Bernards, Bear and Jack.

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